Chapter 6
6
“Wait,” Cyran hesitated. With a quick flick of one wrist, his magic washed over Shalendra, bathing her in a white light and turning her filthy clothes into a new outfit. He liked how the black leggings accentuated her never-ending legs, but he switched her shirt to a soft teal to match her eyes.
Castien’s filthy attire was also changed, and he now wore black pants with a white peasant shirt. The dwarf smiled in appreciation and nodded, his hand resting over his breastbone.
Before she could react, he shoved his way through the heavy door. From the soft pitter patters behind him, the female and her sidekick followed. Stopping in the center of the circular space, he glanced around, wondering why a metal wall surrounded them. It was an unusual room décor.
The emblem at the middle of each rectangle was intricate but masculine. Two long swords with filigreed etchings down their centers crossed behind a golden helmet. Matching etchings were on the pointed cap and down the nose guard. What looked like vines twisted behind the weapons of war in a larger circle, and ancient Elven symbols scrolled within the vines.
The script resembled some he had seen in the tomes in his father’s laboratory, but he had no idea what any of it meant, nor did he care. He only wanted to deliver the girl to her parents and return to tracking his stepfather, who wouldn’t remain in Niflheimr for long. He kicked himself for his weakness and should have ended it years ago instead of putting Haman into stasis.
His gut tightened, and an urgency pushed him to leave the room. Never ignoring his intuition, which had been a hard-learned lesson during the Elven conflict, he turned, ready to push Shalendra and Castien back through the door, when the entire room erupted in a horrible cacophony of shrill screams and thunderous war cries.
He met Shalendra’s wide-eyed gaze. “What’s happening?”
“You were right. It’s a trap,” he snapped, not caring how harsh he sounded. His only thought was leaving before the fighting began. A loud whoosh whizzed by his head as a long spear embedded into the wall in front of them.
Turning, he realized what he’d thought were decorations were actual shields. The first one straightened, the shield rising to reveal the Dwarven warrior wielding it. When the last shield rose, a room full of soldiers was revealed.
“I don’t want to stay here,” she said with a slight wobble.
“Ashia can’t help,” Castien whispered.
“But we can,” a male voice growled behind them.
A dizziness swept over him, locking Cyran in place. A black mist appeared, hovering just over the stone floor and covering their feet. It wound around their legs, inching up their bodies. A heaviness settled in his chest and shoulders like a heavy cloak as he gasped for air.
He instinctively reached for Shalendra, pulling her to his right side. With his other hand, he grasped the dwarf’s shoulder and held tight as the room spun, the shields turning into a swirl of bronze. What light remained faded, swallowing them in a sea of blackness, and a fiery pain seared his left side.
Moments later, a cold wind hit him in the face, stealing his breath when his body suddenly stopped. Using the toe of his boot, he pushed downward, thankful when the tip touched something solid. He blinked, and wherever they were seemed a bit lighter.
Their surroundings continued to brighten, revealing various shapes. He glanced along the horizon, but nothing looked familiar. The rolling contours morphed into hills, and a mountain range appeared in the distance, the tips disappearing in thick clouds.
A purplish hue tinted the sky. The orange sun peeked out from between the two tallest pyres. The moment it crested, golden light bathed the countryside and glistened over the nearby stream, which sparkled as if a million diamonds filled its depths.
Remembering the strange voice just before they’d apparated, he turned and met the gray gaze of the first man. Tall, with short black hair, the man sported a long, gray leather coat. The silver Celtic torque adorning the man's neck drew Cyran's attention. With an obsidian stone at its center, the design was elegant, with masculine lines as the metal swirled in a never-ending triquetra.
Cyran turned to the next man, and his brows rose in surprise. Equal in height to the other, this man’s head was shaved, and his skin darker. His black eyes had a depth, like fathomless pits seared into one’s soul.
Cyran forced his body to remain still, but he had an almost uncontrollable urge to run away. Strangely, the man had faint blue hieroglyphs tattooed on his forehead and the hollows of his cheeks.
“Are long leather coats a requirement?” Cyran tried to ease the oppressiveness with a slight grin, switching to his smart-ass self. “I guess only style is important since yours is gray and the scary-eyed dude’s is black. More importantly, why are we here?”
The bald man’s brow rose, and he glanced at his partner. “Scary-eyed dude? Maybe I should have a cartouche with that name instead of my own?”
The other man chuckled. “I don’t think that would be as impressive as the name Osiris is. Everyone recognizes that name.”
“Excuse me, did you say Osiris?” Shalendra tried to peek around Cyran’s chest, but he stepped with her, keeping her hidden. She punched his bicep, but he didn’t flinch. She punched his side again, her blue eyes spearing his. “Would you please let me move, you big brute?” Her eyes widened as she caught a glimpse of their surroundings. “Where are we? Who are you? Why did you save us?”
Osiris grinned at her, but the other guy laughed, which sounded more evil than pleasant. “No one here has anything to fear from either of us, although Arawn does tend to piss people off. Celts are not known for their civility.”
The Egyptian god smiled at her. “As you already know, I am Osiris, and we are in a long-forgotten realm in the Everafter—the Egyptian underworld where I rule. We were sent by your mother to make sure you were safe. I’d say our timing was spot on, don’t you?”
Arawn nodded, his smile disappearing as he turned his gaze to Shalendra’s. “That’s true. I’ve also been told I have a caustic personality and need to try to be nicer to people.”
He gave Osiris a quick sideways glance. “That is why I make a perfect death realm leader, although a few spirits are trying my patience. All the nice, quiet ones are taken, leaving me the whiny, annoying ones to deal with.”
Osiris’s black brow rose. “Now, who’s whining?”
“So you are both death realm leaders?” Castien's whispered tone demonstrated his awe and fear at facing the imposing gods. He nudged Shalendra. “This can’t be good to have two here at once. I’m not ready to die.”
She gave him a funny look. “You realize our pantheon is Norse, and Hel isn’t here. You’re fine.”
“Well, technically, the Elven world is an in-between place, so it depends on the beliefs one has,” Arawn interjected. “If you follow the Egyptian gods and goddesses, Osiris takes your soul. If you follow Celtic beliefs, I will welcome you with open arms.” Arawn leaned toward Osiris. “At least I would have a few spirits in Otherworld to rule.”
Osiris nodded. “True. I never thought I’d say this, but I miss holding court and listening to the complaints of souls.”
Castien’s brows rose. “Souls complain?”
Shalendra nodded. “Some souls complain a lot. I remember a few from my childhood. Nothing made them happy in their afterlife. I’m glad I never knew them when they were alive, although that’s probably a horrible thing to say.”
“Understandable.” Osiris scrubbed one hand over his bald head. “Ruling, even living, in death realms isn’t easy. I can’t imagine the difficulty for a child. How are you not introverted and morbid?”
Shalendra laughed, the melodic sound brightening the gloom around them. “Who says I’m not? I owe it all to my father when he took me to live on Midgard. France is a good medium-ground place to grow up. No gods or goddesses interfering and causing problems. I grew up surrounded by nature and loved every moment. My friends were mostly small animals, with a few larger ones, but we won’t tell my father about those. I had a vast playground filled with colorful flowers and green trees to explore.”
“It sounds idyllic.” Castien gave her a crooked grin. Witnessing the adoration in the dwarf's gaze created a momentary stab of jealousy, and a tightness surrounded Cyran's heart. Scowling, he massaged the irritation with his knuckles.
He couldn’t fault the dwarf, though. Shalendra was beautiful inside and out. She didn’t seem to have a mean bone in her body. From what he gleaned about the dwarf’s affection for her, his feelings were on a brotherly level, but he still didn't like it.
Shalendra had a way about her he didn’t understand. Truthfully, he didn’t like how she was getting under his skin. He needed to deliver her to her anxious parents and get on with his search for his stepfather, although his gut told him the two were somehow connected.
Knowing Haman like he did, figuring out the connection would be the tricky part. His stepfather loved mysteries, and the longer Haman Daralei was allowed to work his spells, the worse off the Nine Realms would be. Not to mention, the growing number of sick people back in Tarran’s village and the surrounding countryside.
Infecting the dwarves was something Haman would do without a second thought. Who knew how many he had infected? Cyran had no clue how long Haman had been free from his sleeping spell and could no longer doubt his stepfather was the reason everyone was falling ill. This had his fingerprint all over it.
Cyran crossed his arms over his chest and tamped down his growing impatience. “Can we return to my original question? Why are we here? I have other things to do and need to return Shalendra to her parents.”
The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Voicing his real opinions never ended well for him. In his youth, he learned to brush things off and act carefree. When his father discovered something Cyran held dear, it had always been used against him, so he had created a happy-go-lucky persona as protection.
* * *
Shalendra glared at him, trying to ignore how handsome the annoying elf was. “While I am grateful you took the time from your busy schedule to rescue us, you are more than welcome to return to your important tasks. Castien and I will be just fine with Arawn and Osiris.”
Not even she was reassured by her statement, but now she had to stand behind it or look the fool. And she was determined not to look foolish in front of anyone, especially Cyran. Although why it mattered, she hadn’t a clue.
Arawn’s dark gaze studied Cyran. “What we have uncovered since our recent meeting with Hel, I believe, involves you, Cyran. Or, at the least, someone close to you… I cannot tell whether the person is a relation or if it's someone from your past. Hel, Osiris, and I agree that you are more a part of this than you realize.”
“How?” He scowled at the two gods. “Lamruil and Ailuin only asked me to rescue Shalendra and return her to her parents, nothing more. How am I involved in any of this?”
“That remains to be seen.” Osiris narrowed his kohl-lined eyes, their black pools mesmerizing as Shalendra stared into their depths.
As a child, she had always wondered if the Egyptian god looked like the brief images she had seen of him inside the many tombs her father had dragged her through on various trips. Now, though, she appreciated the likeness. It matched well with the artists' attempts in ancient times. She'd love to see Osiris with green skin, but since that meant she was dead and being judged, she could wait.
“We are only shown certain aspects of anyone’s story. The totality of their life is known only to that person and the father of us all,” he told her.
Shalendra groaned. “I can tell you are a god. You speak in riddles just like the rest of them.”
Osiris grinned. “Be glad I’m not from the Roman pantheon. Their inflated opinions of themselves and the riddles they love doling out are ridiculous. We Egyptians like to keep things precise and simple.”
Arawn grunted. “Really? Have you seen the hieroglyphs painted over everything in Egypt? We Celts have simple symbols and no riddles at all. In fact, we don’t like each other overmuch, so not much to talk about.”
Shalendra sucked her lips between her teeth to keep from smiling. She liked these two gods. Her gaze narrowed on Cyran, who stood scowling in the background. That male, however, was a conundrum. She thought he was hiding something, but she hadn’t a clue what and was unsure she cared to find out.
Did she like him? He was handsome enough and rivaled the co-regents with his looks, but other than that, she couldn’t decide. He was both prickly and mysterious, and neither was a good quality in her mind. Like her father, she liked a man with stalwart strength but also enjoyed a man who smiled.
This whole experience was strange to her. She had spent her entire life around only a couple of men and was now surrounded by them. Her idea of comfort was sitting in the library reading her favorite books. Never had she wished for an adventure.
To be thought of as an adult by those here would be nice. She was forever lamenting to Soliana that no one ever took her seriously. It was annoying. She needed to find her own strength of character, and hiding behind her books was the last thing she needed to do. It would not cure her lack of self-esteem either.
She swallowed, her stomach clenched with its seemingly constant anxiety. That was all easier said than done. Working on her lack of confidence in the last nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand years of her existence, she hadn’t made much progress.
In Elven years, though, she was still young—around twenty-five or six in a human’s life cycle. Being separated from her people had not helped. What little she knew about Elfkind had been told to her by Freyja and Idunn.
She exhaled. “All right, then. If Cyran is meant to be here, we must discover the reason. What got me in this mess was searching for my Uncle Olivier and Aunt Jessica. Somehow, Freyja discovered they had been held in Helheimr without my mother knowing or sensing them, which is…unusual. My mother knows everything that goes on there, as well as everyone residing or even visiting. Not that many people visit. I don’t think it’s allowed. Anyway, they were gone when we found where they had been imprisoned. We traced them to Svartáflheimr and had almost reached the mountain castle when we were taken prisoner.”
Arawn’s black gaze narrowed on her. “Did you see or hear anything that might help us?”
“Well, the king is dead, and the being impersonating him is a demon.” She waited for the outburst and was disappointed when all she got were raised brows from both gods. “I figured you would be more surprised.”
Arawn shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint. Daily occurrence in our lives. Do you, by chance, know which demon we’ll be dealing with?”
Off to the right of where Osiris stood, she caught Castien’s quick frown. He didn’t want her to mention Ashia. “Nope. Just that he’s a demon.”
“Not helpful,” Arawn grumbled.
“Hey, the lady was imprisoned without a way to get information, so maybe you should cut her some slack. Besides, isn’t it your job to figure out what demon is causing issues? She isn’t even supposed to be here,” Cyran said in a tight voice.
His gaze darted to Castien before moving back to the Celtic god. “The dwarf was there longer and might know more. Maybe you should ask him?”
Everyone looked to Castien, who tried to stare back but failed and dropped his green gaze to his new black boots. “All I can tell you is that our king began acting odd several weeks before my imprisonment—close to a year ago. His father went through bouts of mind sickness, so we all assumed he had the same affliction. Little did we realize…”
He shrugged. “I can't tell you anything else. I’ve been held in a lower-tiered cell and never interacted with other prisoners. I managed to talk to a couple of the guards, but they were idiots, so I never paid much attention to what they said. Dwarf guards are notorious liars.”
Osiris’s black gaze narrowed. “You speak mostly the truth. What are you leaving out?”
Castien’s eyes widened. “So the legends are true? You can tell when someone is lying?”
A droll expression crossed Osiris’s face. “Well, that is my job. Hearts only speak the truth, whether good or bad.”
“So amazing.” The dwarf’s head jerked as if redirecting his attention. “What I didn’t say was that an illness had been unleashed?—”
“Wait,” Cyran interrupted. “Several villages along the border of Alfheimr contain a few people who are sick. Is this the same malady?” Cyran stepped closer to their small circle. “I am a healer and was asked by the leader of one of the villages to help find a cure.”
Castien nodded, his expression thoughtful. “More than likely. The guard who mentioned it said the orders were for whoever created the illness to spread it along both sides of the border, making it easier to breach. Another guard told me soldiers were being summoned from all over Svartálfheimr. They were to report there for training before marching on the Elven realm.”
He shrugged. “I don’t understand why, though. We were enslaved a long time ago. Surely it still isn’t happening? I can’t believe hatred is still so prevalent against the Elves.”
Cyran’s lips thinned. The sudden flair of his nostrils reminded her of something her father had said to her long ago. “émilien—my father—told me when I was young that elves have memories like female elephants. The amazing animals travel from water hole to water hole, the matriarch leading her family to the most remote places. He said he once studied a herd as they arrived, only to find a dried-up riverbed. The herd’s leader wasn't thwarted and started to dig. She dug until the water bubbled out of the sandy, windswept ground. The matriarch was able to keep her family alive because that knowledge has been passed from mother to daughter since the dawn of time.”
“Are elephants the large gray animals with large ears and long snake-like noses?” Castien's eyes glistened with excitement.
“Yes. My father took me to Africa when I was younger. They are magnificent creatures. The point of my story is that if a culture passes down only the bad history, that's what is remembered, and the reality is lost to time.”
Shalendra smiled as her friend’s eyes widened in revelation. “When we’ve figured out where my aunt and uncle are and rescued them, I will take you to Africa and introduce you to my favorite herd. The matriarch is a wonderful soul, and she has the cutest great-grandbaby.”
Her smile slowly disappeared. “What I was leading into with that story is that no creature forgets. Dwarves and elves are the same race, yet because of one fateful decision made by an ancient king, the dwarves were forced into slavery. I do not blame them for wanting vengeance. Your people have suffered horribly. Few remain from those days, but some are living, and the memory of what happened is still very much alive.”
The two death gods smiled at her. “Wise beyond your years, young elf goddess,” Arawn whispered. “Your mother would be so proud if she heard you now.”
Shalendra’s face warmed as a soft blush stole across her cheeks, but she grinned as if nothing had changed. She hated it when she blushed like a naive youth. Soliana always told her to play the situation as if she owned it, and no one would notice her discomfort. She hoped her best friend’s advice was solid. “Thank you. Although I don’t know my mother well, I hope you're right. I grew up with my father.”
Osiris smiled. “Many a time, we have listened to her bragging over something you had done or wailing about how unfair life was because you had to live on Midgard with your father.”
“Not to change the subject, but I'm changing the subject." Cyran glanced at the gods, then turned his blue-gray gaze on her, holding her hostage.
She could have sworn his eyes were more teal… His glance slid back to Castien. "To verify, you believe the dwarves are attacking Alfheimr by making people sick? Why do that? Why make the dwarves sick if the sole reason is to attack Alfheimr? It doesn’t make any sense. Outright war makes more sense than this does.”
“It does if whoever is behind this doesn’t care what the outcome is as long as they come out on top and there’s no one left to fight. It would be a total annihilation of all elves or, at the least, be ruled by this being for those who survived.” When everyone turned to face Castien, he shrugged. “It makes the most sense.”