breath to slip inside, wouldn’t have even needed to appear at all with the tent flaps already pushed aside And even as he thought it, Walter flickered into view, ducked down between the opening and into the darkness within.
All to bring about the Tamaell’s death. Thaedoren’s as well. All so that Khalaek could ascend in the Evant, seize control and become Tamaell himself. An assassination within Caercaern would have been harder to manipulate, harder to explain. There would be no one to blame except an Alvritshai.
But here, on the battlefield, with an assassin so obviously human if he was seen at all…
Colin felt his rage boiling higher, his breath quickening, his heart thundering. He wanted to reach out and kill Walter as he slid into that darkness, wanted to strangle him But he couldn’t. This wasn’t the real Walter, the real Wraith. This was the Walter that was. This Walter couldn’t be stopped. He’d already assassinated the Tamaell, nearly killed the Tamaell Presumptive and Aeren as well. This Wraith had already set Lord Khalaek’s plans in motion.
But neither Khalaek nor Walter had planned on Colin.
He’d stopped the Tamaell Presumptive’s death and had implicated Khalaek in Fedorem’s.
Now he intended to halt the conflict with Stephan.
Straightening with purpose, he caught Stephan staring at him in confusion. His gaze flicked toward the tent flap, toward where Walter had vanished. “Who was that?”
“The man who killed the Tamaell.”
“I don’t know him. He wasn’t part of the Legion, he wasn’t one of my men.”
“I know, and the Tamaell Presumptive knows, but they don’t.” He motioned toward the Alvritshai army grimly. “The White Phalanx within the tent saw a human kill their ruler. And what one member of the army sees-”
“They all see,” Stephan finished curtly. His gaze rested on the Alvritshai banners. “They all think the Legion is behind the Tamaell’s death.”
“Not all. The lords of the Evant thought so at first, as did the Tamaell Presumptive. I showed them that one of the lords himself was behind the attack. The man you saw entering the tent… is like me. He’s tasted the sarenavriell, drunk from the Well of Sorrows. He’s no longer human.”
“One of the Lords of the Evant?” Stephan asked. His nostrils flared, chin lifting.
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
Colin hesitated. “Lord Khalaek.”
Stephan’s eyes narrowed. “The lord inside the tent. The one who rushed to attack.”
“Yes.”
Colin allowed Stephan a moment to absorb the information, saw it settling into place in Stephan’s mind. He relaxed his grip on the King’s arm, no longer afraid Stephan would bolt at the first opportunity.
But he couldn’t wait long. He could feel the power of the Lifeblood draining from him, absorbed by the effort it took to hold them here, in this moment. He still had to push them back thirty years, back to the first battle here at the Escarpment, back to where all of this had begun, at least for Stephan.
So as soon as he saw Stephan’s gaze shift from internal thoughts to him, he shoved hard.
They leaped backward, the world blurring, moving so fast that Colin could only catch glimpses of images as they passed. Most were of the flat, sometimes sunlit, the sky wide and open, sometimes black as pitch, the night sky clouded over. He saw suns set and rise, stars glitter, seasons pass. The moon flickered, full and gibbous, a sickle, new, all at different positions in the sky. Snow blanketed the flat, a rarity, although becoming more common; grass waved in gusty winds, yellow one instant, young green the next; a herd of gaezels grazed, then scattered; rain poured down in sheets as blue-purple lightning scored the heavens.
And then Colin caught the first glimpses of the aftermath of a battle: columns of smoke for the dead, flocks of carrion birds so thick they darkened the sky.
He eased up on the flow of time, the blur settling down to a smear. The black smoke vanished, the dead rose, sunlight poured down to glitter on spears, on swords, on armor and banners, pennants and flags. It bathed the horses and men of three armies, fell on a dusty expanse of flat land at the edge of the Escarpment, the deadly cliffs plummeting to the west.
The armies were positioned differently from the current battle. The Legion, led by King Maarten, by the Governors of the Provinces, a young Stephan-not yet eighteen years of age-among the ranks, held the south. They were already lined up in groups of forty, spread out, reserves fidgeting in the back and on the eastern flank, all of them facing the Alvritshai’s White Phalanx and the other House Phalanx to the north, on the far side of the flat. Colin could see the now familiar banners of the Houses of the Evant, could pick them out against the clear sky as the summer sun rose. He could feel the heat, could smell the grass, not yet trampled into the earth by thousands of gaezels.
With a start, he realized that he and Stephan stood on the field in the same position where Stephan had been battling the Alvritshai when Colin had stolen him away. But here, in this time, it was where the dwarren would be arriving at any moment. “We need to move,” he said.
“Why?” Stephan murmured. His eyes were locked on his own forces to the south, were centered on the highest banners.
On his father.
His expression was profound, yet unreadable, too full of scattered emotions.
“Because we’re standing where the dwarren Riders will be in another ten minutes.”
Stephan looked at him, and at the same moment the sound of more than a thousand gaezels thundered out of the distance as the dwarren force rose over a far-off ridge.
“Move,” Stephan said, and began to run. South, toward his own ranks.
Colin was dragged along behind. He knew they couldn’t be trampled by the gaezels, but he’d already been in the midst of one of their stampedes and didn’t want to experience that again. Heart bursting, he stumbled after the King, his shorter legs threatening to give out beneath him as he tried to keep up with Stephan’s pace, the sound of the dwarren’s approach rising behind them.
Then the roar of the gaezels shifted. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw them swerve, banking away from the Alvritshai to the north, arcing around toward the Legion to the south, toward Stephan and Colin’s position. But Colin had seen the dwarren perform this maneuver before, and he knew that the arc wouldn’t reach them, would cut in sharply at the edge as they regrouped and re- formed, so he slowed, dragging Stephan back with him.
They watched as the dwarren reassembled, the thunder of their passage dying down, their drums silent. Their line was curved, facing both the Alvritshai’s White Phalanx and the Legion.
Colored flags began waving among the Legion, men readying, shouts rising into the stillness. Horns blew from the Alvritshai line. Tensions grew, almost tangible, roiling on the air between the three armies.
And then a signal was passed. Colin didn’t see it-they were too distant-but he felt it on the air, felt it shift.
The Legion charged with a hoarse battle cry, the Alvritshai as well, the dwarren surging forward on their gaezels as their drums began pounding. Stephan took a step forward, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, as if he yearned to join the battle, as if the battle cry had pulled him forward, but Colin held him in check.
“I remember this,” he said, his eyes darting over the field. The Legion and Phalanx were rushing toward each other, the dwarren coming in from the side But then the human and Alvritshai ranks pivoted. Instead of heading directly toward each other, those nearest the cliffs of the Escarpment began turning inward, those closest to the dwarren slowing down, until the two forces merged… and fell upon the dwarren.
“I remember this,” Stephan said, louder. He turned toward Colin. “What have you done? Is it real?”
“It’s real,” Colin murmured. “I’ve brought you back to the battlefield, so you can witness what really happened.”
“Then I have to stop it,” Stephan growled. He began moving toward the fighting, the battle playing out before them both, the dwarren Riders shoving hard against the Legion, pushing them back, the Alvritshai doing the same, the three races eddying back and forth, the tension Colin had felt on the air broken, shattered, replaced now by desperation. The tension had encompassed the entire field; the desperation was focused on individual battles, the clash of swords and weapons between men. “I have to warn my father!”
“You can’t,” Colin said, and when Stephan ignored him, continued toward the battle, plowing stubbornly through the grass, he dug in his heels and jerked Stephan back. “You can’t!”
