“He’ll want our surrender,” Peloroun said tightly.
Thaedoren glanced toward him, let his gaze wander over all the lords present. “Aeren and Jydell, you’re with me.”
Aeren caught Eraeth’s gaze, and his Protector fell in beside him as they moved out onto the flat, stepping over bodies. Jydell had brought his own Protector, and two of the White Phalanx accompanied Thaedoren. Across the field, King Stephan, Tanner Dain, and Colin matched their progress, the King surrounded by two Governors and a contingent of seven Legionnaires.
They met halfway between the two armies, each group halting when they were ten paces apart. The Governors, Tanner, and the Legionnaires glared at the Alvritshai, on edge, their hands close to their swords. Stephan regarded them with a cold eye, frowning, as if he didn’t know what to think of the Alvritshai lords, of Thaedoren. Colin appeared pale, unfocused. His face was pallid, his eyes bleary, and the bandage over his chest was black with blood, the Alvritshai shirt he wore matted to it.
The Tamaell Presumptive nudged his horse forward a step. “What is it you wished to say?”
Stephan stiffened, lifted his chin. “The fighting needs to end.”
Thaedoren nodded, face neutral. “You wish us to surrender.”
Stephan shook his head. “No. I want a truce. Between us. With the dwarren. A truce among all of us.”
His Governors and a few of the Legion instantly protested, their voices loud, hands gesturing, until one voice broke through the others.
“You can’t be serious!” the Governor exclaimed. “We have them on their knees. We can crush their resistance here, now! We can crush them -”
“No!” Stephan barked, cutting the Governor off with a look.
The Governor’s anger narrowed as he drew himself up in his saddle. “At least require their surrender. Take hostages to ensure their behavior.”
Stephan considered for a moment, then shook his head again. “No. They didn’t come here to fight this battle. We did. That’s the only reason we’ve managed to subdue them.”
Tanner Dain sidled closer and said in a low voice that could nevertheless be heard by everyone, “Remember what happened here thirty years ago. Remember your father. These pale skinned bastards don’t deserve any mercy.”
Stephan shifted and glanced at Colin, who was looking even worse now. “But I do remember, Tanner. Better than you might imagine. And yes, some of them deserve no mercy-” his voice hardened. “-and they will get none. But not all of them.”
Tanner clenched his jaw. “Then you believe their lies?”
“I didn’t,” Stephan said, an edge of warning creeping into his tone, “but I do now.”
Tanner’s gaze shot toward Colin in suspicion, but he listened to the unspoken warning and said nothing.
As soon as his commander backed off and the grumbling of the Governors had subsided, he turned back to Thaedoren. “There are conditions.”
Cautious, Thaedoren asked, “What conditions?”
“Lord Aeren, when he came to see me in Corsair to suggest an accord, claimed that not all the Lords of the Evant were involved in my father’s murder. I didn’t believe it then because of everything I’d been told since the battle, everything that I’d come to see as true. But I’ve been shown the truth, and I realize that he was correct. Only three lords were involved. One of them was killed almost immediately. And one did not actually raise a weapon against my father that day, he simply pulled the Tamaell-your father-to safety.” Stephan’s eyes darkened, his voice deepened. “But the other, this Lord Khalaek… I want him.”
Thaedoren’s shoulders squared. “He has already been sequestered for murdering the Tamaell-”
“If you want this treaty-if you want this peace- then you will give him to me.”
It was said softly, between clenched teeth, but the anger, the rage, came through clearly.
Aeren adjusted his position in the saddle, but didn’t dare look at the Tamaell Presumptive. There were too many emotions involved, too many political implications regarding Khalaek and the Evant, Thaedoren and Stephan, the Alvritshai and the Provinces.
“Very well,” Thaedoren said. “But Lord Khalaek must face the Evant first.”
Stephan shrugged. “As long as I get him alive.”
Thaedoren nodded. “I’ll make certain of that. What are your other conditions?”
“That the dwarren be included in the treaty, that Lord Aeren be there for the talks, that we meet on this field, in the open, just you, me, the Cochen, and one adviser each, along with him.” He motioned toward Colin, who didn’t react. The human’s head had dropped, hair falling over his face so that Aeren could no longer see his eyes.
Aeren shifted forward. “Speaking of Colin,” he began, but paused when both Thaedoren and Stephan turned their gazes on him. Both had frowned at the interruption, but they were too focused on each other, on the discussion. Neither had even looked at Colin. “Speaking of Colin,” he began again, “I’d ask that you allow my Protector to take him to our healers. He’s obviously wounded.”
Their attention shifted toward Colin sharply, even as he began to list in his saddle. Stephan swore and caught him before he could fall, holding him upright. “Of course,” he said. “Take him.”
Eraeth moved forward immediately, bringing his mount alongside Colin’s. With Stephan’s help, Eraeth pulled Colin’s body into the saddle in front of him and headed back toward the Alvritshai camp.
Stephan watched them for a moment, then turned back to Thaedoren. “We can discuss everything else once we’ve had a chance to recover. Tend to your wounded. I’ll send an emissary to the dwarren and arrange matters with them, as well as discuss them with my Governors.”
“As will I with the Evant.”
“Very well.”
The two leaders nodded at each other, then turned and headed back to their own armies.
“That was… unexpected,” Lord Jydell muttered.
“Yes,” Thaedoren said tightly, “but welcome. Assemble the Evant, and order everyone else to begin searching for the wounded on the field. And collecting the dead.”
“And what will the Evant be discussing?”
Thaedoren’s face tightened with anger. “Lord Khalaek.”
When Colin woke the first time, he never opened his eyes.
He could sense someone leaning over him. And then, as if through a dense fog, he heard someone say, “Will he survive?”
He recognized Stephan’s voice, could feel the King withdraw slightly.
“He should never have survived the knife to his chest,” Aeren answered. “I don’t understand how he had enough strength to take you to the battle thirty years ago. But yes, we think he will survive.”
A long silence. “Who is he?”
Someone snorted, and Colin smiled. Eraeth. He could imagine Aeren’s glare.
“He came from Portstown.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“That’s all I can say,” Aeren answered. “Other than to say that he is Rhyssal-aein, a friend.”
“He’s more,” Eraeth said gruffly. “More than Rhyssal-aein. He is a member of the House. He is Colin Harten, Colin Shaeveran. He is touched by Aielan and touched by shadow.”
A significant pause, and then Aeren said, “Indeed.”
Colin heard movement, people shifting. Stephan sighed. “I suppose we should start the talks without him then. I’d hoped he would have recovered by now.”
“The wound was deep,” Aeren answered carefully. “Deeper than perhaps we know.”
“Then let him rest,” Stephan said, his voice already retreating. Colin listened as Aeren and Eraeth followed. “We’ll begin at midday, on the field. Is everything prepared?”
“I believe so…”
And then the voices faded, and Colin faded with them.
When he woke the second time, he opened his eyes to find Moiran and Aeren talking quietly on one side. He listened to the soft murmur of their words, not trying to understand, simply staring up at the undulating canvas of
