happens again, let it run its course.” He didn’t explain that the seizures had gotten worse since he’d left the Well’s influence or that he’d only coughed up blood once before, on the plains.
Aeren regarded him a long moment, then nodded, as if he’d reached a decision. He said something low to Eraeth, the Protector’s expression darkening, but he stepped outside the room, returning with Colin’s staff and satchel. He handed them off to Aeren.
Kneeling down, Aeren set the staff aside and reached into the satchel. Colin felt his heart leap into his throat, thinking of the flask of Lifeblood, hoping that neither Aeren nor Eraeth had tasted it or even opened it, but Aeren didn’t remove the flask. He drew out the small vial of pink-tinged water instead.
From his crouch, turning the vial over in one hand, Aeren asked, “Do you know what this is?” He looked up, met Colin’s gaze. “It’s water from a ruanavriell. It has the power to heal. Not completely, but enough to halt blood loss, to seal a wound long enough for it to heal on its own.” He closed the vial in a fist. “Where did you get this?”
Colin swallowed, felt sweat break out on his forehead and upper lip. Aeren had given the question a weight that Colin didn’t understand. But he sensed that of all of the questions that Aeren and Eraeth had asked, the answer to this one was the most important.
“I don’t know where it came from,” he said. “But I found it on my father’s body.”
Aeren’s eyes narrowed as he considered. Then, abruptly, he stood, and Colin felt nearly all of the tension drain out of the room. Only Eraeth still remained wary.
“The vial is marked with a sigil,” Aeren said. “My own House sigil. Only someone from my House could have given this to you-or your father-and at present, I am the only remaining member of my House.” He grimaced, and Colin heard the pain and grief he tried to keep hidden. “I gave such a vial to your father, before the dwarren attack, to help him heal someone’s shoulder. I see no other way you could have possession of this… unless what you say is true.”
Eraeth drew breath as if to protest, but Aeren stiffened. Eraeth’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening as he glowered at Colin. Aeren stepped forward and handed Colin his staff and satchel.
“You may move about the ship with one of my guards as escort if you wish. We are headed toward Corsair, where I intend to meet with the King. I realize that you more than likely were not headed to Corsair when we took you on board. Once we arrive, I will make arrangements for you to be returned to Portstown, if that is your wish. Now that I know you are… well.”
“I had only arrived in Portstown the day of the attack in the thoroughfare,” Colin said. He shrugged. “I have nowhere to go.”
Aeren hesitated, and behind him, Colin saw Eraeth make a warning gesture, one his lord couldn’t see. “Then you should remain with my party, at least for the moment,” Aeren said. Eraeth swore silently, flashing Colin a vicious glare. The guard’s hand dropped, clenched slightly into a fist. Aeren’s gaze fell on Colin’s robes. “You should change into the shirt and breeches in your pack. Those will suffice until I can have suitable clothes prepared.”
When Colin nodded agreement, Aeren glanced down at the vial of pink-tinted water he still held in his hand. He started to hand the vial back to Colin, but stopped.
“There is one other thing, Colin,” he began hesitantly.
“What?”
Aeren looked up. “During the attack in Portstown, the lord accompanying me, Lord Barak, was mortally wounded by the attacker’s crossbow bolt. We have stabilized him, but our healer does not feel that he will survive the journey back to our own lands, and there is no one within the Provinces who would be willing to help heal… one of our kind.” He said it with the barest hint of bitterness, but even that faded as he continued. “The Alvritshai are not welcome along the coast, and the hatred is not entirely undeserved. The attack in Portstown was not unexpected.” His hand closed over the vial again, and he straightened. The guardsman behind him shifted nervously, his gaze falling to the rolling floor. Even Eraeth shifted uncomfortably.
“The waters of the ruanavriell are rare, collected only by members of the Evant during their Trials, as proof that they have, in fact, seen the Confluence and tasted its waters. It is not the Alvritshai custom to ask for gifts-”
And suddenly Colin understood. “Take it.” He smiled and pushed Aeren’s closed fist toward him, both guards stiffening until he withdrew his hand. “My father would have wanted you to have it back.”
Aeren frowned at Colin a long moment, then bowed, the gesture formal, reminding Colin with a lurch of his heart of their first meeting on the plains. “Thank you. I-and Lord Barak-are in your debt.”
Then he rose and turned to Eraeth, motioning toward the door. The other guardsman stepped back against the wall to let them pass, Eraeth murmuring a soft command in Alvritshai; Colin assumed he’d been assigned to watch over him.
At the entrance to the cabin, Aeren turned back. “We will be arriving in Corsair tomorrow.”
And then he left, leaving Colin alone with the attendant guardsman.
Colin opened the satchel and rummaged through the clothes, surprised they’d left him the knife he’d used to try to kill himself, but shuddering with relief when he found the cloth-wrapped bundle that contained the Lifeblood.
Colin visited the deck of the Alvritshai ship twice over the course of the next day, but he did not see Aeren or Eraeth. The guardsmen assigned to escort him changed sometime during the night, but they did not speak to him. While he was on deck the following morning, he heard a pair of them whispering about him in their own language. The only word he caught was “shaeveran,” and he frowned, wondering what it meant, recalling that that was what the previous guard had muttered when he exposed the black mark on his forearm.
He kept the mark hidden after that, the sleeve of his shirt fully extended.
He was in his cabin the following afternoon when one of the guardsmen appeared and motioned him to gather his things and come up on deck. The first thing he noticed as he stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight was that the ship’s crew had become more active, rushing from post to post, securing ropes and tying down sails. He saw why almost immediately.
The ship had entered a sea lane. At least ten other ships of varying sizes surrounded them, and land filled the horizon to port. They’d crossed the strait while Colin was below with the help of a stiff western wind, and now the prow of the ship was pointed toward the mouth of an inlet that broke through the rocky coastline. The ocean crashed against crags of rock to either side, sending up sheets of spray taller than the deck of the Alvritshai ship; and as they drew nearer, Colin could feel the currents beneath shuddering through the hull, the deck vibrating beneath his feet.
“Look,” Aeren said, pointing toward the top of the promontory to the north of the inlet, where a large castle stood above the pounding waves, unlike anything Colin had seen back in Andover or in the New World. A single tower of pale stone pierced upward from a building made of the same stone as the cliffs. While the main palace looked like the walls of a fortress, the tower was oddly delicate, a light shining steadily from its peak. “The palace. The lighthouse is called the Needle. It was designed by King Maarten, the current King’s father. Probably the Province’s greatest King so far.”
Then the ship passed into the inlet, rocky crags closing in on both sides, close enough that Colin took an involuntary step backward, sucking in a sharp breath. Before he could swear, the sides of the inlet fell away, and the riptides of the narrow opening smoothed out. The wind died down to gusts, the inlet protected by the surrounding land.
The Alvritshai captain steered the ship into a seething hubbub of ships and boats. They wound through the chaotic order of the ship lanes, skiffs and smaller boats appearing as they neared the docks. Those standing on the decks of the passing ships eyed the Alvritshai with fear and suspicion, and Colin realized that Aeren and the rest of the Alvritshai had tensed, their eyes forward, looking to where the ship would make port. Only the ship’s crew remained in motion, stepping quickly to follow snapped orders as the sails were furled and tied.
Colin was about to ask what was wrong when a new ship broke away from the docks, heading toward the Alvritshai’s courier. Even Colin could tell it wasn’t a trader. It was built for speed.
Aeren issued orders tersely, and the crew rushed to raise a set of flags.
“What is it?” Colin asked.
Aeren shook his head, his eyes on the approaching ship.
As soon as they were within hailing distance, someone on the ship bellowed, “You can’t dock in
