“I am Rhyn’athel’s warrior,” she said. “I am also your daughter.”
“You can’t be both.”
“I am,” she said. She glanced up at Haukel, who knelt on Silvain’s other side.
She laid her hands against his wounds, using her first-blood powers to heal him. “Help him up.” Together, Cara and Haukel brought Silvain to his feet.
“What are you doing?” Silvain asked.
There was pity in Cara’s smile. “We’re going home.”
89
“The gales are early this year.”
Modolf stared out of the window at the dark clouds and the angry gray-green swells of the North Sea. A Shara’kai of Eltar and Ansgar mix, Modolf inherited his stature from his Ansgar side. He stared at the sea, his own dark eyes in turmoil as he heard the baby cry again.
“She’s dead,” Saeunn said. Saeunn was his wife of three years. The shock of silver that ran through her hair was the only indication she was Shara’kai. “She lost too much blood in the birth. The child’s alive—a boy. He looks Eltar, same as his mother.”
“What is a pureblood doing here?” Modolf mused, staring out at the sea.
He had heard rumors of a war among the Eleion—news traveled even to this far place. He frowned. “Maybe she was an exile.”
“Maybe. And maybe she got lost.”
“Did she tell you her name?”
“Imdyr.”
Modolf spat. “Eleion name. I bet she was a witch.”
“She was practically a child,” Saeunn said. “She wanted her baby called Allarun.”
Modolf frowned, staring at the sky. The gales were early. “We should leave the child to the gods,” he said at last.
Saeunn stared. “You can’t be serious—it’ll die.”
“Then, that’s what the gods want.”
“It’s not what I want.”
Modolf frowned again. Saeunn had lost their own son in a stillbirth only a week ago. “We can try again.”
“No.” Saeunn shook her head. “He’ll be my son.”
Modolf looked into the sky again. A storm was coming.
Lachlei held her infant son, Lachlan, rocking him gently. His twin brother, Elsonre, had already fallen asleep in their crib. They looked alike in many ways, but Rhyn’athel had assured her that they were fraternal, not identical, twins. Perhaps they looked so much alike because they looked like their father. They had his steel-colored eyes, and their hair was deep red and streaked with gold. Even at a few months old, their faces were angular and held their father’s strong jaw line.
The infant yawned and closed his eyes. It was nearly dusk and well past his bedtime. Lachlei had relieved her servants, hoping to perhaps spend a quiet night in her chambers.
It had been a year since Rhyn’athel’s victory over Areyn. The Lochvaur had reclaimed and rebuilt Caer Lochvaren and now Lachlei had private quarters built from stone rather than wood. Stone would eventually replace wood throughout Caer Lochvaren, making the city impregnable except to the longest sieges. Rhyn’athel had helped design the city after his own fortress-city in Athelren.
Rhyn’athel had stayed with the Lochvaur, helping them repair the terrible damage done. Rhyn was constantly beside them, whether training Chi’lan or guiding the building and repair of the fortifications.
Rhyn’athel had stayed with Lachlei. He had adopted Fialan’s son as his own and had already taught Haellsil to speak at two years old.
Lachlei heard a noise and turned. She saw Rhyn’athel standing beside her.
“He’s very much like his father,” she remarked smiling.
“Lachlan?” Rhyn’athel grinned. “I’m not surprised.”
“He has a fiery temper and the most piecing silver eyes,” she said. “A born troublemaker and a warrior, if there is such a thing.”
The warrior god chuckled. “That, I don’t doubt.” He kissed her. “What of Elsonre?”
“He’s a thinker—I think a tactician,” Lachlei replied. “Analytical. They almost complement each other. I might think you’d have planned them this way.”
“Planned?” Rhyn’athel said, with an expression of feigned innocence. “Beloved, would I have planned such an occurrence?”
“Ni’yah is a bad influence, and you are a bad liar,” she replied. She gazed at Lachlan. “He’s finally asleep—do you want to hold him?”
Rhyn’athel took his young son in his hands and cradled him gently. “They are so like me,” he admitted. His eyes held a glimmer of sadness. He walked over to the crib and gently laid the baby next to his brother.
Lachlei leaned against him. “What is wrong, Rhyn?” she asked. She met his gaze. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
Rhyn’athel shook his head. “I cannot lie to you,” he confessed. “I can’t stay in this world for much longer—I must return to Athelren.”
“It’s that damn Truce, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I can’t stay here.”
“What happened in the Fyr, Rhyn?” she asked. “You never told me the entire story.”
Rhyn’athel shrugged. “There isn’t much to tell, beloved. In order to control the Fyr, I had to become part of it. A definite risk, yet one I was willing to take. Within the fire, I met the dragon, Haegl, once again.”
“Haegl—the black dragon you rescued?” she said in wonder. “What happened?”
“The dragons are creatures of the Fyr, but their lives are tied to it. I agreed to give him what he most desired for what I desired.”
“Control over the Fyr—for what?” she mused.
“Their freedom from the Fyr.” He smiled. “It seemed a fair trade. But even with the dragons’ help controlling the Fyr, I hadn’t enough power to break through to Elren. Your freeing Ni’yah and Lochvaur allowed me a way back.”
“It was Lochvaur. Despite all the torture, he still defied Areyn Sehduk. Why does Areyn despise Lochvaur so? Areyn’s hatred for him seems to even surpass his hatred for you.”
“Areyn hates me as much, but can’t do much to me. But there is a Wyrd prophecy that Areyn fears that may someday come true…” “That is?”
“That one of my sons may destroy him.”
“But you said Athel’cen can’t be destroyed,” Lachlei reminded him.
Rhyn’athel shrugged. “Not any way that I know of.” He paused. “When I returned, I pinned Areyn against the World Tree. He agreed to abide by the Truce for the time being.”
“That’s all?”
“I won my dead,” Rhyn’athel said. “Those who serve Ni’yah and me are no longer Areyn’s.”
Lachlei shook her head. “In all that fighting—in all those battles—what did you win?” she asked.
Rhyn’athel pulled her close. “You.” He glanced at his sons. “And them. And, of course, Ni’yah’s and my warriors.”
“But you could not gain Elren?”
“Areyn would give me Tarentor before giving me Elren, beloved,” Rhyn’athel replied. “Even if I forced him to swear by the blood that flowed in his veins, his word means naught. He would still continue to undermine me.” He sighed. “Lachlei, Elren is but one of my worlds. I have three others that must be looked after—and Ni’yah can’t shoulder all my work.”
Lachlei’s throat tightened. “Rhyn, will you return?”
Rhyn’athel closed his eyes and held her. “No,” he whispered. “I can’t…” He held her as she wept.
“I wanted you to see Lachlan and Elsonre grow up. I wanted you to stay with me forever…”
“Do you think I would abandon you?” Rhyn’athel chided, gently lifting her chin to meet his gaze. “Don’t you think I will see my sons grow? Lachlei, I will always be with you, you know that, even if I can’t be here in Elren with you.”