“My queen,” Cahal said, standing by her side.
“Chi’lan Lachlei,” she corrected him. “I am no longer your queen, Cahal. I ceased being your queen when Fialan died—it is up to the Council to decide who will be the next king.”
Cahal stared for a moment and then shook his head. “It’s hard to believe that Fialan is really dead,” he said.
Lachlei smiled sadly. The ever-present mind-link that connected her with Fialan was gone. “It isn’t to me.” Her silver eyes followed the slow procession. Each wagon, draped with red and gold cloth, bore a warrior. Two horses drew each wagon. The last one, Lachlei knew, was Fialan’s.
A tall Chi’lan approached Lachlei. Kellachan, her cousin, stood beside her. “Lachlei, the Council will meet…” he began.
Lachlei held up her hand. “Not now, cousin,” she said.
“I will ask that they choose you as…”
“No.”
Kellachan blinked. “But you are the queen.”
“I was your queen,” Lachlei said bitterly. “I have neither right nor title to the throne, save perhaps being first-blood. The Council has not chosen me, nor would I accept it. I don’t deserve it.”
“Lachlei,” said Cahal. “Reconsider this. Of all the Chi’lan, you alone can see our kindred to greatness.”
Lachlei shook her head as she walked towards the wagons. The lead Chi’lan, astride a battle horse, raised his hand to halt as he saw her walk forward. As Lachlei approached, the stench of death filled her nostrils. She fought the gorge that threatened to rise in her throat.
Instead, Lachlei turned to the commander of the accompanying Chi’lan. “Kian, how did they die?”
Kian turned to her, his face ashen. “Fialan took a blade to the chest,” he replied. “The others…” He shuddered.
Lachlei turned to the first wagon. She stepped up on the running boards and peered at the corpse. A wave of dark magic assailed her, and she shuddered involuntarily. Despite her nausea, she pulled the cloth back from the corpse. Bright red blood stained its mouth as though the man had just died.
Lachlei frowned. She didn’t want to touch the thing—it reeked of foul magic—but she had to know. She reached out and touched the corpse on the forehead.
Hot pain shot through her. “By Rhyn’athel’s sword!” she yelped, pulling her hand back. She looked at her fingers and saw blisters form on them.
Cahal stood beside her. “What is it?”
Lachlei showed him her fingers. “I would wager all the bodies are like that,” she said.
“Magic?”
“Dark magic—a heinous kind.”
“Did you feel anything when you touched the corpses?” Cahal asked, turning to Kian.
Kian shook his head. “No, but we didn’t touch the bodies directly.”
Lachlei focused on her fingers. The blisters absorbed into the skin and healed. Part of the powers of a first-blood was the ability to heal oneself and others—even from terrible wounds. She gazed at the corpse. “He didn’t die through normal means,” she said at last.
Kian and Cahal glanced at each other. “What happened?” Cahal ventured.
“His heart and lungs burst,” she said. “Were all the others like this?”
“All save Fialan.” Kian suppressed a shudder. “The horses, too.”
Cahal met Lachlei’s gaze. “Do you know what caused it?”
Lachlei stepped from the wagon’s footboards. “Dark magic,” she said. She walked towards the last wagon, dreading what she knew she would find.
Cahal caught up to her and gripped her arm. Lachlei turned towards him, her eyes haunted. “You don’t have to do this,” he said.
Lachlei shook her head. “But I do, Cahal. I do.” She glanced at his hand. “Let me go.”
Cahal released her and Lachlei climbed onto the running boards of the last wagon. Fialan’s corpse was covered with a red shroud. Lachlei hesitated for a moment and then grasped the shroud, pulling it back. She caught her breath as she gazed into her husband’s dead face.
A wave of emotion flooded her as she looked in his unseeing eyes, glazed with death. Pain and sorrow threatened to overwhelm her again, but this time she fought it. She focused on the anger as it welled inside. Some thing had done this to Fialan. Lachlei was going to find out what.
Fialan’s pale face betrayed nothing of the horror he had felt in the last seconds of his life. Like the others, his body stank of foul magic. Lachlei didn’t dare repeat touching his body for fear of the same result.
Lachlei forced herself to look away from the face and look at the blood-soaked armor. She saw only one wound to his chest—a single sword cut. She frowned. Fialan was too great a warrior and too powerful a first-blood to let someone surprise him. If thieves or soldiers had caught him, Fialan would have fought and suffered many more wounds than this. Seldom did Chi’lan die with only one sword wound.
Her gaze drifted to the long sword, Fyren, which lay beside him. Lachlei reached out and touched the adamantine blade’s hilt lightly, half expecting to be burned. Instead, the blade felt cold and hard to her touch.
“What is it?” Cahal asked as she picked up the sword and held the blade to the sun’s rays.
“I don’t know,” she murmured, gazing at the discolored blade. She stretched out with her powers, hoping to gain a sense of what had killed Fialan.
Death.
Lachlei recoiled in horror, almost dropping the sword. Her mind reeled.
“Lachlei?” Cahal grasped her shoulders.
She shuddered and then gazed at Cahal. “By Rhyn’athel’s sword! It’s the blood of the thing that killed Fialan.”
5
“Fialan is dead.”
Areyn Sehduk stood in the throne room of the Silren, a smile played across his lips. In his current form, the death god was the warrior, Akwel, one of the Silren nobles. He had ambushed Akwel, taking the Silren’s body as the warrior rode alone in the forest. He consumed the hapless Silren’s soul, using Akwel’s energy to feed his power while he stayed in this world. Areyn would soon have to feed again.
The sun shone brightly through the stained glass windows, casting a rainbow of color across the granite floors. The dark blue colors of the Silren standard hung overhead, emblazoned with a silver, eight-rayed star, contrasting against the light gray stone.
In the bright sunlight, none, not even Silvain, suspected that the man who stood before them was the death god. Silvain, the king of the Silren, sat on the intricately carved throne, listening to Areyn’s words. The son of the goddess, Elisila, was old, even though his body had remained young. None here knew his age, save Areyn. The godling was over three thousand years old and had seen many battles—including the first battle against Areyn Sehduk.
Areyn remembered the king of the Silren and despised him. During that battle, the kindreds had reunited under godlings such as Silvain and Lochvaur. They had fought with Rhyn’athel to overthrow Areyn. None here save Silvain remembered that battle. None here save Areyn, himself.
Areyn had been hesitant at first to approach Silvain in his new body. Silvain had powers beyond even a normal first-blood, but Areyn soon discovered that the godling could not see beyond his disguise. No one could, save perhaps another god, and even then, Areyn doubted one of the lesser gods could recognize him. Areyn guessed that only Rhyn’athel could, but Rhyn’athel wasn’t here.
Rhyn’athel wouldn’t get involved. That was the beauty of the Truce. Only when it was too late would the warrior god enter the fray. By that time, Elren would be Areyn’s and the power would shift. With the power of five worlds under his command, Areyn knew the other four would eventually fall.