Well of Sorrows (49 page)

They were thin, no thicker than his body. But perhaps . . .

He positioned himself behind one, standing sideways to minimize his profile, sucked in a deep breath, then let time slip back into motion—

And spat silent curses. The men were speaking Alvritshai. He could only understand a few words they said. He nearly stilled everything again to retreat back to Eraeth, but he halted as the unknown man barked at Benedine, something about a map and the sarenavriell and forests, his voice low but carrying well, even with the gurgling of the fountain to one side. Colin heard the crinkle of paper. He didn’t think the acolyte replied.

A long pause. Colin felt sweat beading on his forehead as he waited, tense; he almost raised a hand to wipe it off but realized that would be seen and stopped himself.

Then the unknown man spoke again, a question, urgent and forceful.

A scuffling of feet, and the acolyte responded, his uncertainty obvious.

The other man berated him, but then his irritation vanished. He sighed heavily, murmured something so low that Colin strained to hear its tenor and tone over the fountain. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of an arm, as if someone had raised their hand to pat someone on the back or grip their shoulder—

And then he saw the acolyte, heading toward the open courtyard.

He stilled time with a gasp, lurching back from Benedine’s sight, even though he knew the acolyte couldn’t see him. Berating himself, he turned back to the acolyte and the unknown Alvritshai. The meeting was over, and Benedine had headed back to the street. The acolyte couldn’t see the look the other man had given his turned back as he left. A calculated look, so cold that Colin shuddered.

But the unknown man still held the paper in one hand. And it was unfolded.

Colin skirted to the man’s side so he could see the contents of the note. Most of it was written in Alvritshai and was unreadable, but the rest . . .

Looking at the man with the note one more time, memorizing the features of his face, the dark eyes, the heavy brow and angular cheekbones, Colin retreated back across the courtyard, positioning himself between Eraeth and Dharel before letting time flow again.

“I couldn’t understand everything that they said,” Colin said in irritation.

All three of the Phalanx members—Eraeth, Dharel, and the man who’d found them near the gates—flinched. All of their hands dropped to their cattans reflexively, but only the unnamed guard actually drew the blade, a few finger’s worth of metal showing in the sunlight before he caught himself.

“Why?” Eraeth asked.

“Because they were speaking Alvritshai,” Colin said dryly.

He felt gratified when Eraeth’s eyebrows rose as he realized their mistake, but then the Protector growled, “You’ll have to learn to speak it. Fluently. And write it.”

Dharel hissed, and they all fell silent.

“What is it?” Eraeth asked, slipping back to the corner near the gate.

“I think Shaeveran may have been spotted. Benedine has stopped.”

Colin edged far enough out into the street so that he could see the inside of the courtyard. Benedine had circled the colonnade Colin had stood behind. He scanned the shade beneath the portico, said something to the man he’d met, and turned back to the sunlight, his brow creased, mouth set in a tight frown.

As his gaze swung to scan the plaza, Eraeth and Dharel withdrew, and Colin stepped to the side, out of view.

Eraeth grinned smugly. “He won’t find anything. He probably caught a flicker of your shadow. Now, what happened? You were there too long to have just retreated.”

“He met with someone beneath the portico. I didn’t recognize him. Benedine gave him a piece of paper, a map of some kind.”

“A map of what?”

“I couldn’t tell. But it had mountains on it, a few rivers. I couldn’t read any of the markings on it. But they did mention the Wells.”

Eraeth growled again, but before he could say anything, Dharel pulled away from the courtyard’s entrance and said, “He’s coming.”

Without a word, Eraeth caught Colin’s arm and steered him toward the street, entering the flow of the passersby smoothly. Colin sighed and almost jerked his arm free again, but Benedine appeared, and Eraeth relaxed his grip. They angled across the street, coming to a halt on the far side before a meat market, the smell of blood strong.

“Do you want us to continue following him?” Dharel asked. Benedine glanced in both directions, searching, the frown still twisting his mouth, but then he headed back toward the gate and the Sanctuary.

Eraeth nodded. “Go. Let me know if he does anything other than sit in the Sanctuary.”

Dharel grinned, then bled into the crowd. In a matter of a heartbeat, he and the other Phalanx guardsman were lost from sight.

Eraeth turned back to Colin. “We need to reach the Hall and report to Aeren.”

It took them another hour to reach the Hall, the marketplace thronged with too many people hawking wares, even with most of them falling back or shifting out of the way once they spotted Colin and realized, despite his clothing, that he wasn’t Alvritshai. Women ducked their heads and averted their eyes, but not before Colin could catch a flash of emotion—fear, hatred, surprise. One spat on the stone before him, and Eraeth barked something in Alvritshai that made her bow down in supplication, although it wasn’t heartfelt. Men glared openly, their anger barely controlled. The children merely gawked.

They broke through into an open area around the circular colonnades, the Hall tucked away beneath their tall forms. This close, the stonework of the Hall was magnificent, etched and chiseled into myriad reliefs—Alvritshai working the earth with hoe or gathering wheat with scythes and rakes; lords surrounding the Tamaell in a coronation ceremony; Alvritshai bowed down before a huge basin of fire, members of the Order in the background, hands reaching for the sky. Birds of a variety that Colin had never seen, brown with startling flashes of black and swatches of red, flitted among the nooks and crannies of the stonework.

Eraeth headed directly toward the Hall’s entrance, heavy stone double doors, both flung open to the sunlight. He nodded in passing to the Phalanx inside the foyer, a pair for each House of the Evant, then pushed through a set of polished wooden inner doors.

The Hall within was huge, circular arrays of seats surrounding a large open area. The arch of the circle broke on the opposite side from the entrance, where one large throne flanked by two smaller seats sat on a raised platform lined with folds of a heavy, rich, red fabric, accented in white.

The platform was empty, but the floor was not. Lords and their advisers and escorting Phalanx mingled in a loose throng, the rumble of numerous conversations filling the Hall, the colors of their clothing a bright splash in the pale whites and grays of the stonework and the stark white of the marble floor. Eraeth paused at the top of the stairs descending down to the main floor as he searched those gathered for Rhyssal colors. He tugged Colin’s sleeve, nodding to the left. “Aeren is there.”

They moved down the steps. When they reached Aeren’s side, Eraeth edged behind the Alvritshai Aeren was speaking to and caught his attention. A moment later, Aeren broke off his conversation, and Eraeth pulled him to one side.

“What happened?” Aeren asked. He kept his attention focused on Eraeth, but his eyes roamed the room.

“The acolyte met with someone in the courtyard on Brae.”

“Who?”

Eraeth shook his head, lips pursed. “We don’t know. Only Colin saw him.”

“What did he look like?” Aeren asked, his gaze flicking toward

Colin.

“He had dark hair, almost black, and he wore common clothing. But I don’t think he was a commoner.”

“Why not?”

“Because his hair wasn’t long enough. He’d tied it back, but it still seemed too short. Longer than either your’s or Eraeth’s, though.”

“Most of the lords don’t wear their hair as short as I do,” Aeren said, “nor do their assistants and aides.” His gaze fixed on someone on the floor, and he asked, “Is that him?” with a barely perceptible nod. “The man in black and gold.”

Colin tried to turn casually and noticed that many of the surrounding Alvritshai were looking at him from the corners of their eyes. Sweat broke out on his back, and his skin prickled. He found the man Aeren had pointed out. Dark hair, cropped shorter than a commoner. But this man’s face was narrower, sharper, giving it a predatory look.

The man in black and gold moved and caught Colin’s gaze. Ice cascaded through Colin’s arms, and with effort he tore his eyes away, but not before he saw the corner of the man’s mouth turn upward in a frigid half-smile.

“Who is that?”

Aeren smiled tightly. “That’s Lord Khalaek,” he said blandly, “my rival in the Evant, the one most likely to oppose my proposal today. He arrived a mere fifteen minutes before you did, which is unusual. Is he the man who met with Benedine?”

Colin shook his head. “No. He has black eyes. The man who met Benedine had dark eyes, but they were brown. And Khalaek’s face is too narrow.”

Aeren sighed in disappointment. “It’s too much to expect Khalaek to be meeting with a lowly acolyte directly.” His eyes suddenly narrowed, his brows coming together in a deep frown, eyes locked on the entrance to the Halls.

Both Colin and Eraeth turned to see Lotaern, along with four acolytes, descending the steps.

“What’s he doing here?” Eraeth asked, his voice sharp. The lull in the surrounding conversation that had occurred when Lotaern arrived ended, and the volume suddenly rose higher. “The Order has no power in the Evant, no representation.”

Aeren didn’t answer, moving swiftly across the marble floor among the rest of the gathered lords and aides to speak with the Chosen at the bottom of the steps. Eraeth and Colin trailed behind. When they caught up, Aeren broke off his conversation with Lotaern and turned immediately to Eraeth. “He was summoned by the Tamaell and asked to attend. It must be because of the sukrael and the attacks in Licaeta.” Aeren’s gaze darted around the Hall, then fell on Colin. “What else happened at this meeting?”

Colin shrugged, feeling his hands clenching in frustration. “Nothing. I couldn’t understand much of what they were saying. The acolyte passed the other man a piece of paper. It was written in Alvritshai, but looked like some type of map.”

“You didn’t take the note?”

Colin’s eyes narrowed. “I couldn’t. That’s not how it works. I’m there, I can see things and move around, but I can’t move anything else while I’m there. I can take things with me and leave them, but when I let go of them they return to their proper time. They simply change position.”

“Their proper time?” Eraeth asked.

“It’s as if time has slowed. If I concentrate and push hard enough, I can even go backward and visit an event that has already occurred. But I can’t change it in any way. Trust me, I’ve tried.” Eraeth drew breath to ask a question, but Colin anticipated him. “I can’t go forward and see what will happen either. I’ve tried that as well.”

Eraeth let his breath out in a sigh.

“Interesting,” Aeren said, “and potentially useful.” He turned back to the Chosen and spoke in a hushed voice, Lotaern’s gaze falling heavily on Colin, enough to make him shift uncomfortably. Colin had sensed the Chosen’s curiosity about in him since their initial meeting in the Lotaern’s rooms. He thought that curiosity had faded, but now, with Lotaern’s eyes boring into him . . .

The sharp rap of metal against stone rang out through the hall, echoing in the vaulted ceiling. All conversation ceased, and Colin turned to see an escort of the White Phalanx accented in red and white now surrounding the raised platform containing the throne and flanking seats. Two guardsmen standing at the corners of the platform carried what looked like large metal pikes, which they raised in unison and drove into the marble at their feet, calling the room to order.

Eraeth grabbed Colin’s sleeve to catch his attention, and they followed Aeren to where a section of the circular seating had been draped with cloth of blue and red. Everyone in the Hall moved to their prescribed area as one of the White Phalanx near the platform stepped forward and cleared his throat. As he spoke, Eraeth leaned to the side and translated for Colin.

“This session of the Evant, under the Ascension of House Resue, with all of the Lords of the Houses of the Evant in attendance, and under the auspicious and blessed eye of the Order of Aielan—” here the attendant bowed toward Lotaern, who nodded in acknowledgment as a murmur rose among the lords “—is hereby called to order.” The two Phalanx with the pikes slammed them into the floor twice more. “Tamaell Fedorem, Tamaea Moiran, and Tamaell Presumptive Thaedoren,” the attendant announced. Then he dropped to one knee, back bent, head bowed, hands resting on the upthrust knee.

Colin saw Aeren’s back straighten as the three Alvritshai entered the room, emerging from some hidden doorway behind the platform, the Tamaell first, followed by the Tamaea and the Tamaell Presumptive. Beside him, Eraeth’s breath caught, and Colin scanned the room, noticed the same shocked wariness on the faces of most of the lords in attendance.