Well of Sorrows (53 page)

She’d dropped her pruning shears and gloves and embraced him. Thaedoren had stiffened in her embrace at first, his breath tight and controlled, but then he’d relaxed, pushing her back gently, allowing her to gather herself together, to wipe the tears from her eyes.

“I’ve had Thaedoren transferred back to Caercaern,” Fedorem had said from behind her, and she’d heard the disapproval in his voice over her display of emotion. “This meeting of the Evant is too important for him to miss.”

She could sense Thaedoren’s confusion. What had been merely a strained relationship between father and son, due to disagreements on how to control the Evant, had degenerated into public vocal arguments after the Escarpment. Thaedoren had always been more forthright than his father. And more honorable. He’d viewed the betrayal of the human King as a stain upon the Resue House, upon the Alvritshai in general. Fedorem had ordered him to the border with the Phalanx. Thaedoren had been more than willing to leave and had taken his brother, Daedelan, with him.

It was one of the issues that had driven a wedge between Moiran and Fedorem in those years following his return from the battle. His actions within the Evant, with Khalaek, had done the rest.

“It’s good to have you back,” she’d said, her voice calm, with no trace of the roil of emotion—elation, hope, and fear—she felt inside. Why had he recalled Thaedoren? Why now? Fedorem must have a reason. He did nothing without purpose.

She still had no answers when, a day later, Fedorem had requested her presence at the Evant. The request had prompted more questions, and now, a week onto the plains, with two days lost to one of the violent, unnatural storms slowing their progress, she still had no answers. Fedorem remained stubbornly silent, barely speaking to her when the army halted for the night. He spoke to Thaedoren, the two retreating to Fedorem’s tents.

The sudden change . . . troubled her. His actions were too close to those he’d taken before the Escarpment.

Moiran shifted in her saddle. Her horse snorted, picking up on her unease, and she quieted it by stroking its neck. To the side, one of her attendants looked at her with a questioning frown, but she shook her head, her brow creasing in irritation.

Ahead, one of the attendants surrounding Fedorem suddenly cried out in warning. Instantly, Fedorem was surrounded by the White Phalanx. The lords leaped into defensive positions, all of them facing west. The Phalanx set to guard Moiran reacted as well, closing up around her and her attendant, a few more taking charge of the wagon behind her.

Moiran ignored them and rose slightly in her saddle as the column ground to a halt, commands and warnings shouted down the line. She raised one hand to shade her eyes, shivering as the chill wind snuck down through the nape of her shirt.

“What is it?” her attendant asked, bringing her mount up close to Moiran’s. Her tone was breathless with fear, yet tinged with excitement.

“I can’t see—” Moiran cut off as someone on horseback charged up over a distant ridge. They were moving fast, and as they drew near, Moiran could see the lather on the horse’s sides. “It’s a rider, coming in fast.”

A horn blew from Fedorem’s position, and everyone relaxed, Moiran’s attendant heaving a sigh of relief.

“It’s one of our scouts,” the closest Phalanx muttered. “Nothing to worry about.”

“He wouldn’t have pushed his horse so hard if there were nothing to worry about,” Moiran said without turning.

The guardsman and her attendant frowned at each other.

The scout pulled up sharply in front of the lords and their forest of banners, then literally fell from his horse. A few of those nearest cried out. Lord Aeren and Lord Jydell dismounted and rushed to the scout’s side, helping him to rise. As they did so, the horse the scout had ridden heaved a shuddering sigh and collapsed to its knees, its tongue protruding from its mouth. Someone rushed toward it with a pail of water, but before it could drink, it leaned drunkenly to one side and fell.

Moiran’s attendant gasped again and whispered, “What happened?”

Moiran looked at her. “He rode the horse to death.” She couldn’t keep the condescension from her voice, and the girl winced.

More men rushed to the horse, but Moiran kept her eyes on the scout. With Lord Aeren’s help, Jydell trailing behind, he staggered toward where Moiran could see Fedorem through the crowd of bodies. She swore as she lost sight of the scout and Fedorem altogether.

She glanced at the Phalanx guard, considered ordering him to go find out what had happened, then shrugged the thought aside with disgust. He wouldn’t leave his post, not even at an order from the Tamaea.

The group surrounding Fedorem suddenly grew agitated, and she heard the Tamaell bellow, “Quiet!” The voices fell into low murmurs, but they still shifted back and forth.

The strain in the air was palpable, and Moiran edged her horse farther forward, trying to hear something—anything—to catch a glimpse of the scout, of Fedorem, of—

Her Phalanx bodyguard sidled his mount in front of her, cutting her off. She gave him a dark look and drew breath to berate him, but he said coldly, “Whatever it is, it’s obviously the business of the Evant, not the Tamaea.”

She could have insisted that it didn’t matter, that Fedorem would tell her, or Thaedoren, or that her role as head of the Ilvaeran and the steward of the House gave her the right to know, but she choked the words back. Because they would have been a lie. The Ilvaeran—commonly called the Lady’s Evant—might control the economic resources of each of the Houses, but it had little to do with the current meeting with the dwarren. And before the Escarpment, Fedorem had told her everything, or nearly everything. But since then . . .

Fedorem emerged from the tangle of lords and attendants on foot and bellowed, “We’ll halt here for the night.”

Murmurs rose from those nearest as the orders were passed down the line, both by word of mouth and by horn. Servants burst into sudden activity, wagons directed to either side of the path they’d made through the grasslands, spreading out, cooks hauling food and wares from trunks and compartments, others scattering to the nearest visible copses of the trees in search of firewood to supplement what they’d brought with them, the Phalanx themselves settling shifts for sentries, assigned scouts darting away onto the plains. Moiran normally would have watched the setting up of camp intently, since her duties as lady of the House and as head of the Ilvaeran included making certain the convoy had supplies, but instead she observed on Fedorem. The Tamaell watched his men intently, Thaedoren emerging from the group with the weary scout in tow as the lords scattered, most with pensive expressions or deep frowns on their faces. As soon as Thaedoren appeared, Moiran nudged her horse around her bodyguard and approached Fedorem, ignoring the Phalanx’s protests.

“What happened?” she demanded.

Fedorem’s face set, his jaw clenched, chin lifted slightly as he turned away.

Moiran felt herself stiffen, her hands clutching the reins tighter. “Why are we stopping? What news did the scout bring?” Then, in a softer, more dangerous voice: “Don’t tell me it isn’t important. He wouldn’t have ridden his horse to death if it weren’t.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Thaedoren cast his father a questioning look. “Father?”

Without turning, Fedorem said harshly, “No. We haven’t discussed it yet.” Then he turned to face Moiran, stance stern and solid, like stone. But Moiran saw the touch of worr y in his eyes, a hint of fear. “ Thaedoren and I will be in the council’s tent. We’ll be eating there as well, will likely remain there most of the night.”

Then he spun and motioned to Thaedoren and the scout, heading toward where the tent was even now being erected.

Moiran gripped her reins even harder. She forced herself to calm, suppressed a scream of frustration, then turned and spat, “Games!” under her breath.

“My Tamaea?” her attendant asked timidly.

Moiran hadn’t even realized the girl had followed her. She couldn’t even remember her name . . . Fae? Faeren?

But a thought suddenly struck her, and her shoulders relaxed, a slight smile touching her lips. Easing her horse forward, toward her own tents, she motioned the attendant closer. “I have something I need you to attend to,” she said.

“Yes, Tamaea.”

Moiran felt the guardsman fall into position behind her, just out of earshot, and her smile widened.

Aeren halted at the edge of the Tamaea’s—and the Tamaell’s— range of tents and frowned into the darkness. The late afternoon and evening had been a flurry of activity as the convoy settled in after the arrival of the scout and the unexpected halt. Messengers had run between all of the lords’ encampments. Aeren himself had sent some of those messages in an attempt to gather as much information as possible. But he’d learned only what the other lords knew, which was nothing more than what he’d overheard the scout reveal after his arrival, before Fedorem had cut the scout’s report short and called the halt.

And then Faeren had arrived and delivered her message:

Tamaea Moiran Resue requests the presence of Lord Aeren Goadri Rhyssal, to dine in the Tamaea’s tents in the absence of the Tamaell Fedorem Resue.

Without moving, he scanned the fires scattered throughout the Tamaell’s enclave, his gaze lingering on those near the council tent. He could see light flickering inside, but he could not see any shapes or figures moving about.

Aeren’s gaze drifted to the Tamaea’s tent, and his frown deepened. “What do you want, Tamaea?” he whispered to himself.

In the distance, someone laughed, the sound jarring in the openness of the plains, the stillness of the night. Aeren breathed in the chill air, tasted winter on it, then stared up briefly at the brittle stars overhead, the sliver of moon.

He stepped across the imaginary boundary between the rest of the camp and the Tamaell’s domain and moved swiftly toward the Tamaea’s tents. One of the Phalanx stiffened as he approached, then recognized him and let him pass without a word.

The two Phalanx outside the tent did not.

“The Tamaea requested my presence for dinner tonight,” he said. The taller of the two nodded. “I’ll inform the Tamaea you have arrived.”

As he waited, Aeren realized he could see his breath on the air, a faint plume, visible only because of the nearness of a fire. He shivered.

The Phalanx guard returned. “You may enter. The food has already been served.”

Aeren nodded, then ducked down through the entrance of the tent.

He smelled spices a moment before slipping through a second opening deeper inside the tent—sage and parsley, nearly smothered by the scent of spiced venison. When he stood, the apprehension he’d felt in coming here surged.

The Tamaea sat before a single small table with two settings, bowls of food of various sizes spread out on either side, steam rising from most. Another low table sat to one side, a decanter of wine and two glasses already set out, along with a tray of cheese and grapes. The floor was littered with pillows, a large pillow serving as a seat. Lanterns lit the room, the flames creating a soft light.

“Welcome, Lord Aeren,” the Tamaea said, her mouth quirking in a slight smile. “Please join me.”

Suddenly wary, Aeren moved to the pillow opposite the Tamaea, settling himself slowly, legs crossed. “I did not realize this was a . . . private dinner,” he said.

The Tamaea reached for the wine, pouring two glasses as she said, “As private as the Tamaea can make it.” She passed Aeren’s glass to him and raised hers, one eyebrow tilted upward, “To . . . alliances.”

Aeren stilled, eyes narrowing, then raised his own glass. “To peaceful alliances.”

The Tamaea nodded, then sipped her wine before setting it aside and turning to the food, taking a small portion from each bowl before passing them to Aeren. Her motions were smooth and practiced, even though a servant typically served at dinner.

She spoke as she worked.

“It’s been an interesting few weeks. Your arrival and the news you brought, the meeting of the Evant and the assembly of the army—”

“Envoy,” Aeren interrupted, without thinking.

The Tamaea froze, a skewer of meat half-raised toward her plate, her eyes on him. They held steady for a moment, then dropped as she set the skewer down slowly and handed him the bowl. “I’d hoped that this could be an open discussion. One where we could share information, without any dissembling.” She locked eyes with him, the smile no longer present, her expression hard and serious, her hands in her lap. “This is not an envoy. Not anymore. Not since we were joined by the Phalanx at the border. This is an army. Both of us know this.”

Silence settled. A silence Aeren felt against his skin, tingling. A silence intensified by the Tamaea’s unwavering gaze.

Aeren set the bowl of skewered meat down with a sigh. “I’d hoped that this would be an end to the conflict with the dwarren. I’d hoped . . . many things. But you are correct, Tamaea. This is an army.”

She didn’t move. “The scout.”

Aeren nodded. He glanced down at the food on his plate, no longer hungry.

“What news did he bring?”