20
“I told him not to bring the Dwarren here!” the Tamaell snarled, flinging the last sweaty article of clothing he’d worn beneath his armor to one side of the lantern-lit room as he emerged from a secondary room where he’d recently washed. He wore loose, clean clothes now, simple breeches and shirt, not the stylized outfits Aeren was used to seeing him in. The informality felt strange and uncomfortable.
He tried not to react as the Tamaell began pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, ignoring the look Eraeth shot him from one side. Colin, seated on the other side, simply watched silently, not quite recovered from saving the Tamaea.
The Tamaell had controlled himself while they reached the tattered remains of the camp, had marshaled all of the Lords of the Evant into action to clean up and salvage what they could of the tents and supply wagons, over half of which were unscathed, including the wagon that Aeren had left with the contingent. He’d spent a long moment alone with the Tamaea before she took control of the medical teams tending to the wounded, paying close attention to those like the man who’d lost both legs to the occumaen and the woman who’d lost her arm. But during all of this, Aeren could tell the Tamaell had been fuming.
It had only been a matter of time. And privacy.
“I don’t believe the Tamaell Presumptive was given much choice,” Aeren ventured.
“Thaedoren and I discussed this at length. He was to meet with the dwarren, placate them, act humble or defiant, but he was to keep them away from the Escarpment! It should have been a simple task, after what happened to them the last time all three races met here!”
Aeren frowned. “It might have been simple, except for one thing.”
“What?” Fedorem growled, but it caught his attention. He stopped pacing, his black gaze leveled at Aeren.
“The sukrael.”
It surprised him. His eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. “What do the sukrael have to do with this?”
Aeren shifted where he sat, aware of the Tamaell’s eyes boring into him. He felt Colin stir to one side.
“The Tamaell Presumptive-”
“Thaedoren,” Fedorem said gruffly. “Call him Thaedoren here.”
Aeren nodded, although it made him even more uncomfortable. “Thaedoren informed them of the attacks in Licaeta. It appears there have been similar attacks on the dwarren, to the south and the east in particular. These attacks are more serious than those in Licaeta, to the extent that the dwarren have been forced to turn their attention toward protecting themselves from the sukrael.”
Fedorem had bowed his head in thought. “So when you approached them with the possibility of peace-”
“It came at an auspicious time for them, yes.”
“So they actually intended to form some type of agreement with us? A treaty of some sort?”
Aeren nodded. “Yes.”
Fedorem continued pacing, mumbling to himself. “Thaedoren didn’t believe it. He thought it was a trick.”
Aeren thought about Thaedoren standing on the rise before the meeting tent, frowning down at the dwarren encampment in consternation. “I believe the dwarren convinced him otherwise.”
Fedorem drew in a deep breath through his nose and let it out in a sigh, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do the dwarren know why the sukrael can suddenly move beyond their usual boundaries? Those boundaries have remained stable for generations, hundreds of years at least. Lotaern has told me of your claims that the sukrael have begun reawakening sarenavriell.”
Aeren felt sweat break out along his shoulders and in the palms of his hands. “The dwarren have no idea. They believe this may be a sign that the world is Turning. But what Lotaern told you was correct: the sukrael are reawakening the Wells.”
Fedorem nodded, as if he’d expected that answer.
Aeren hesitated, glancing once toward Colin; the human’s face was drained, leeched of color, the skin beneath his eyes bruised with exhaustion. Then Aeren said, “However, there is something more that we have discovered about the sukrael and the sarenavriell.”
Fedorem turned toward him with a questioning look.
“It has to do with the Wraiths, the creatures created by the sukrael. And with Lord Khalaek.”
And he told the Tamaell all that he’d told Thaedoren and had learned from the dwarren in turn. He told him of Colin’s powers, of Benedine, of how Colin had followed Benedine as he’d met with one of Khalaek’s aides, how that aide had reported back to Khalaek, and Benedine’s subsequent horrific death by the Wraith.
Fedorem remained silent the entire time he spoke, nodding or grimacing, but never once looking at Aeren, Colin, or Eraeth.
When Aeren finished, he said stiffly, “And you did not feel the need to inform me or the Evant of your suspicions regarding Khalaek?”
“As I told Thaedoren, I have mere suspicions, no proof. The Lords of the Evant would not accept the word of a human, not with the power that Khalaek wields.”
Fedorem nodded, whether in agreement or simple acknowledgment of the explanation, Aeren couldn’t tell. Then the Tamaell turned to Colin.
“It seems the Alvritshai-that I-am in your debt,” he said, in perfect, uninflected Andovan. “The Tamaea explained that without your intervention, the occumaen would have claimed her.”
Colin seemed taken aback, although it was hard to tell through his exhaustion. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Finally, in a rough, weary voice, he managed to say, “There is no debt, Tamaell.”
“So you say, but what you have done will not be forgotten.” Fedorem drew breath, as if he’d say more, but then turned toward Aeren instead. “When do you expect my son and the dwarren to arrive?”
Aeren could hear the change in the Tamaell’s voice-a shift toward action, the discussion nearly over. “No more than two days from now. The dwarren are moving fast. The clan chiefs agreed to march ahead of the supply wagons, so the army will be arriving first, with the entire Gathering, and Thaedoren as escort.”
“Then we have little time to prepare,” Fedorem said, motioning for Aeren and the others to rise. “Wait here for a moment while I change.”
Aeren and Eraeth exchanged a glance as the Tamaell ducked back into the room beyond. “That went better than I expected,” Aeren said.
“It isn’t over yet,” Eraeth muttered.
Aeren frowned. “No, it isn’t.”
Colin wavered where he stood, and Aeren reached out to steady him. “You look pale.”
Colin smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I just need to rest.”
“Then rest. As soon as we leave the tent. The Tamaell and I will not need you.”
Colin nodded.
And then Fedorem returned, dressed now in the formal white and red of the Tamaell.
“Where are we going?” Aeren asked as Fedorem led them out of the tent, into the section of the camp that had not been torn apart by the occumaen.
“I want to speak to Lotaern about the sukrael and the sarenavriell,” the Tamaell said tightly.
“You should have come forward with this information,” the Tamaell said.
Aeren, Eraeth, the Tamaell, and Lotaern stood outside one of Lotaern’s tents as he watched the members of his Order picking through the debris left by the occumaen by torch and lantern light. Darkness had fallen, but the camp was still full of movement, fires scattered to either side of the occumaen’s path. A much larger blaze burned to the south, where the dead had been taken to be honored, blessed, and burned in order to return their souls to Aielan’s Light under the direction of the Order of the Flame’s acolytes. The black, oily smoke blotted out the stars as it drifted south, carried away from the camp by the faint breeze.
