“Wouldn’t I?”
Lachlei turned her horse around. Rhyn was still gazing at her with those steady silver eyes, his expression thoughtful, neither disapproving or condescending. “The High Council…” she began and her voice trailed off. Her horse nickered softly and pawed the ground. She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“I am not the High Council,” Rhyn said. “I care little what the High Council thinks of you. Nor do the Chi’lan serve the High Council. The Chi’lan serve the king—or queen of the Lochvaur—and Rhyn’athel.”
“The High Council chose me because they believed they could bend me to their will.”
“Can they?”
Rhyn’s words stung, even if the question was a simple one. Had she given into the High Council’s demands by not challenging Laewynd? What would Fialan have done in this situation? Lachlei felt her fist tighten on her horse’s reins and the stallion tossed its head in displeasure. “They wouldn’t give me warriors.”
“The Chi’lan are your warriors.”
“But the soldiers…”
“A Chi’lan is worth ten soldiers.”
“There are ten thousand Silren and a demon waiting to attack us,” Lachlei said, her face flushing.
“I would say our odds are about even,” Rhyn’athel said wryly.
For a moment, their gazes locked. Rhyn’athel smiled, and Lachlei chuckled. “Rhyn,” she said, shaking her head. “If I only had such faith as you.”
“Lachlei,” he said. “Let me lead the attack. The rest of the army will stand ready with you. There is little chance of me being ransomed; however, you will sorely test Laewynd’s loyalty if you are captured.”
Lachlei laughed. “I can imagine Laewynd’s expression if I were ransomed. He would probably appoint Kellachan or another warrior in my stead.” She paused. “Maybe even you.”
Rhyn chuckled. “I wouldn’t take it.”
“Why not?” Rhyn would be a perfect champion, she thought. He was a powerful first-blood and a natural leader. The Chi’lan respected him too—a respect not easily won.
He paused and became serious. “Because the Lochvaur already have a queen and Rhyn’athel already has a champion.”
Lachlei met his gaze. “Very well, Rhyn, take the charge. I will be waiting for your return.”
Rhyn’athel grinned. “Don’t worry—I’ll be chased by plenty of Silren.”
26
Eshe pulled her helm off and dried her eyes. She wore no mail coif, leaving her neck somewhat exposed. Her wavy red-gold hair was braided in tresses and for the first time, Fialan saw her face fully. She was pretty in a rough sort of way and typically Chi’lan. Her nose had been broken at one time and was set slightly askew, and a scar ran from her right lower ear lobe down her neck where a lucky cut slipped between her helm and gorget. Her silver eyes were almost smoke-gray in the waning light. She was tall and athletically built as many Lochvaur, and Fialan found her attractive, despite his loyalty to Lachlei. He wondered if she had been married in her previous life.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been so alone for so long.”
Fialan shrugged. “That was two thousand years worth of emotion.”
She shivered. “We should continue,” she said, looking into the twilight-deepening sky. “It’ll be dark soon, and we won’t be able to see.” She slipped her helm on.
“Well, if we fall, we won’t die,” Fialan said lightly.
Eshe grimaced. “It’ll still hurt—I once took a tumble off of a ledge farther up.” She stood up slowly and turned to him. “Grasp hold of my cloak,” she said. “And watch your footing.” She began walking upward towards the fortress.
Fialan followed Eshe, watching where she walked. The path was ingeniously cut for those who knew the way. As he had surmised, Eshe knew the trail even in the dark and led him without a misstep.
“Careful. Fialan,” Eshe said, at last. “We’re almost to the top. Only twenty feet to go.”
They had negotiated a path of switchbacks and stairs. Fialan had followed Eshe silently until now. The last twenty feet were straight up the rock face. It was completely dark now, and Fialan could see nothing save Eshe’s form and the cliff before her.
“How do we get up that?” he asked.
“There are handholds and footholds,” she replied. “You’ll have to do everything by feel.”
Fialan stared at the rock face. When he was alive, he would use his mental powers to augment his sense of touch. But now, he had nothing. Nothing except faith in a Chi’lan woman who had died two thousand years before. “All right,” he said, taking a deep breath. The fall from this height would hurt; thankfully, he could only see blackness below.
“I’ll go first,” she said. “Watch me as I climb. The handholds and footholds are evenly spaced, so you shouldn’t have any problems. Wait for me to call to you—that means I’ve made it. Don’t start climbing until then—I could fall and take us both out.” She paused. “If I do fall, go on ahead. I’ll catch up as soon as I’m able to.”
“Very well,” he said. He watched as her fingers ran along the rock face and slid into a handhold. Stepping carefully, Eshe slid her feet into each foothold and slowly searched for the next handhold. Fialan watched her climb, slowly, deliberately, until she vanished into the darkness above her. His sharp ears could still hear the scraping of her boots on the footholds and her labored breath.
He heard her grunt and some scraping above.
“Eshe?” came a voice from somewhere above Fialan. The voice sounded pleased.
“Yes, Kiril, it’s me,” Eshe said.
“What are you doing here?” Kiril asked. “You left us.”
“There’s a new first-blood who insists on speaking with Lochvaur,” said Eshe.
“Demon fodder,” Kiril spat. “They like the first-bloods.” “His name’s Fialan. He has some news that might change things.”
Fialan frowned. Demon fodder? He searched until he found the handholds and then slipped his feet carefully in the footholds.
“So, he’s a first-blood?” Kiril asked. “From Lochvaur?”
“Yes.” Eshe sighed. “Listen, Kiril. He’s different. He’s like Lochvaur—he thinks the Truce is broken…”
“Eshe,” Kiril laughed. “No one believes Lochvaur any longer—you know that. We stay here because the demons won’t come here.”
“Have you ever thought why they don’t come?” Fialan said as he pulled himself over the final ledge. He could barely see the two speaking. “Don’t you have torches or doesn’t fire work in this world?”
Kiril was a heavy-boned Chi’lan—unusual since most Eleion were medium to light framed. His thicker face and jaw line suggested Laddel blood, but his skin that gave away his true lineage. It was deep bronze—a sure sign Kiril was Shara’kai—a half-breed of Ansgar and Eleion. Even so, in the dim light, he reminded Fialan of Chi’lan Tamar. “Wood and pitch are a premium here. We don’t waste it.”
“I didn’t know there were any Shara’kai Lochvaur,” he remarked. “Let alone, Chi’lan. Where did you come from?”
Kiril flinched imperceptibly at the word ‘Shara’kai.’ “From the North, near the Tundra Steppes.”
Fialan nodded. “Be careful, Shara’kai, how you sling insults. Or this ‘demon fodder’ will show you what a first-blood can do, even without his powers.”
Kiril lunged and Fialan drew his sword. “Stop it! Both of you!” Eshe snapped, stepping between both men. “You serve only Areyn Sehduk with your quarrel.”