turning west, toward the Andovans and the protection of the coast.
14
“Drifter!” Colin called sharply.
Eraeth, standing about twenty paces distant, spun, his sword half drawn before he realized that Colin pointed toward one of the strange rippling distortions. Colin had seen one a few days out onto the plains after leaving the Well to return to Portstown. But that had been distant and looked no larger than a man; it had been far enough away that he could shrug it off as heat haze, although he was certain it wasn’t.
This one was much closer and much larger-big enough to swallow the entire group of Alvritshai with Colin, even with them scattered apart as they were during the rest period.
Eraeth snorted in derision and slipped his sword back into place with a snick. But Colin noticed he didn’t relax.
Neither did any of the other Alvritshai who’d looked up. They all tracked the distortion’s slow, steady progress as it slid by. The grass beneath the translucent ripples bent downward beneath it, pressed flat at the drifter’s base. Waves spread outward from it, as if it were a stone thrown into water.
When it became apparent that it wouldn’t drift close enough to them to be a concern, Eraeth turned back to his horse, lifting up one of the animal’s hooves to check for damage. He slipped a small tool, like a miniature pick, from a pouch and began cleaning.
Colin shifted closer, his own horse still drinking heavily from the stream that bubbled up from the earth near the base of a small hillock. Sources of water were scarce on the plains, since most of it was hidden underground, so when they found a stream aboveground, they always stopped to refill their waterskins. The Alvritshai seemed to know where the streams were located and had hidden caches of food stored at various places on the plains-mostly dried, smoked gaezel, spiced, like what Aeren had offered his father and the rest of the greeting party when they’d first met on the plains. Once, they’d even halted in the middle of a flat and dug down into the earth until water gurgled to the surface and formed a small pool. Eating was formal, almost ritualistic, even here on the plains, as it had been during their meeting over sixty years before. Nearly everything the Alvritshai did was ritualistic, stiff and formal, and yet Colin found himself settling into the rhythms as the days passed.
“What is it?” Colin asked.
Eraeth looked up with a glare. He’d been much more scathing and vicious since they entered the plains; Colin suspected that it was because Aeren refused to tell the Protector where they were going and why, although neither Aeren nor Eraeth had confirmed this. Aeren had barely spoken to either of them, keeping to himself during the breaks, withdrawn and distant, his mood bleak and troubled. The same mood had infected the rest of the Alvritshai, Eraeth in particular.
“What is what?” Eraeth snarled.
“That,” Colin said, exasperated. “The Drifter. What is it? Where does it come from? What does it do?”
Eraeth rolled his eyes, finished cleaning out the collected dirt and grass from his horse’s hoof, then released the horse, murmuring something in the animal’s ear before patting it on the flank. Its ear pricked back, and it snuffled softly before reaching for the grass.
“We call it an occumaen, a ‘breath of heaven.’ They appear on the plains, travel a ways, and then they vanish. And they are extremely dangerous.”
Colin thought about the horses being spooked in the wagon train, before the disastrous attempt to climb the Bluff. “But where do they come from?”
Eraeth’s face twisted into an irritated grimace, ready to shove Colin’s question to one side as unimportant, when someone else spoke.
“The Scripts claim that the occumaen come from Aielan, that they are here to seek out those she wishes to speak to and take them to her. Many people have vanished in the presence of one of the occumaen. There are legends that entire armies have been lost to them.”
Both Colin and Eraeth turned toward Aeren. The Alvritshai lord’s face was still fixed, mouth drawn downward, but it was the first time in the past week that he’d interjected anything into a conversation. Eraeth straightened, a look of hope flashing through his eyes.
“If that’s the case, why don’t the Alvritshai rush toward them? Why do you keep back? You obviously worship Aielan, and her… Light.”
Aeren smiled slightly. “Would you rush to meet this Diermani you pray to?”
Colin frowned, thought about the day of the wagon attack, of the Shadows touching him, of the cold death they’d offered. He’d had a chance to seek out Diermani then, but when the Faelehgre offered him an alternative, he’d taken it. Even though he hadn’t fully understood the consequences of his choice. “No,” he said softly. “No, I wouldn’t. I didn’t.”
Aeren nodded, his ironic smile softening. “Faith is a strange thing. We worship Aeilan, we pray to her Light, hope that in the end we shall find it… but until that end is inevitable, we shun it. At all costs. And yet without faith…” He didn’t finish, turning to face Eraeth. “We must all have faith. In Aielan, in Diermani-” a quick flick of his glance and a respectful bow of his head toward Colin, “-in ourselves, and, most important, in each other. It is all that we have, in the end.”
Eraeth stiffened, as if Aeren had offered up a formal reprimand. Then, he bowed his head.
Aeren moved off. When he was far enough away, Eraeth said in a low voice, “He was once an acolyte in the Order, training to be a follower of Aielan. It was a common calling for second sons of the Houses, and it suited him. He had risen fairly high within the acolytes’ ranks and in the esteem of Lotaern, the Order’s leader, before the death of his father forced him to return to his House.” Eraeth turned toward Colin, a strange mixture of pain, regret, and hostility in his eyes, as if somehow the death of Aeren’s father were Colin’s fault.
And at that moment, Colin’s stomach seized, the heat flaring up his side and into his chest, the pain piercing into his abdomen. He gasped, clutched at his gut, tried to remain standing, but the strength drained out of his legs. He fell, writhing on the grass as the heat expanded until it felt as if it were consuming him from the inside out. Hissing between clenched teeth, he rolled to the side and pressed his face into the earth, breathed in the scent of grain overlaid with the hideously enticing scent of leaves and snow. The sharp tincture of blood flooded the back of his throat, and with a nearly soundless cry he began scrabbling for his satchel. The pain was too great, the heat eating him up inside. He needed the vial, needed the Lifeblood to soothe it. His fingers found the ties, jerked them open as his arm spasmed, and then he rooted through the contents blindly, still curled over the pain in his stomach. Vaguely he heard shouts, but then his hand closed over the cloth containing the vial.
He snatched his hand free of the satchel, let the bag fall, and pulled the vial out of its protective cloth. His entire body trembled now, although the heat had begun to receed. He held the vial up to the sunlight, could practically taste the clear liquid inside already, reached to open it And a hand-a pale-skinned, Alvritshai hand- latched onto his arm and held it. He cried out, his voice cracking with frustrated anger, and glared up at Eraeth, who’d crouched down next to him in the grass.
“Let go.” The words came out in a growl, between clenched teeth.
“What is it?” Eraeth asked, his voice hard.
Colin tried to break Eraeth’s hold, but the Alvritshai was stronger than he looked. He shot a glance toward the nearest of the Phalanx as they gathered around, at Aeren, who stood a few paces back, his brow creased in confusion, but none of them moved forward to help him. So he turned his attention back to Eraeth. “It will help with the seizure. It will stop the pain.”
Confusion flickered across Eraeth’s face, and his grip on Colin’s arm eased.
But then Aeren spoke. He’d moved forward so that he stood behind Eraeth. “Is it from the sarenavriell? Is it from the Well?”
Colin didn’t have to answer. Aeren nodded and frowned, a look of pity crossing his face.
He turned to Eraeth. “Let him have it. He is shaeveran. He knows the consequences of using it.”
Colin shuddered at the weight in Aeren’s words as Eraeth released him. He snatched the vial close to his chest, his body still shaking. Eraeth stared down at him a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stood and turned away.
