trampled And then a hand-half-glimpsed-reached down, fingers digging into his shirt, into the edge of his armor, and hauled him up.
He staggered into Eraeth, his Protector’s face a contorted mix of fear, determination, and anger. He dragged Aeren back, plowing through the press of men, Rhyssal House Phalanx breaking to let them through when they saw who Eraeth led. Aeren’s leg twisted, and he hissed, tried to keep his weight off it, and then they broke through the back of the main force. Eraeth hauled him twenty paces farther across the churned mud of the flat and halted.
Aeren pulled himself upright, using Eraeth for support, then spat mud from his mouth, fingers pulling a clump of mud from his right eye. “Eraeth.” Eraeth’s eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, Aeren asked, “What’s happened?”
“Our line is crumbling.”
Aeren swore.
He’d broken formation. He’d called on Aielan’s Light.
Eraeth must have seen the despair in Aeren’s eyes. “Not just here. It’s broken in at least three places. Stephan called in more men, fresh men.”
“The Duvoraen?”
“They’re split, trying to hold in two places, here and near Lord Waerren.”
“Waerren! He was on the dwarren front! Have the dwarren broken through?”
Eraeth shook his head. “They’ve realized the Legion is out for Alvritshai blood, not dwarren. They withdrew, back to a defensive line, nearly two hours ago.”
Aeren swore again. Clearing the last of the mud from his eye, he spun, oriented himself in the general chaos, saw the Alvritshai line in tatters, the Legion swarming over them all And then his gaze fell on the blazing white tabards of the Order of the Flame, still standing in tight formation in reserve.
“Lotaern,” Aeren whispered. He watched the Order silently for a moment, then added, “Why doesn’t he do anything?”
And at that moment, he saw Lotaern, Chosen of the Order, raise both hands to the sky.
Colin lay in the dim light of the Tamaell’s tent and tried not to writhe in agony. His entire chest hurt, an ache that went deep inside his lungs, deeper still, and it throbbed with every slow pulse of his blood. Each breath, no matter how shallow, brought the pain to the fore, so that it felt as if he were lying on waves on the ocean, the pain swelling, then fading, rising and falling, like a ship at sea.
But the pain never fell far.
He knew he shouldn’t be awake. When he’d tried to kill himself in the forest, when he’d driven the knife into his heart, he hadn’t woken for days. Something had drawn him up out of sleep. He just didn’t know what.
He frowned up at the ceiling of the tent, undulating in the wind, and tried to focus, to pull his mind away from the pain. But it was too intense. He couldn’t shove it aside, couldn’t ignore it. Yet even through the pain he could sense something. A shift, a tingling in his skin, not the prickling sensation he’d felt before Walter had appeared and slit the Tamaell’s throat, but close. That had felt like a breeze, as if someone had just walked past him, someone he couldn’t see.
This tingling came from everywhere, seemed to be seeping up from the earth beneath him.
He concentrated, let the sensation course over him, hoping it would dull the pain, but then Moiran returned. Alone.
She carried something in her hand, her face fixed in a bleak frown.
“Where’s Eraeth?” he asked, still shocked at how weak his voice sounded. Exhaustion lay just beneath the pain. He’d felt it when he’d tried to lift himself upright, when he’d tried to leave.
Moiran hesitated, then moved closer. “He’s on the field, with Lord Aeren, acting as his Protector. It is his place. It’s where he should be.” She stood over him, watched his face intently. “Why?”
Colin tried not to grimace. “He has something that I need.”
“What?”
He turned toward her, searched her face. “A vial. It… would help heal me.”
“Is it the Blood of Aielan?” When Colin frowned in confusion, she added, “The water of the ruanavriell.”
Settling back, Colin shook his head. “No. This is… more powerful. More dangerous. I’m not even certain Eraeth would agree to give it to me.”
Moiran watched him a long moment, then sighed and put what was in her hand on his chest. “He said that if you asked, I was to give you this.”
Colin breathed in deep, could smell the Lifeblood now: wet earth and dead leaves, musky and sharp. He should have noticed it earlier, when Moiran arrived, but its scent had mingled with the strange prickling sensation coursing upward from the ground. But now the scent hung heavy, dug deep into his gut.
He raised his left arm, halted when he saw the swirl of darkness beneath the bared skin, the marks darker than bruises. He shuddered, recalling the thick swirl of black on Walter’s face. His lips pressed together as he pulled the protective cloth away to reveal the tiny flask within.
Moving slowly, carefully, he held the flask up to the light, peered into the clear liquid within, at what looked like water.
He could feel it, could sense the power behind it, the presence. And as it always did, that presence woke a depthless ache in him, sent tremors of pain coursing down his arm. Need filled him, a need he’d fought in the long weeks after leaving the forest, a need that he thought he’d finally conquered when he handed the flask over to Eraeth to protect.
He knew now that the need, the ache, would never go away, that he could bury it, but it would return as soon as he drew near the Lifeblood.
“What is it?” Moiran asked.
Colin turned, surprised to find her kneeling beside him. He hadn’t heard her move, too absorbed with the flask, with the power coursing through his arm, through his chest.
Through his blood.
“Open it,” he said, handing her the flask. He couldn’t open it himself, not with how tightly he’d sealed it, and not with one arm. He’d tried to lift the other, but the pain in his chest had been too harsh. “Open it carefully. Don’t spill any of it on yourself.”
“Why not?” Moiran asked.
“Because I don’t know what it will do to you.”
She stared into his eyes, her own narrowing.
Then she unsealed the cap. “What will it do to you?”
“Heal me.” Which was a lie. It wouldn’t heal him, wouldn’t close the wound that bled in his chest, wouldn’t stitch skin and muscle and bone back together. That wasn’t the Lifeblood’s power.
But it would take care of the pain… for a price.
Moiran glared at him. “You can’t stop this. You can’t halt the fighting. One man-”
“You’re right,” he interrupted. “I can’t end the battle… but there’s one man who can. And I can convince him. But I can’t do it from here.”
Her glare intensified And then, in a low, curt, bitter tone, she said, “Men.”
She removed the cap.
The scent of the Lifeblood flooded the tent, a hundred times stronger than before, and Colin gasped, his entire body trembling now, the ache in his stomach almost as strong as the pain in his chest.
“Let me have it.”
Moiran handed the flask to him reluctantly. He held it reverentially before him, let its power wash over him, soothe him.
Then, with one quick gesture, he tipped it into his mouth, felt its coolness against his tongue, tasted its sweetness, its pureness And then he swallowed.
Nothing happened.
Aeren watched, tension bleeding down his arms, tightening across his shoulders, as Lotaern kept his arms raised.
And then the acolytes behind him began to move.
They fanned out, each group of four heading out from Lotaern’s position, radiating outward, like the rays of
