Lachlei Page 21

  Cara turned to Ni’yah. “That was a private conversation spoken in mindspeak.”

  “You know that only an Athel’cen has this much command of the Wyrd.”

  “You could be Areyn, trying to trick us,” Haukel spoke.

  “If I were Areyn, I wouldn’t trifle with a small band of outcasts,” Ni’yah replied. “But, as you know, Ni’yah would. The choice is yours.” With that, he changed into his wolf form and turned to leave.

  “Ni’yah, wait!” Cara said. The wolf paused and turned around. “Areyn has control of the Silren, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he does,” Ni’yah replied. “Even now, he may be bringing more forces against the Lochvaur. If he succeeds in bringing the Elesil into this war, I fear the Lochvaur and Laddel may fall.”

  “Why have you come?”

  “I need your help — to stop the Elesil from entering this war.”

  “You need my help? You’re an Athel’cen.”

  “Well, yes, and I could appear to Conlan as Elisila and tell him to not join the Silren,” Ni’yah said. “Or I could destroy the entire Elesil army with a single thought. But I’ll have more than enough to do explaining why I went to Silvain’s daughter for help.”

  Cara laughed. “You’re doing this behind Elisila’s back?”

  “And Rhyn’athel’s and Areyn’s,” Ni’yah said slyly. “Call it a favor to the wolf-god — and to Rhyn’athel, but my brother knows nothing of it yet.”

  A mischievous glint entered Cara’s blue eyes. Haukel stared at her. “You’re not thinking of going along with this creature?”

  “I think we should,” spoke Tora and a number of Silren murmured their agreement.

  “I have to agree,” Cara said. “We are sitting idly by now, when we should be in battle. If we can turn the war, let’s do it. We’re Rhyn’athel’s warriors.” She paused and gazed at Ni’yah knowingly. “Besides, it’s not often one has an Athel’cen in her debt.”

  CHAPTER Fifty

  Conlan, the king of the Elesil, awoke in a sweat. The nightmares had begun again. They were Wyrd-dreams, he knew. As the last of the first-blood Elesil, Conlan was gifted with the Sight. He had heard the rumors of the Silren going to war against the Lochvaur. Now, the Wyrd-dreams painted a disturbing future.

  Each dream became more vivid than the last. A warning or portent of sorts, but Conlan did not know how to respond to it. The Wyrd showed him demons swooping down to destroy the kindreds. His last vision was of the death god, Areyn Sehduk, himself; wielding the Fyr and decimating the entire world.

  Conlan stood up, unable to shake the dream from his mind. He slid from the bed, careful to not wake Rani, his sleeping consort. He shrugged into a tunic and breeches, not certain what he would do, but he could not sleep. The dream was a portent from the gods, and he decided that he would not stand idly by while the kindreds were destroyed. He left the room.

  As Conlan entered the passageway, he saw the moonlight enter through the stained glass windows that lined the corridor. He paused and stared out of one of the moonlit windows. He had spoken to no one about these dreams. No one, save perhaps another with the Sight could offer him counsel. He wished that Elisila would guide him, but the Goddess of the Heavens was silent.

  Battles between kindreds were common. Border disputes were not unusual, but the bloodiness of North Marches was. Conlan had never known the Silren to put all to the sword as they had done. That brutality befitted the Eltar and Falarel more than children of Elisila.

  Conlan had heard of Fialan’s murder and grieved for the Lochvaur king. While being royalty precluded true friendship among rulers, Fialan had been the closest thing to a friend that Conlan had made among the Nine Kindreds. Rumors had it that a Silren had murdered Fialan — rumors that Conlan had not believed until he had heard about North Marches.

  He stared out at the moon which shone over the land. It was Mani, the moon that heralded change. Staring at the moon, he heard a wolf howl, and the face of a woman flashed in his mind. Her white mane streaked with silver and pale blue eyes marked her as a Silren. She rode on a steed, leading a score of Silren towards Caer Elesilren.

  As he made his way down the steps, one of his personal guards, Hakan, was climbing up. Like all Elesil, Hakan had a silver mane and silver eyes. He wore the dark blue colors of the House of Elesil with three eight-rayed stars. “My lord, I didn’t expect to see you awake,” he said.

  “We have a visitor, Hakan?” Conlan asked.

  “Yes,” Hakan said. “The daughter of Silvain — she insists on speaking with you at once.”

  Conlan nodded. The woman in his Sight vision. “Bring her and her warriors to my meeting chambers and offer them food and drink. Tell them I will speak with them shortly.”

  *****

  “I don’t know if this was a good idea,” Haukel said to Cara as they waited in the Elesil meeting chambers. Cara gazed at the opulence of the room that confirmed the Elesil’s wealth. They had walked through corridors paneled in maple with marble floors. Everywhere, the banners of the Elesil’s three stars hung as tapestries along the walls. Within the meeting chamber, the only light came from the fireplace and two sconces along the wall. They sat on oaken mead benches next to tables as they waited. Servants had brought breads, sliced cheeses, dried fruits, and spiced wine.

  Cara glanced at Ni’yah, who had taken Silren form. He smiled and winked at her. She noted that he avoided the spice wine and thinking it wise, abstained as well. “I think we’re doing the right thing,” she said. “It isn’t often that one has the favor of an Athel’cen.”

  “We could all be put to death as traitors, too,” Haukel grumbled.

  The massive bronze doors to the meeting room swung open. They all stood as a tall Elesil with a silver mane and eyes strode in, his countenance dark. He wore a small circlet and the robes of royalty, but his clothing was simple as if hastily thrown on. Guards flanked him as he entered the chamber. He scanned the Silren party until his eyes locked on Cara. “You — you’re the one I’ve foreseen.”

  Cara glanced at Ni’yah, who shook his head. “I am Cara, daughter of Silvain,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt. “I apologize for the hour I’ve come to you, King Conlan, but I fear Areyn Sehduk may have the upper hand if we delay this meeting.”

  Conlan’s frown deepened. “Areyn Sehduk?” he repeated, his mind going back to the dream.

  “Surely you already know that is why we are here,” said Ni’yah. “We have had the dreams, same as you. We know that the death god walks this land. He has taken control of our kindred.”

  Conlan stared at Ni’yah. “What of Silvain?”

  “My father does not know it is Areyn Sehduk, for Areyn has disguised himself as one of us,” Cara said. “Areyn fooled me for a time, but what you see here before you are all of the Silren who escaped his powers.”

  Conlan gazed at the Silren present. “There’s a little over a score here. This is all?”

  “This is all,” Cara said.

  A silence ensued. Conlan seemed lost in thought for a while. Cara glanced at Ni’yah.

  Don’t worry, I have faith in Conlan, the god replied.

  “What would you have the Elesil do?” Conlan asked at last.

  “Don’t enter the war,” Cara said. “My father will ask that the Elesil fight alongside the Silren against the Lochvaur. He will ask in the name of blood ties. This you must not do lest all is lost.”

  Conlan turned away. “You come to me in the middle of the night with an odd request, daughter of Silvain,” he said. “One would normally consider what you ask an act of treason.”

  “And one would normally consider a first-blood who ignored the warnings of his Wyrd-dreams to be a fool,” Ni’yah spoke.

  The Silren gasped. “What are you saying?” Cara hissed.

  The wolf-god ignored her. “You’ve seen the battle that may come. You’ve seen Areyn’s demons destroy your army on the battlefield. You’ve seen the decimation the Fyr will bring. Tell me
, King Conlan of the Elesil, would it be wise to ignore such portents?”

  Conlan’s eyes widened. “Who are you?”

  “Forgive him,” Cara spoke. “He is a rash warrior…”

  Conlan held up his hand. He gave Ni’yah an appraising look. “Who are you? I have told no one of these dreams.”

  Ni’yah smiled, but it looked more like a wolf snarling. “Just a meddler, Conlan, but one you can’t afford to ignore.”

  Conlan considered the wolf-god for a moment and then laughed. “Apparently not,” he remarked. He turned to Cara. “You keep strange company, Lady.”

  “Indeed, he made a persuasive argument to me as well.”

  Conlan gazed at her and then shook his head. “We will discuss this in the morning,” he said. “In the meantime, you and your warriors are the Elesil’s honored guests.”

  *****

  Lachlei awoke before dawn, her body aching from her fight with the demon. She lay in Rhyn’s grasp, her body entwined with his. She could not move without wakening him, and yet she could not lay there forever. She gazed on his handsome face, recalling the vivid dream.

  In that dream she had made love to him. Wild, passionate love, but Rhyn had been the glowing warrior. Even now, she longed to love him. A slight smile on Rhyn’s face suggested he had shared a similar dream. Maybe the same. But what was he?

  Rhyn felt real. She could feel the rise and fall of each breath, the heat of his body, and the twitch of his muscles as he dreamt. If he were something else besides Eleion, wouldn’t he be less real?

  The legends of the time before the Truce spoke of spirit-creatures who served the gods — creatures of the elements. Could Rhyn be one of those? She scanned him with her powers as he lay with her. If he were a spirit creature, she could sense no seams, no chinks in his body. Everything was as though he was mortal. And yet…

  Lachlei was certain she hadn’t killed the demon. Fyren, for all its greatness, might have slowed the creature down, but it had been the warrior god’s sword that slew the demon. What had Rhyn and Telek called it? Heath-stalker? They had spoken in the old tongue — the language of the Athel’cen — the language that Eleion came from.

  As she lay beside him, she grew drowsy again. She closed her eyes for a moment.

  Suddenly, she was woken by a rough shake. Lachlei gasped, and a hand quickly clapped over her mouth. She saw the glint of Rhyn’s eyes in the dark. Rhyn?

  Quiet, Lachlei, Rhyn’s voice entered her head. Do not even mindspeak. It was a cold command that prickled fear in her. She glanced down to see he was sliding his hand to the pommel of his Sword of Power.

  Lachlei strained to hear, but could hear nothing save the wind along the plains and the sounds of the encampment stirring. But Rhyn was as tense as she had ever seen him. She took a breath, and then another. What did Rhyn sense she could not?

  A sudden scream. Before Lachlei could react, a winged beast was on top of them. Claws, fur, teeth, and wings were everywhere. With a yell, Rhyn drew Teiwaz, and it plunged into the demon as it bore down on them. For a split second, Lachlei saw Rhyn’s blade pass through her as though it didn’t exist. The demon lunged at her, grasping her with its claws. Rhyn’s blade moved so quickly, Lachlei could not see it. The demon crumpled to the ground in a pile of smoldering ash.

  The other warriors stared at Rhyn. The demon’s claws had raked through his mail, and one poisonous spike embedded itself in his chest on the left side. Rhyn gripped the claw, and with some effort, pulled it from him.

  He sheathed his sword and turned to her as the color began to drain from his face.

  “Rhyn!” Lachlei gasped and caught him as he collapsed. Cahal and Tamar were beside her, helping her lay Rhyn down.

  CHAPTER Fifty-One

  The clouds blanketed the sky. A storm was gathering, and the wind had picked up. The Chi’lan army was a half-day behind now that they pressed the Silren northwards into the forests between the Great Plain and the Lochvaren Mountains. Areyn had ordered the Silren to march northeastward to avoid getting bogged in the slower terrain, but now, they were entering the wooded hills of the Elesil domain. The Elesil king, Conlan, would allow passage, considering the Silren brethren.

  Areyn had ordered Silvain to request the Elesil kindred’s aid. In time, the Elesil would join the Silren in the battle — but it was time Areyn did not have. Short of forcing the Elesil to his will — something which would certainly take power from him — Areyn had to devise another solution.

  Areyn had ridden northwest towards the foothills of the Lochvaren Mountains to be alone. He used this opportunity to slip away under the guise of scouting ahead, but in truth, he was weary of the mortals. He loathed their very existence, for they reminded him of his constant failure. Rhyn’athel’s creations lived beyond their mortal bodies; Areyn’s creations could not. That alone reminded Areyn of Rhyn’athel’s power.

  But it was more than that. Much more. The abomination called Lochvaur was much to blame for this. Lochvaur’s very existence gnawed at the heart of Rhyn’athel’s and his contention. Yes, Areyn owned Lochvaur, but in many ways, he did not. Lochvaur was something beyond Areyn’s full comprehension. He was a godling, and much more.

  Yet, there was a way to shift the balance of power for all eternity. The Wyrd had shown him Lachlei. Imdyr was jealous of her — a foolish notion since Areyn felt neither love nor passion. Lachlei was a tool, just as Imdyr was a tool, and the inconvenience of mortality was worth what he would gain: the final destruction of Rhyn’athel’s power.

  Areyn could sense Lachlei through the Wyrd. Interesting, he thought, as he let his mind play across the seemingly fragile strands of the Web of Wyrd. Fragile and yet stronger than the strongest adamantine, they wove across the Nine Worlds, gathering on the World Tree that held the very fabric of the universe together.

  The Wyrd came before Areyn Sehduk and Rhyn’athel. Rhyn’athel had been the first of the three Athel’cen; Areyn, the second. Ni’yah had been the third and last of the Wyrd’s gods. There had been others, much older and less powerful, such as Fala, Harbard, Sowelu, and Elisila. Nine gods and eight goddesses had been Wyrd-born. None of the other gods had been as powerful as the Athel’cen, and their hatred and jealousy over the newcomers had been pronounced. Rhyn’athel and Ni’yah had successfully established an uneasy truce, while Areyn Sehduk eschewed all compromise.

  Yet the Wyrd now twisted interesting patterns. Lachlei’s Wyrd-strand was like that of the Athel’cen. Areyn had spoken against Rhyn’athel’s creation of such creatures — because Rhyn’athel had tied their lives so closely to the Wyrd that they might be able to affect the Wyrd as Athel’cen. Lochvaur had been such a creature — and now, it appeared that Lachlei might be, too.

  If so, then her offspring could indeed change the balance of power. Areyn considered the possibilities. Imdyr, too, was tied with the Wyrd, but how, the death god could not be certain. If she bore Areyn’s sons, they too would be powerful. Except…

  The Wyrd Prophecy.

  Areyn gazed at the strands with his immortal eyes. Normally, no one save Athel’cen and the dragons could see the slender Wyrd strands as they coursed through the Nine Worlds. Lesser gods and mortals of first-blood lineage could see the Wyrd within their mind’s eye as flashes of insight. There were places where the Wyrd touched — where mortal and god alike could see part of the Wyrd and the World Tree, itself, but warden dragons heavily guarded those.

  As he gazed at the Wyrd, it became evident that the patterns revolved around Lachlei. Imdyr was a little more than a second choice. The question was whether Rhyn’athel had entered the war. Had the warrior god sensed the change in the Wyrd? Rhyn’athel or Areyn might have even been the cause inadvertently. Ni’yah, as much as he was the lesser of the three, was still Athel’cen and might have changed the Wyrd with his presence.

  Yet Areyn suspected the change came because of either himself or Rhyn’athel. Seldom did an Athel’cen affect the Wyrd in another section than where he had touched. Areyn co
nsidered the Wyrd and the thread where Rhyn’athel’s fate wove through. As an Athel’cen, Areyn Sehduk knew he should be able to read the Web, but the path that Rhyn’athel’s thread now ran through was murky and twisted. It was as though the warrior god intentionally twisted the strands so they were not readable.

  “You won’t find him there.”

  Areyn stiffened and turned. “I was wondering when you’d finally dare to show your face, Ni’yah. I was beginning to think you’d remain skulking in the shadows while the real warriors fight.”

  Ni’yah chuckled at the insult. “Is that the best you can do, Areyn? We both know you’re the one hiding from Rhyn’athel.”

  Areyn’s gaze narrowed. “Is Rhyn’athel here?”

  “Can’t you see that far — or is the all-powerful Areyn Sehduk blind?”

  “I think Rhyn’athel isn’t reckless enough to confront me. Peace makes a habit of platitudes and soon it becomes peace for the sake of peace.”

  “I think you’ll find our brother to be far more aware of your actions, Areyn. He is, after all the more powerful of us three. It is your army that flees from the Lochvaur and Laddel.”

  “That will change,” Areyn replied. “Tell our brother that if he has entered the conflict that the Truce is over and that I will do what is necessary. Even if that means the utter destruction of the Nine Worlds.”

  Ni’yah laughed. “Be careful, Areyn, or you’ll twist on the World Tree, skewered by Teiwaz. You don’t want Rhyn’athel in this war. And Rhyn’athel already considers the Truce over.”

  With that, Ni’yah disappeared, leaving Areyn to ponder the wolf-god’s words.

  *****

  The morning sun came streaming in, awakening Cara. For a moment, she thought she was back in her room in Caer Silrenel. As she awoke, she remembered her meeting with Conlan the night before. Cara closed her eyes and let the warmth of the down bed relax her. Even before her exile, she seldom slept in a real bed because of her duties as a commander. Now, it seemed a luxury. She had been so exhausted after so many days of hard riding that she had thrown aside her armor and arming shirt and crawled into bed, falling into a dreamless sleep.