Caol’nir stared at the elf king; he knew of only one orphan woman raised by kind priestesses. “How would the mordeth-gall know this?”
“It was the talk of Parthalan for many winters,” Lormac continued. “Whenever I traveled to Teg’urnan, it was all anyone spoke of. Sahlgren himself looked for the girl, saying that he desired a god’s child to be his queen, but those priestesses hid her well.”
Caol’nir looked at his father, his face a mask of fury. “Not well enough. Now we know the true reason Sahlgren moved all the priestesses to Teg’urnan.”
“You know who Olluhm’s child is?” Lormac asked.
“I have an idea.” Caol’nir stalked away, and Lormac turned to Tor.
“Well? Do you know as well?” Lormac demanded.
“Caol’nir worries more than he knows,” Tor replied. “I’ve heard the rumors, but I have no hard facts.
“This mordeth, then, how believable is he?” Lormac asked. “How do we know he isn’t just spouting lies to keep himself alive?”
“We know, because the mordeth we captured is Mersgoth,” Tor replied. Very few knew the names of any demons, but Mersgoth, second only to Ehkron, was known throughout all the realms for his brutality. Lormac asked what was to be done with Mersgoth—as far as Lormac was concerned, the demon had outlived his usefulness—when an approaching party distracted him. He looked to the small hill and shielded his eyes against the suns, mildly surprised when he recognized them.
“Their standard marks them as a delegation from Thurnda,” Lormac said, remembering how he had summoned all of his lords to the Seat; if they’d chosen to follow him rather than just wait for his return, things must be dire. A tiny elf girl dismounted from her horse and ran down the hill, calling his name.
“Sibeal!” Lormac called once he recognized her. She reached Lormac and halted, panting. “Little cousin, why have you come all the way here? And where is Elvasla?”
“That’s what I’ve come to tell you,” gasped Sibeal. “We need not war against the demons. Ehkron is dead!”
Sibeal told them how Ehkron had appeared in Thurnda the prior winter, cutting a path of destruction across her homeland. Elvasla, Sibeal’s older sister and the Lady of Thurnda, led her legion against the mordeth-gall and destroyed his force, but he escaped. Undaunted, Elvasla and her mate tracked Ehkron through the underworld, emerging in the mortal realm where Elvasla at last killed him.
“If Ehkron is dead, then he wasn’t our true foe,” Lormac observed.
“No, Sahlgren is,” Caol’nir insisted.
Sibeal frowned at Caol’nir. “The fae king? What threat is he?”
“A large one,” Lormac said. “I will apprise you of everything that’s happened shortly.” Lormac rubbed his chin, then said to Tor, “Perhaps this does means we don’t need to war.”
“There is still Asgeloth to contend with,” Tor said. “Have you news of him?”
“I don’t,” Sibeal replied. “He retreated to the underworld with Ehkron, but wasn’t sighted in the mortal realm.”
Lormac nodded. “Is Elvasla tracking him?”
“My lord, Elvasla has perished,” Sibeal gravely replied. “The mordeth-gall struck a death blow, and she died mere moments after the beast.” Sibeal turned away and dashed at her eyes.
“Nexa save her,” Lormac murmured. “And what of Tarac?”
“He returned to advise us of Elvasla and Ehkron’s deaths, but he couldn’t remain,” Sibeal replied. “He said he couldn’t bear to be in Thurnda without his love, so he and their children returned to the mortal realm.” She raised her head, her gaze mixed with despair and hope. Lormac knew exactly what she wanted him to say; Sibeal was his cousin and Elvasla’s sister, and the rightful heir to Thurnda.
“This would make you the Lady of Thurnda,” Lormac said carefully; until he named her as such, she was merely Sibeal. “When we have returned to the Seat we will discuss what this entails.”
Sibeal smiled brightly at Lormac, making her appear that much younger, and went on about how she would need to find herself a mate, for an unmated Lady simply would not do, until a terrible creaking noise silenced her.
What was left of the doja crumbled and Mersgoth burst forth, dragging the manacles behind him. Lormac pulled Asherah into his arms as the elves attacked. The mordeth swung the chains about like a flail, striking one warrior in the head. As the elf crumpled to the ground, two more squared off to face the demon, but it was Caol’nir who launched himself at the mordeth.
He had fire in his hands, and shoved it into the demon’s face. Mersgoth screamed, and Caol’nir leapt back and drew his sword. He swung at the demon, but Mersgoth grabbed the blade with his bare hand.
“I will finish what my lord left undone,” the demon growled, then he dropped a silver disc at his feet. In the blink of an eye, Mersgoth was gone and another of Lormac’s soldiers lay dead, two others injured by the makeshift flail. Caol’nir’s sword was bent, his neck and torso scored by the demon’s claws. Lormac called for healers while keeping Asherah in his arms.
“I promise you, I’m fine,” Asherah insisted, after the third time Lormac questioned her. Lormac picked dirt and pieces of metal from her hair as she added, “You bore the brunt of it, anyway.” He stepped back and Asherah helped him brush the debris from his cloak, murmuring that Leran would not be pleased if his handiwork were damaged.
“You said it would hold,” Caol’nir muttered as he stalked past Lormac to the healer’s tent. Lormac pursed his lips; normally, he wouldn’t accept such blatant disrespect, certainly not within his own lands, but Caol’nir was right, the wall should have held. Worse, he was afraid he knew why his power had faltered; after he’d tried replacing the Sala on Asherah’s arm and she refused him, his mind had been wound up in knots. While Asherah had slept in Lormac’s arms the Sala had insisted he claim her, and it took all his willpower to resist. Willpower that should have held the demon’s prison fast.
“Should it have held?” Asherah asked. “Perhaps the mordeth was too strong.”
“Yes, it should have,” Sibeal replied for Lormac, “regardless of what was inside. Are you unwell, cousin?”
“No,” Lormac snapped; regardless that Sibeal understood the Sala, it was not her place to answer for him.
“You’re sure?” Sibeal pressed. “Is there anything I can do to assist you, my lord?” Lormac noted that as Sibeal spoke her eyes rested on the Sala, and a quick glance at his forearm told him why: the heartstone was a rich red, which meant the Lord of Tingu loved another. He remembered talk from many winters past about uniting the bloodlines of Tingu and Thurnda by having Lormac take either Elvasla or Sibeal as a mate. Based on Sibeal’s interested gaze, she remembered the same.
“I assure you, I’m quite well,” he replied, his hand resting on Asherah’s back. “Sibeal, allow me to introduce my mate, Asherah.”
“M-My lady,” Sibeal said, bowing her heard. “Forgive me, word had not yet reached us in Thurnda.”
“We met while I was at the keep,” Lormac said. “We’ve not yet made the formal announcement.” Sibeal nodded, and returned to Thurnda’s delegation.
“Will everyone refer to me as their lady?” Asherah asked.
“You don’t mind when I call you my lady,” Lormac countered, wrapping Asherah in his arms.
“You’re right. I don’t.”
###
Torim gazed at Asherah, laughing at Lormac’s words, and wondered what had happened overnight to make her so relaxed in his arms. Then Lormac pulled Asherah close and said something that made her blush; Torim turned away, not wishing to intrude upon their newfound closeness.
She went to where the mordeth last stood and crouched. The dirt was blackened as if burnt, but didn’t smell of smoke. Torim picked up a small silver disc and turned it over in her hands; it was mirror-smooth and cool, like metal encased in glass. She went to where the healers tended Caol’nir and showed him the disc.
“You spoke of a portal?” Torim asked, present
ing him the disc. “Is it like this?”
“I don’t know,” Caol’nir admitted as he turned the disc over in his hand. “Rahlle only said there was a portal; he didn’t say how it would appear.” Caol’nir threw it to the ground as Mersgoth had.
Torim leapt back, the fact that nothing happened not lessening her anger. “Watch yourself,” she hissed. “You know not what foul devices these beasts carry!”
“I know enough of what they’re like,” Caol’nir replied hotly. “I spent many winters trying to stem the flow of them into Parthalan.”
“Perhaps if you’d been successful, these dojas wouldn’t exist,” Torim spat.
Caol’nir bowed his head. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t let my temper speak for me.”
Torim noticed that he rubbed a ribbon tied about his wrist as he spoke. “Who is it?”
“Who is what?”
Torim traced the blue ribbon. “Surely a warrior would only wear a ribbon at a lover’s request.”
“My mate,” he replied. “The first morning we spent together, she taught me how to catch magic from the wind.” Caol’nir rubbed the ribbon between his thumb and forefinger. “You know, the only reason I undertook this cause was for her.”
“Then it seems we’re all in her debt,” Torim replied.
“We are, perhaps more than we know.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The march back to the Seat took far longer than the march to the doja had. The wounded slaves necessitated that Lormac’s party travel more slowly on the return trip. While all of the guards could walk or ride, six of the women needed to be transported in litters.
Caol’nir kept the silver disc on his person, showing it to no one, not even his father. To his knowledge, only he and Torim were aware of the disc’s existence, and he meant to keep it that way. His needed to bring Rahlle the disc, needed to know if it was the same portal demons used to access the Great Temple. Caol’nir remembered the bits of Ethnia’s corpse littered about her chamber, and that her chamber shared a wall with Alluria’s. His fist clenched around the disc, and he resolved that he would destroy whoever was responsible for Ethnia’s death. If that someone was Sahlgren, so be it.
He said as much later that night. Caol’nir, Tor and Lormac stood apart from the others, discussing what they might encounter when they arrived at the Seat.
“The rest of my lords will be there,” Lormac said. “Sibeal tells me that when she arrived, only Drustan the Dark had yet to make an appearance.”
“You’re certain they will heed your call to war?” Tor asked again.
“Ehkron has murdered the Lady of Thurnda,” Lormac said gravely. “For that reason alone, vengeance belongs to the elves.”
Tor nodded, and indicated Sibeal with a jerk of his head. “She is the new Lady of Thurnda?” Tor asked.
“She will be, once I name her,” Lormac replied. “I’ll do so at the Seat.”
“Should she be included in this talk?”
“Sibeal is young, as yet untried,” Lormac said with a shake of his head. “She’ll follow my orders, but I don’t relish the thought of bringing her to battle.”
“And the troll king?” Tor asked.
“Grelk will complain, and threaten, and in the end he will sulk, but he too will do as I command,” Lormac replied almost offhandedly. Caol’nir followed the elf king’s gaze and wasn’t surprised that it rested on Asherah. She was making her way among the newly rescued, offering what hope and encouragement she could.
“She’s amazing,” Caol’nir commented. “Not only does she have the strength to get herself out of a living hell, but enough to rally the spirits of those around her.”
Lormac nodded. “She has strength for that, and more.” With that, Lormac left the Prelate and his son.
“He really loves her,” Tor said. “I never thought the old elf had it in him”
Caol’nir snorted. “I’m sure no one said that about you after you met Mama.”
“They did not,” Tor said. “I’m an old fae, not an old elf.” Caol’nir scowled, but Tor laughed. “Enough of this. Let’s see what’s for supper.”
###
Lormac strode toward Asherah, Caol’nir’s words ringing in his ears. If he only knew how amazing Asherah really was, with her sharp wit, intelligence, the way her back arched when—
Lormac shook his head; those thoughts were the Sala’s, not his. Despite the constant pressure in his mind Lormac refused to claim Asherah until they’d returned to the comfort of the Seat. It would take more than a priceless elfin relic to make him see otherwise.
Lormac caught Asherah’s attention and she left the wounded. She met him halfway, shrouded in a darkness that was not pierced by light from either fire.
“How are they?” Lormac asked.
“I wish Tor had let me kill them,” she replied bitterly.
“You don’t think they’ll recover?” Lormac asked. His healers claimed they could treat even the most grievous of wounds the women had sustained.
“They don’t want to,” Asherah replied. “Their minds are intact, including their memories. To know that those who professed to care for you never came to rescue you from such a fate… I supposed the mordeth did me a favor in stripping me of my life.” Asherah wrapped her arms around herself and turned her face to the wind. “I often wonder if I had a mate that never came for me.”
“You don’t,” Lormac said. Asherah’s head snapped around to face him. “Part of the power of the Sala is when I am in the Seat, I can see if one’s soul is tied to another.”
“You cannot see these things now?”
“No,” he replied. “It is why I brought you there before I asked you to stay with me. I never would have asked you to be my mate if you already had one elsewhere.”
“And…if I had?”
“I would have helped you find him.”
“And if I’d chosen a woman?” she pressed.
“Then I’d have brought you to your woman,” he said, and pulled her into his arms. As they laughed, he saw movement across the camp. “Is that your woman?” he asked, angling himself so both saw Belenos holding his tent flap aside for Torim.
“She’s Belenos’s woman now,” Asherah said. “Just as I’m yours.”
Lormac kissed her forehead, then placed his forearm between them. “Does it speak to you, too?” he asked, tracing the Sala’s heartstone.
“The Sala? No, never. Should it?”
Lormac breathed a sigh of relief; if Asherah knew of the Sala’s demands, she’d probably run and never look back. “No, but one never knows with these things. Always best to ask.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s a link to my ancestors. They lend me their wisdom, help me guide Tingu.”
Asherah regarded the Sala for a moment, then she slid her arms around Lormac’s waist. “When you were at the Seat, did you see if I had any children?”
“I saw no one tied to you,” Lormac replied.
“Then I really am alone in the world,” she murmured. “I don’t know if the knowledge that my family didn’t forsake me makes me glad, or if I should be sad that I have no family to speak of.”
“You have me.” Lormac kissed her temple.
Asherah looked up at him and smiled. “Lormac, my mountain. My strength.”
###
The next day the Lord of Tingu’s party arrived at the Seat shortly before noon. Lormac’s call to arms had indeed been answered, and the legions of the six elfin kingdoms that surrounded Tingu were in orderly rows around the Seat. The Parthian soldiers who had avoided the thrall had also arrived. Lormac saw Tor hang his head when he saw how few remained.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Lormac said. “Evil tends to hide its tracks well.”
“Who are they?” Caol’nir asked, pointing toward a group close to the palace gates that looked less like a well-trained legion and more like a drunken mob.
“Those are the trolls,” Lormac replied, his long frustration with Grelk evid
ent. “Go to any forge and not a tool is out of place, but they show no such order when they’re summoned to my home.” Lormac scanned the assemblage, and noted the absence of the dark fae. He turned to mention this to Tor, but Leran chose that moment to break free from his nurse and dash toward his father, heedless of the marching warriors and horses’ hooves. Lormac reached down and snatched the boy, admonishing his reckless behavior as he swung him onto his shoulder, where he remained as they entered the gates.
Once inside the Seat, Lormac instructed Aldo that all the elfin lords were to join him in the hall. As the lesser lords arrived with their retinues, they found their king standing upon the dais, surrounded by elf and fae warriors alike.
“Where is Grelk?” Lormac asked Aldo as he surveyed the throng.
“Here,” called out the troll king as he lumbered to the front of the hall. He was a large creature, not overly so from a troll’s perspective, but easily half as wide as he was tall, with a beard that hung to his knees. Ever the smith, his hammer hung from his belt where others would carry a sword.
Lormac acknowledged the troll, then seated himself on his throne. Leran remained on his shoulder, leaning against the high back.
“My lords,” Lormac began, “on this day I bring you great and terrible news. Demons—nay, the mordeth-gall himself—have availed themselves of our lands and people.”
The hall buzzed with the hushed tones of the lords talking; for the mordeth-gall to have breached elfin lands was without precedent. Lormac went on, detailing how he had been first alerted to the existence of the dojas, and that one was less than a day’s ride from the Seat.
“My lord,” began Aish’inn of Nugt, “forgive my ignorance, but how did the Lord of Tingu became involved in matters that seem only the fae’s concern?”
“My lords,” Lormac said, extending his arm to Sibeal, “I was informed just three days past of Lady Elvasla’s death at the hands of the mordeth-gall.” A murmur rolled over the crowd, and Sibeal turned to them with sad eyes.
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