Lachlei was surprised to see most of the council members present. Six men and one woman made up the Lochvaur High Council. Tarchon, Moira, and Kieran sat alongside Laewynd, but Lachlei noted Talar and Elrys were absent. Her cousin Kellachan was the youngest council member, chosen because of his first-blood. All had been Chi’lan at one time—each bearing the scars of battle. Of all the council members, the only two Lachlei had known well were Laewynd and Kellachan. Lachlei had known Moira as a Chi’lan since Lochalan’s rule. Moira had been a Chi’lan when Lachlei had earned her badge, but had left the Chi’lan to become a council member soon after. Kieran and Kellachan were the only active Chi’lan warriors on the High Council who had served Fialan and now served her.
Lachlei grasped Laewynd’s arms in the traditional Chi’lan greeting and noted the softness of his hands as her own fingers brushed the backs of them. Not the hands of a warrior, she thought. She wondered if the Lochvaur had been imprudent to have someone who wasn’t Chi’lan anymore in charge of the High Council.
“My queen, Lachlei,” Laewynd spoke.
“You’ve presumed much, Laewynd,” Lachlei said crossly. “I am Chi’lan…”
“I know, I’ve heard,” Laewynd said. “And I want you to stop this foolishness…”
Lachlei stared at him speechlessly.
“We all know that you are the last first-blood with power—save perhaps your son, Haellsil, but he is an infant,” the chief councilmember said. “There is no other choice, Lachlei, you must be queen.”
Lachlei shook her head. “There must be others…” she hesitated as she saw the nobles shake their heads. “There is first-blood in North Marches…” she began.
“And we know nothing of them,” Kellachan said. “Lachlei,” he said, turning to her. “You, alone, know what killed Fialan—I can see it in your eyes. You know what we may be up against. The High Council agrees—those with the Sight have seen darkness ahead. We believe you alone might see us through.”
Lachlei looked around at the familiar faces. They had served her husband well. Now, they were putting their trust in her. As the commander of the Chi’lan. As queen. Her gaze strayed back to the tapestry of Lochvaur and Rhyn’athel. Did she really know what killed Fialan? Did they really suspect something as sinister as she did?
Her thoughts turned to her son, Haellsil. If there were a demon out there, as she suspected, the creature might not be satisfied with Fialan’s life. If it targeted Fialan, what was the chance that it might search for Haellsil?
Cold fear gripped her. Haellsil would not have a chance to grow up, much less make Chi’lan or become king. She tried to remember the old stories about demons. They didn’t simply go away after they killed—they drank the life force of those who held power. The demon may have killed Fialan because he was a powerful Lochvaur. Would she simple sit idly by and let the demon grow more powerful until it came for her and her son?
Lachlei knew the answer. For a moment, she thought of Rhyn and his power. Perhaps he too sensed the demon. Perhaps he knew something she didn’t.
Lachlei sighed and shook her head. “Very well,” she said, meeting Laewynd’s gaze. “I don’t want the throne, but I will take it. At least until my son is old enough to become Chi’lan and prove himself.”
13
Cahal led Rhyn into the mead hall where the warriors had gathered. The enticing aroma of cooked meats reminded Rhyn how hungry he was. In the smoky light, he could see warriors drinking, talking, and playing various games with dice or daggers around the lit firepit. Rhyn hadn’t expected the chatter to be so loud, but he felt at ease here. These were his Chi’lan—the soldiers sworn to the warrior god—and he knew each of them by name.
Cahal nudged him forward, and together they walked in. Heads turned to see the new Chi’lan as he strode by. Cahal led him to a bench just beside the fire, not far from the gamers. Servants brought them plates of food and mugs with amber liquid in them.
Rhyn’athel took a swallow of the amber liquid and grinned. It tasted honey-sweet with spices. Picking up one of the pieces of venison, he bit into it. The hot meat tasted salty with herbs. This was something he could get used to, he decided.
“I’d be careful with the metheglyn,” a familiar voice said. Rhyn’athel looked up to see his brother standing beside him, arms crossed. Suddenly, the room became still as the god halted time.
Rhyn’athel glared at him. “This will draw Areyn’s attention.”
“Not likely—I’ve done it before,” Ni’yah remarked. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Metheglyn,” he said pointing to the mead. “You’re not used to it and it affects gods more than it does mortals.”
“How would you know?” Rhyn’athel replied, taking another gulp of the mead.
“Experience,” Ni’yah said. “I once fell unconscious after downing a flagon.”
“First time you ever stopped talking?”
“Not funny,” Ni’yah replied. “The first-bloods avoid it because they have no resistance, thanks to our blood. It affects demons too, so they don’t drink it either.”
“I’ll remember to offer Areyn a drink the next time I see him,” the warrior god remarked.
“Do you want my help or not?”
“I seemed to be doing all right,” Rhyn’athel said smugly.
“Well, you haven’t gotten yourself killed, I’ll give you that,” Ni’yah said. “But this is a tough crowd.”
Rhyn’athel chuckled. “They’re Chi’lan.”
“They may be your Chi’lan but you’re not one of them,” Ni’yah warned. “You’re their commander. Even if you look like a Chi’lan, they’ll challenge you until you fit in or flee like a whipped cur.”
“I can handle myself,” Rhyn’athel said, taking another bite of the meat, but pushing the mead flagon away. Despite his desire to not admit that his brother was right, the god began to feel the metheglyn affect him.
Ni’yah grinned. “We’ll see.”
Ni’yah vanished and simultaneously the entire hall became alive again. Rhyn’athel chuckled. He knew Ni’yah meant well and was touched by his brother’s concern. But, Rhyn’athel was still a god—the most powerful god of all the gods of light, and arguably, more powerful than any other god. He chose this form, but if necessary, he could shed it.
“You must have been hungry,” Cahal remarked, looking at Rhyn’s empty plate.
“I was,” Rhyn admitted. He leaned back and watched two Chi’lan near the fire try to hit a mark someone had cut in an upturned table. One Chi’lan was a heavily scarred warrior with a broken nose. His frame was large for a Lochvaur—indeed, for any Eleion—making Rhyn look small in comparison.
“That’s Tamar,” said Cahal.
The big man looked up on hearing his name. He saw Rhyn and scowled. “So, this is the Chi’lan from North Marches,” he said, sizing Rhyn up.
“I am,” said Rhyn.
“Who made you Chi’lan? You don’t look like much to me.” His speech was slurred, suggesting he had drunk more than even his frame could handle.
Rhyn shrugged. “Chi’lan Ronan of the Marches…”