It was a good plan. It would work. Even the meddling Ni’yah couldn’t do much about it. Areyn had seen a wolf after he had killed Fialan, and that had troubled him at first. Could it have been the meddling god? But the wolf had fled, not confronted him, and Areyn had sensed nothing special about that wolf.
Behind Areyn sat the Silren nobles, many who gazed at him in admiration. He knew the Silren’s minds and now was the time to put into words their desires.
“With the Lochvaur champion gone, the Lochvaur are leaderless,” Areyn said. “Their confusion is our gain. Now is the time for the Silren to take back the lands that are rightfully ours.”
A murmur of assent rippled through the Silren nobles. There was no love between the Lochvaur and Silren.
Silvain raised his hand for silence and the room stilled. He met Areyn’s gaze. “We are at peace with the Lochvaur. We agreed to the treaty Lochalan and I signed nearly a hundred years ago.”
Areyn laughed. “Have the Silren gone soft? Were not the lands the Lochvaur now occupied once ours?”
“The North Marches have been in dispute for many centuries,” Silvain said evenly. “I remember when Lochvaur, himself, claimed those lands.”
“Yes, but so did you,” Areyn replied. “They were our lands first.”
The nobles looked to Silvain. The king of the Silren smiled, his ice-blue eyes met the gods. “Indeed, they were our lands,” he admitted. “Akwel, you know our history very well. Very well indeed.”
Better than you think, Areyn Sehduk thought darkly.
“But what of the Chi’lan?” one voice objected. The Silren warriors parted and a tall woman clad in mail approached the throne. Her ice blue eyes considered Areyn with contempt.
“Rhyn’athel’s dogs,” Areyn scoffed. “With the Elesil, we can defeat the Chi’lan and take back our lands.”
“Rhyn’athel’s dogs, as you call them, are the best warriors in the Nine Worlds,” she said. “We spilt much blood to obtain that treaty, and you would throw it away on a worthless scrap of land?”
“North Marches is hardly worthless, Cara, my daughter,” Silvain said. “It has been traditionally our lands before Lochalan.”
Cara met her father’s gaze. “The Elesil will not enter the fight with us.”
A sardonic smile played on Areyn lips. “Conlan has assured me his support. The Elesil want their lands to the east almost as much as we desire ours. Now is the time to act, while the Lochvaur are leaderless.”
“You’re insane—the Laddel and Haell will assuredly come to the Lochvaur aid,” Cara objected.
“I hear the prattle of women,” Areyn spoke. Many of the nobles chuckled in response.
Cara drew her sword and started forward.
“Commander, no!” A Silren captain named Haukel caught her arm.
Cara wheeled around. “Not here,” Haukel said, giving her a knowing look. “Not now.”
“Yes,” said Areyn grinning as he watched Cara seethe. “Those of you who care to listen to women prattle are as much cowards as they are. The Lochvaur have our lands—it is time we took them back!”
The Silren warriors cheered, drowning out the dissenters. Areyn gave Cara a sly smile. She turned and left, flanked by a few warriors.
“Then, it is decided,” Silvain said. “We take back the North Marches.”
The stars shone brightly in the sky as Lachlei thrust the torch into the pyre on which laid the five dead Chi’lan. The other Chi’lan followed, tossing their burning torches into the wood. The dry kindling caught and the flames leapt up, ensconcing the body of Fialan and the men who died to protect him.
It had taken most of the day to build the pyre on the mountain overlooking Caer Lochvaren. Lachlei had helped the Chi’lan construct the pyre, carrying the logs and branches necessary to feed the flames. The air had a hint of frost in it, and the trees were already changing color.
A change was in the air.
Lachlei watched as the flames obscured the bodies. She had tried what she could to remove the foul magic from them, but the stench remained.
It will not leave Fialan alone, even in death, she thought. What powerful magic could do this?
Beside Lachlei stood her kinsman, Kellachan, and her personal guard, even though Lochvaur law didn’t require their service to her anymore. Cahal stood loyally by—a reminder of the ardent loyalty Fialan commanded among the Chi’lan. Lachlei thought now about her infant son, Haellsil. He would become a great warrior like his father—if he lived long enough.
The Lochvaur were vulnerable; there was no great champion now. The other kindreds would sense the vulnerability and gather like wolves awaiting the death of a wounded moose. The pack would draw closer and eventually tear them apart. Unless…
Unless there was a champion to take Fialan’s place.
But Lachlei knew there was no Chi’lan warrior alive who could. She knew the Chi’lan and their capabilities, but first-bloods from the line of Lochvaur were rare. Fialan was one; she was another. Lachlei and Fialan had been related only distantly with six generations between a common ancestor. Kellachan was even more distantly related, without the powers a first-blood should possess. No wonder that the Chi’lan turned to her.
Lachlei strode away from the fire, wanting to be alone. Her sorrow now turned to anger—whatever had killed Fialan was evil, that much she was certain of. She looked into the sky to see the moons rise slowly above the horizon. Tomah and Iamar rose, followed by a third moon, Mani. She stared at the golden moon in amazement. Mani often was the portent of great and terrible things.
Her hand strayed to her side and brushed against the sword hilt. She had sheathed Fyren, her husband’s blade earlier, not thinking. Lachlei now drew the blade and held it upward towards the moon. The smoke from the pyre drifted overhead, turning the moon blood red.
Rhyn’athel, she spoke silently. Great god of warriors, hear me! By the blood that burns in the Lochvaur veins, by the blood that burns in my veins, grant me the power to find the evil that killed Fialan, your champion. By my blood, I will avenge you, Fialan, even at the cost of my own life. Lachlei brandished the sword and for a moment, the great sword glowed.
Lachlei turned around, resolve in her face. She gazed at the pyre. “You will be avenged, my Fialan. And may the gods have no pity on the one who did this to you.”
6
Rhyn’athel stared at the Chi’lan woman who stood in the moonlight, her face filled with anger and resolve. Even angry, she was beautiful—she rivaled the beauty of the eight goddesses.
“This—is Lachlei?” he asked. Rhyn’athel turned towards Ni’yah, but found he could not tear his gaze from her. Lachlei was a true Chi’lan, athletic and powerful, and yet her beauty…
“She is rather pretty, isn’t she?” Ni’yah said wryly, his brass eyes gleaming. “I thought you might like her.” Rhyn’athel continued to stare at Lachlei, entranced. Suddenly, the Truce meant nothing to him. Rhyn’athel had forgotten how long it had been since he had been in Elren. How much he loved the world and the Eleion. And how much he had fought to stay away from it.