The hall was dark, save for the light from the clerestories. It was late afternoon and the sun was already beginning its descent behind the Lochvaren Mountains. As Imdyr walked in, she saw a shadow move among the shadows.
“Lurking in the shadows as always, Laewynd?” she said, her voice dripping with scorn.
“I’m surprised you got through the guard, Imdyr,” Laewynd said as he stepped from the darkness. His silver eyes glowed menacingly. “Even a second-rate Chi’lan could see through that disguise.”
The rebuke stung, but Imdyr simply narrowed her gaze. She transformed into her Eltar shape. “It won’t be me who will be called a traitor, Laewynd,” she said. “Can you give me Caer Lochvaren?”
“Can you give me the throne?” Laewynd said.
Imdyr smiled. “You could’ve had it months ago if you had challenged Lachlei.”
“If I challenged Lachlei.” He chuckled. “Lachlei is too popular among the people; I am not. I had hoped she would let me handle the affairs of state—and for a time, she did…”
“You thought to make her a puppet since you couldn’t bend Fialan to your will. Only she has proven as headstrong as her former husband.” Imdyr smiled. “So, now you wish to depose her and take the Lochvaur throne? You have the Lochvaur army.”
“They’re not loyal to me—they are loyal to her. They would never turn on Lachlei.”
Imdyr smiled coldly and changed back into Lachlei’s form. “Then, let’s give them someone to be loyal to. They want Lachlei—we will give them Lachlei.”
58
“She has a point,” Ni’yah said, as he watched Lachlei leave.
“Whose side are you on?” Rhyn’athel demanded. All around them, the warriors prepared for what little rest they could, oblivious to the fact that two gods spoke in their midst.
“Yours, but sometimes I don’t know why,” the wolf-god said. “Honestly, brother, she’s right you know. You haven’t been interested in this world for two millennia.”
“The Truce…” he began and then fell silent. Even Rhyn’athel was tired of his own excuses. Why had he abandoned his Eleion all these years?
Ni’yah smiled. “See? It’s different down in the trenches. That’s why I’ve stayed here instead of Athelren.”
Rhyn’athel gazed at the wounded and battle-weary Eleion. How different it was in Athelren with its shining walls, lofty towers, thick forests, and towering mountains. The peace of Athelren had dulled him while all this time, Areyn Sehduk had been plotting his revenge. “I have been gone too long.”
“Indeed—I saw Lochvaur in battle,” Ni’yah said.
The warrior god scowled. “I did, too,” he admitted. “We had agreed that he should stay in Areyn’s realm…”
“But not to rot,” Ni’yah said.
“It was your idea.”
The wolf-god said nothing.
“Do you deny it?” Rhyn’athel pressed. “I was against it, if I recall.”
Ni’yah frowned. “Yes, it was my idea, and Lochvaur agreed. But it has been too long. Areyn will bring him back to fight against us along with the greatest of the Chi’lan. Regardless of the warriors you gather, we can’t defeat one hundred thousand of the very best of your blood.”
“Why didn’t I see this?” Rhyn’athel mused. “The Wyrd showed nothing of this.”
“Areyn is Athel’cen—same as you or I,” Ni’yah shrugged. “The Wyrd doesn’t reveal everything we set into motion.”
“No, but I should’ve seen this—how many warriors have we lost?”
“Two thousand or so,” Ni’yah said. “You’d have lost more if you didn’t retreat.”
“I should never have agreed to allow Lochvaur to go to Tarentor.”
“Lochvaur agreed to go to Tarentor to keep the Truce—and to remind you that every day your people are in Areyn’s hands.”
“Don’t you think I’ve thought about Lochvaur every day since his death?” the warrior god said heavily. “He’s my son, Ni’yah.”
“And the Eleion and Ansgar are your people. I would’ve thought you’d at least consider claiming the Lochvaur—your blood runs through their veins.”
“Peace—the argument is pointless. The Truce is broken now. Now I must find a way to keep Areyn from escalating this war to the rest of the Nine Worlds.” Rhyn’athel paused and shook his head. “Two thousand lost and now Lachlei despises me.”
“She just saw her dead husband—she is confused. Give her time.”
“Time isn’t something I have,” Rhyn’athel replied. “Nor does she.”
Lachlei left Rhyn, her mind in confusion. Gods! Did he have to be so damn loyal to the warrior god? She knew the answer. Rhyn was a Guardian, and that alone would make him beholden to Rhyn’athel. Guardians were lesser spirits—not gods, not Eleion. Something in between. Yet he had been eager to make love to her—something Guardians seldom did.
And she nearly loved him. Now her emotions were mixed. Fialan was here in this world. Even if Fialan were dead as Rhyn said, Lachlei couldn’t break the vows she made to him. He had been her husband for three years. She barely knew Rhyn. She had not even known he had a son. What other secrets might this Guardian possess?
And yet—she could not deny her feelings for Rhyn. He had saved her life now countless times, and she had saved his once. He had been her counselor and her friend. He had been at her side since Fialan’s death. But now Fialan was alive. That changed things.
“Lachlei,” Cahal’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “We need a first-blood to tend to the wounded.”
“Where’s Rhyn?” she asked, and then fell silent. She met his steady gaze. “Show them to me—I’ll do what I can.”
Cahal led her to the wounded. The numbers were staggering. Men and women alike lay with terrible battle wounds. The anguished cries rang out over the field as healers did what they could to staunch the bleeding and bandage the injuries. Laddel was speaking with Telek when Lachlei arrived. Telek looked up, and Lachlei found herself staring into brass eyes that spoke of terrible power.
What are you? she wondered. A Guardian?
“I am Telek,” the warrior said. But I am known by many names. He turned his wolf gaze back to the man they were working on.
Laddel glanced up. “My son, Ladsil, is working with Rhyn. We could use your help as a healer, Lachlei.”
“This way,” Cahal said, leading her to the wounded at the far end.
Lachlei glanced at Telek and then at Cahal. “What is Telek?”
Cahal shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“He’s powerful, whatever he is.”
Cahal nodded. They stepped over and walked around many with superficial wounds until they stood before wounded that had been laid haphazardly. Lachlei halted in horror. Many were not her own, but Braesan from Areyn’s own army. Their skin was deathly pale, and their silver eyes held a reddish cast to them. The stench of death was unmistakable. Rhyn had been kneeling beside one, while Laddel’s son, Ladsil, worked on one of Lachlei’s own warriors.