He strode to the doorway and then turned to face his brother again. “Now you tell me we must make peace with our enemy because they are also Mac Lir’s children and they are acting under the direction of Tuawtha? That is reason enough, my deluded brother, to kill them! They are traitors to Mac Lir, and should be executed!”
Rendolin stood and walked towards his brother. Thelorin noticed that Korrene did not appear upset, or try to stop her mate from the activity.
“Thelorin. They do not know they are being manipulated. They do not understand that they are being used as Tuawtha’s tool to kill their own kin. Worse,” he said sadly, “they do not see that they, too, will be eliminated once their usefulness is at an end.”
Again the High Priest put his hand on his brother’s sleeve in a soothing manner. “It is likely that they are not even aware of Tuawtha’s influence. That is how the demon god works, in secrecy and deceit.”
Thelorin felt his brother’s words slip into his heart and mind. Yes, he knew all about manipulation, secret works and deceitful actions. Perhaps there was something to his brother’s reasoning.
“Very well,” he said with a weary sigh. “Tell me the whole of it, and I will try to keep my comments and thoughts to myself until you finish.”
The brothers resumed their seats, and Korrene silently tucked her legs beneath her as she settled herself at the end of the bed.
“Tuawtha hates all silvan kind. Actually,” Rendolin paused for a moment before continuing in a thoughtful voice, “he hates all living beings except for his own creations.”
“Demons?” Korrene asked softly.
“Demons, devils, goblins and all manner of evil, vile creatures, my love,” Rendolin replied.
“Get on with it,” Thelorin demanded. Why did Rendolin not send the woman to the kitchens where she could make herself useful?
“Tuawtha’s plan is to destroy all living creatures on the Seven Cella Worlds so that his creatures will be the only occupants of them. He has determined to begin with the silvan races, but Mac Lir says he will not stop there.”
Rendolin looked at his mate with a sympathetic smile before he continued, “On your own world, Korrene, now that the silvan have been defeated, Tuawtha has begun his campaign against the next race; the humans.
“How? Did Mac Lir say?” Her voice seemed all fuzzy, and Thelorin was sure it was due to the tears that leaked from her eyes unchecked. Foolish woman.
“Plague, my love.”
“There is nothing we can do for your world, human,” Thelorin broke into their touching moment without remorse. “What else did your god say about Tuawtha and Tylana, Rendolin?”
He waited impatiently while they obviously shared some private communication before his brother answered him.
“Basically, Mac Lir has given me the job of negotiating a peace between the three silvan nations: Sea Elves, Night Elves and Wood Elves.”
“Wood Elves?” Thelorin was again surprised. He had thought they were only legends and myths. “Do you mean there are still Wood Elves on Tylana? I thought they were only childhood stories.”
“Apparently, Tuawtha has not been completely successful in bringing about their demise, brother. There is a band of our kin still living in Ashilor. They have been under attack from Tuawtha’s minions for many years, and are about to succumb to defeat.”
Rendolin again touched Thelorin’s sleeve, and the older elf could feel the heat of his brother’s concern and love for their cousins.
“Do you not see, Thelorin? The Wood Elves have almost gone the way of our kin on Earth. We can not allow that to happen!”
Thelorin watched the thoughts and emotions chase each other deep within Rendolin’s eyes. His brother was committed to this cause, and believed with all his being that something could be done against the demon god.
What could they—a puny race of elves whose main goal in life had been to fight and kill each other off—do to stop a god? Why even try? They would only be killed sooner. Better to wait and live out the rest of their lives, rather than gamble on a ridiculous scheme that could only end in the shedding of more silvan blood.
No, better to let the gods fight it out amongst themselves, using the Seven Cella Worlds as their battleground, leaving their children to get on with their lives as best they could.
“We are the gods’ battle ground, brother,” Rendolin spoke, as if Thelorin had voiced his thoughts out loud. “We will surely die if we do nothing, Thelorin. With the help of Mac Lir, we will stand a chance of succeeding, which can ensure our children’s survival.”
His people’s survival had been ingrained into Thelorin from his birth. To put such a directive aside was a near impossible task. Even when he had opposed his brother in the Binding issue, it was done because he truly believed it was his people’s best course.
“How can you be sure this is a true prophecy, brother, and not some wild imagination of your fevered brain?”
Rendolin gripped both of Thelorin’s shoulders in a firm grasp. Thelorin looked into the face he knew as well as his own, for until recently, it was a mirror of what peered back at him every day during his washings. Except for the color of eyes, he and Rendolin appeared identical, with the same color hair, same nose, chin and dimple. However, the Binding with the human had taken a toll on his younger brother. Now there were tiny lines around Rendolin’s eyes and mouth. Their hair was worn at different lengths; Rendolin’s flowed to his shoulder blades, and his own cropped to just below his ears, but the High Priest’s hair had lost some of its luster. Silver threads now appeared in the golden mane.
Thelorin recognized the earnest pleading in his brother’s eyes. He knew that Rendolin believed the god, and more! Would do all in his power to obey Mac Lir’s commands.
Including heading up a suicide mission to bring peace and harmony to the silvan race of Tylana. One had a better chance at arguing with a rock troll than Rendolin when he had made his mind up to obey his god.
“What is Mac Lir’s plan?” Thelorin asked with heavy resignation.
Immediately, he was pulled into an encompassing hug that threatened to expel all the air from his lungs.
“I knew I could depend upon you, Thel!”
Another shiver of apprehension skittered down his spine as he heard his little brother call him by his childhood name. An ancient proverb popped into his mind as he returned the hug and smiled warily into his brother’s sparkling emerald eyes.
“Never count the teeth of a sleeping dragon.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There was a great weight on Feenix’s chest, pressing her into the hard floor. Her hips ached and her shoulder blades felt like they were molded to the ground. Her head pounded and she couldn’t focus her eyes.
The smell was familiar and horrible. Blood. Lots of it, mixed with sweat and fear. A battle, then? Had she been in a battle and left for dead? She couldn’t remember.
A sudden cough spasm forced its way past her lips, and her entire body heaved with the effort to expel the fluid in her chest. The taste of blood was in her mouth, but she didn’t think it came from her lungs.
She felt around the inside of her mouth with the tip of her tongue, and grunted in satisfaction as she discovered the ragged cut inside her cheek that had most likely produced the blood in her mouth.
She realized the reason she couldn’t focus her eyes was because it was deep night. There were no sounds of battle, no sounds of hurt men, no sound except for her own ragged breathing.
A fire burned in her side, which ignited anew each time she drew a breath or tried to move. However, she couldn’t lay here forever and wait for death if it was, in fact, coming for her this day. She would meet it head on and standing on her own two feet.
“By the god’s toenail,” she moaned as she tried to move the large mass that had her pinned to the ground. At the touch of her hands on the cool, still flesh, Feenix suddenly remembered where she was and why she was hurting so much.
“L’Garn.”
<
br /> She had killed the half-elf.
With a strength born of desperation, remorse and dread, she rolled the body to the side and wiggled free of the dead weight. Hot agony ripped through her left side, and she put her hand to her waist. Instantly her fingers became sticky and wet with blood.
He must have stabbed her, but not mortally. How? She knew she had disarmed him because she remembered taunting him. He must have had a dagger hidden on him. Typical elfin trick, one she’d used often herself. Well, at least she wasn’t going to die in the next few moments.
She had to see if L’Garn was dead, and she wasn’t going to be able to do it in this half light.
Holding back her moans, she crawled to the side of the room where one of the strange lights gave off a weak illumination. Up close, it looked like a silver bowl filled with a glowing liquid. She picked it up and brought the small light back to the fallen man, holding it over his face.
He didn’t look like he was breathing, but she knew such appearances were often deceiving. She placed her bloodied fingers on his neck, checking for a pulse.
After a moment, during which time she held her breath as if her fingers needed to hear the possible pulse rather than feel it, an icy cold flood of relief washed through her when the first faint flutter registered in her awareness. She almost dropped the light with relief.
Why? She should be upset that she hadn’t killed him.
By Mac Lir’s beard, she supposed now she had to help him or he’d bleed to death! An alive, wounded prince was better than a dead one, if she needed to bargain for her escape.
She didn’t know how long she had been unconscious. The aches and pains in her bones suggested that L’Garn had been crushing her for at least ten years, but that was probably a bit of an exaggeration. More likely it had only been a few minutes, but she needed to tend to both of their wounds before the loss of blood prevented either one of them from recovering.
Perhaps it was already too late to help the prince.
She still didn’t know why she hadn’t killed him in the fight when she had the chance. He had certainly pushed her hard enough. The battle lust had filled her being, and she remembered how much she wanted to kill him for his taunts, and for daring to make a slave of her.
Something had prevented her from the killing thrust, when it came right down to it. And now she had her own wounds to tend to and a half dead prince on her hands. He’ll most likely be the death of her!
“By the god’s right eye, stop that nonsense, woman,” she commanded herself. “You’d better figure a way out of this right now! No one is going to come rescue your sorry backside! You’ve been in worse situations and survived. Now, think!”
She touched L’Garn’s cheek and forehead, checking for a fever, she told herself. But she was afraid there was another reason for her gentleness, and she didn’t have time to explore that possibility.
No fever yet. That was good. She needed to bind his wounds to stop the loss of blood, but before she did that, she knew she had to tend to her own wounds. She was dizzy from the loss of blood, and probably the crack on the back of her head when she went down under his onslaught.
Crazy half-elf! What the hell did he think he was doing, jumping into her sword like that?
With grunts and moans, she gathered all the lights from the room and placed them atop one of the large tables. Together, they gave off enough light for her to check her side.
L’Garn had managed to slice her waist with his dagger. However, while the cut was long and painful, it wasn’t very deep. It was awkward for her to pack the wound with a piece of her tattered gown and then tie it in place, but she eventually managed.
Totally winded, she had to sit and catch her breath for a few minutes before moving to L’Garn. The fear that she would faint from loss of blood, and the terror that she would not be able to care for him before her own fever set in, propelled her to his side after far too short a rest.
Feenix didn’t know how she managed, but after what seemed like a lifetime of hard labor, she wrestled his limp body over to the table and eventually levered him onto it. The warrior woman was not strong enough to lift him cleanly onto the table, and she cursed her weakness. But by a series of props, first on a bench, then against the table, she was finally able to roll him onto the top of the table.
Again she had to rest before proceeding.
“Mac Lir, you son of a sea whore,” she complained through cracked and dried lips. “If you were ever any good for anything, the least you could do is help me out here! After all this work, if this blasted half-elf dies, I am never going to forgive you!”
She cut away L’Garn’s tunic with his own dagger. Appropriate, she thought, as she chuckled to herself before realizing she must be close to insane. How could she laugh about such a serious matter? The loss of blood was making her feel drunk.
“Damn! And I didn’t even have the pleasure of drinking any cold ale!” She licked her dry lips. “Sure could use something wet about now, L’Garn,” she said to her patient as she peeled away the bloody tunic from his chest. It was easiest for her to just cut the silk shirt from him, once the tunic was gone.
The cuts on his biceps were nothing more than scratches. She hadn’t lost her touch with the sword, she reflected as she admired her handiwork. She didn’t even bother to check the ones on his thighs. They had already stopped bleeding, and she turned her attention to the great gash in his right shoulder.
The cut was deep and clear to the bone. She had to clean it out before she could tell exactly how bad it was. The blood was flowing sluggishly, and considering how long he had been without any help, she knew an artery had not been cut. But tendons could well have been cut, and if that was the case, without immediate healing spells, L’Garn could lose the use of his arm. Or worse. Lose the arm itself completely.
She stopped wondering why she cared about the severity of his wounds, and just accepted that she wanted him well and whole.
“Mac Lir, if you’re listening, you better get your sorry ass down here and help me! You can’t possibly want the royal prince of the House of Meedrion to die, can you? Isn’t he one of your blasted children, too?”
She rolled up the remains of his shirt into a firm pad and pushed it into the open wound. Pressing on it with a considerable amount of her weight, she applied pressure to stop the bleeding.
“I mean it, you sorry excuse for a god! Get down here and help me now!”
After holding the shirt firmly into the wound for a few minutes, Feenix slipped L’Garn’s belt from around his waist and used it to tie the pad in place. The pressure wasn’t as great, but as she tightened the belt, she knew it would have to do while she searched the building for other supplies. The immediate need of stanching the wounds had been accomplished.
“I’m going to leave you for a few minutes, now,” she told the unconscious man. “Don’t go anywhere, and don’t even consider dying on me, you half-elf scum!”
She picked up one of the strange lights and noticed for the first time that there was no heat or flame.
“Magic, of course,” she mumbled to herself. “Blasted stuff makes my skin crawl, but there’s no hope for it.”
Going towards the door where L’Garn had gotten the swords, Feenix saw a corridor leading off the main room. She followed it, and soon found herself in a large kitchen area, complete with a stone sink and large fireplace for cooking. Cabinets and shelves lined one wall, stocked with everything from plates and cups to spices and fruit. There was even a root cellar that appeared to have vegetables stored within its dark depths.
Everything was neat and clean, and looked like it was waiting for the owners to return at any moment.
“By the god’s left eye, where is everyone? It’s obvious this place feeds a small army, so where in the god’s blue ocean are they?”
Actually, if she were truthful with herself, she had to be thankful that she and L’Garn were alone in the building. If any of his people had been about while they were
in the middle of their sword play, she doubted if she would be alive right now. Perhaps the Night Elves weren’t overly fond of him, but L’Garn was the prince; and even elves as stupid and disloyal as these appeared to be wouldn’t let their prince be run through by a human.
Would they?
“Well, we won’t starve at least,” she said to herself, as she began to rummage about.
A large wooden barrel, the kind ale was shipped in, stood just inside the back door. Feenix removed the wooden lid and was relieved to find fresh water. After taking several large gulps, she dipped a pot into it and removed some water to clean L’Garn’s wounds.
Next she lit a fire in the fireplace and filled the pot hanging from the cooking hook with more water. After she finished with L’Garn, she’d come back and get a hearty stew going. They would need to eat something soon.
“If I only had some more of the Kestrel that troll person gave to me. A nice hot tea would do both of us a world of good.” She tipped her head back and shouted to the ceiling, “I don’t suppose you could just conjure up some Kestrel for me, could you Mac Lir?” When there was no immediate answer she continued, “No! That would be helping, and by all the Seven Cella Worlds, we know you can’t help me out, don’t we?”
She pawed through the cupboards, looking for linen or towels, or something to clean the half-elf’s wounds.
“What good are you, anyway? Never around when I need you, and always there to make my life one hell after another.”
Feenix continued to mumble and gripe as she tossed items aside before discovering a wooden box tucked in the back of one of the shelves.
She opened it, and the smell of musty, dried herbs tickled her nose, making her sneeze. Carefully, she removed mullein leaves, dried mint, tansy, arrowroot, coltsfoot, comfrey, dill and other herbs, all carefully wrapped and marked. In a leather pouch she found gossamer spider webs packed so as to be easily removed when needed. Last, the box held a large steel needle and a spool of strong, silk thread.
THE CHOOSING Page 19