“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.
51
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.