Lochalan barked a short laugh. “You were that way for nearly two days. They’ll come out of it in time.”
Fialan saw his armor and weapons on a chest nearby. He pulled the arming shirt and breeches on and slid the heavy hauberk over his head. “Father, I must speak to Lochvaur. I bring news that may help us.” Lochalan shook his head. “Very well, I will take you to him, but he may not see you.”
“I’ll take my chance.”
Lochalan brought Fialan before Lochvaur’s tent. The tent flaps were closed and guards were posted outside the entrance.
“No one has been allowed inside—not since the flaying,” Lochalan said.
“It takes time even for a son of Rhyn’athel to heal from such terrible wounds. Luckily, we have that time—the Silren and Eltar are late.”
“Silren. Eltar.” Fialan shook his head. “We are Lochvaur—not battle fodder.”
“We are Undead—Braesan. We are expendable,” Lochalan replied. He turned to the guards. “My son, Fialan, wishes admittance.”
One guard shook his head. “No. We have orders from Lochvaur, himself. No one is to be admitted.”
Fialan? Lochvaur’s voice rang in his head.
Yes, it’s me, Fialan replied.
Lochalan looked at his son in amazement. “You can mindspeak?”
Let him pass, came Lochvaur’s voice.
“I’ll explain later,” Fialan said. He stepped into the tent.
Lochvaur sat in near darkness, cloaked and hooded, so Fialan could not see his face.
Fialan hesitated as he entered. “Lochvaur, I…”
“There is no need for apologies, Fialan,” Lochvaur replied. His voice was raspy and barely audible. “Forgive my condition; I’m still not quite healed.”
“By Rhyn’athel’s sword!” Fialan swore. “Why? Why you?”
“Because Areyn can, Fialan. Areyn takes great pains to prove to me who has the upper hand. It’s almost as if he doesn’t believe it, himself.”
“Does he have the upper hand?”
“What do you think?” Was there a tinge of ironic humor in his voice?
“I think Areyn does at the present, but he is like a man who has caged a terrible dragon,” Fialan said. “He taunts the dragon, but isn’t quite certain of the cage’s strength.”
“An apt description,” remarked Lochvaur. “And now you know the game he and I play.”
“A dangerous one.”
“Is there any other kind to play?”
“What does Rhyn’athel think?”
“Rhyn’athel isn’t involved in this. This is personal between Areyn and me,” Lochvaur said. He paused. “Certainly, you didn’t come to chide me over our little game?” “No, though Eshe and Kiril still lie unconscious because of it,” Fialan said.
“Eshe shouldn’t have fled; Kiril and you shouldn’t have gone after her.”
“Perhaps not,” Fialan said. “Would you like to know how we found her?”
Lochvaur stood up. “I was wondering who would be the first to no longer be Wyrd-blind…” Amusement colored his voice.
“You know?”
“I suspected—I’ve been feeling my own powers grow again, despite this poor facsimile Areyn calls a body…”
“But why?” Fialan mused. “Why can I mindspeak? Why am I starting to show my powers when I had none in Tarentor?”
“Because you’re a creature of the worlds of the living, Fialan—just as I am,” Lochvaur said. “Your powers are returning because you gain your strength from this world. We already have to eat and drink. The more of this world we take in, the less we are of Tarentor. We become of this world again, Fialan. The only other world that would allow us to gain our power back would be Athelren, itself.”
“Because we came from Athelren originally,” Fialan mused.
“You’ve been talking to Eshe—she remembers a time before when the Eleion came from Athelren.”
“Then, it’s true,” Fialan marveled. “Athelren is our home.”
“It always has been—and it will be so again,” Lochvaur said. “And Areyn only suspects the depths of my power.” With that, he shrugged off his cloak.
Fialan stared agape. Lochvaur was nearly healed. The lines were still there—ugly weals that crisscrossed his face, but they were healing rapidly. “Your face…”
“The scars will be gone within a few hours,” Lochvaur said. “As I said, like you, I am growing stronger.”
“But the pain…”
“Is inconsequential,” Lochvaur grinned. “Areyn will have to double or triple his efforts to keep me contained. To keep you contained. To control the Chi’lan—the best Lochvaur warriors. All that takes power—power he can’t use against Rhyn’athel.”
“Or Lachlei,” Fialan stared. “You chose the most powerful Chi’lan…”
“That is what Areyn wanted,” the godling said slyly. “With each day, he will weaken…”
“And each day, we grow stronger,” Fialan said.
“I hope you weren’t fond of Tarentor, my friend,” Lochvaur said as he drew his cloak and hood around himself once more. “We may yet find a way out of this.”
Fialan turned to leave, but instead, paused. He gazed at the godling thoughtfully.
“You’re curious about something?” Lochvaur asked.
Fialan hesitated. “I was wondering how you died,” he admitted. “You are more than any Chi’lan warrior—indeed, more than any Eleion. It seems impossible to me that you could die.”
“I had a mortal body.”
“Yes, but you’re part of Athelren, or the Wyrd…” Fialan felt at a loss for words. “Yes, Eshe came from Athelren, but you’re more so…” He shook his head. “I can’t explain it.”
“It’s that apparent even to my heirs?”
Fialan considered Lochvaur thoughtfully. “It’s apparent to me. How apparent it is to the others, I don’t know. How did you die?”
Lochvaur chuckled. “It seems your curiosity won’t be satisfied easily, even with a straightforward answer. Areyn sent a small army of arch-demons and Jotunn to ambush me.”
“But the Truce had already been agreed upon,” Fialan objected. “The Jotunn and arch-demons were banished from Elren by then.”
Lochvaur laughed. “So, they were—or so we thought.” He raised a hand to silence Fialan. “Enough questions, my friend. I must rest, and Eshe is awakening.”
Fialan nodded and left. As he greeted his father, he glanced back at the guarded entrance to Lochvaur’s tent, wondering what exactly Lochvaur was and why Areyn Sehduk feared and hated him so.
47
“What is Lochvaur, Kiril?” Fialan asked as he entered the tent where both Eshe and Kiril had lain comatose. Both were awake now. Eshe sat on her cot, drinking hot tea and eating what appeared to be hard tack. Kiril had drawn his sword and was idly swinging the blade back and forth, testing the new body. Beads of sweat ran down his bronze skin as he swung the broadsword over his head.
Kiril halted in mid-swing and gave Fialan a dark look. “Some way to greet your friends,” he remarked. “I’m glad you’re ok,” Fialan remarked brusquely. “But my father, Lochalan, already assured me that you’d come around.”
“Well, that’s sensitive,” Eshe replied sarcastically. She bit into the hardtack and spit it out. “Awful. Simply awful.”
Fialan took a slow breath inward. “Eshe, I’m glad you’re ok.”
She glanced at him and then looked away. “Kiril says you asked him to help search for me.”