The exultant smile upon Arantar's face faltered, and his countenance deepened to what she could only call a profound pity. The light dimmed-and Khasoreth struck, sending a thick arm of darkness crashing into his former master. The thing within him shrieked in unholy delight. Arantar stumbled against the tree, and the thing that had been Khasoreth leaped, falling upon his former master with fist, tooth, and spell. She watched as the Other within Arantar gathered and concentrated his strength to strike. No! said Arantar, though his lips did not move. Mercy. The pure light in Arantar's eyes evaporated, and the Other began to lift away-but the thing that had been Khasoreth struck, its great arm of darkness seizing the Other, tearing at him.
For an instant-she knew it was no more than that, though it seemed to stretch for an eternity-darkness warred with light, then light surrendered. Arantar breathed his last, a small smile upon his lips, and the Other fell. The five creatures of darkness seized it, and she watched as they battered and tore at it. Again and again they tried, but to no avail. The Other sought the last bit of warmth, the last living thing upon the island-the Witness Tree-and fell into it. With a cry of triumph, the five struck, unable to destroy the now-hallowed tree, but sealing it with their darkest spells so that the Other could escape to oppose them no more.
Her vision followed them throughout the years. Winterkeep lay fallen and shunned by all people, but true victory had been taken from the five devils. The last attack by Arantar and the Other had warped their spell. Not only were they trapped within the bodies of the five sorcerers, but much to their dismay the bodies of Khasoreth's apprentices grew old, weak, and approached death as all men do. Filled with the dark powers, their bodies lasted many generations, but die they did. In their desperation the five devils refined their spells and sought the ancient magics of the people of the world in which they found themselves. Try as they might, they could find no way to free themselves from their imprisonment nor stop the decay of their mortal homes. But they did find a way for their fell spirits to seize other mortal forms. But only a chosen few. She watched as the years passed and the ruins of Winterkeep blew away with each passing winter or were buried beneath soil and snow. Powerful as the dark arts of the five were, they could not overcome one flaw. No mere mortal could contain them, but only those in whom the blood of Arantar and Isenith flowed.
She watched as Isenith learned the life of an exile, watching her son grow up, often in hunger and want. But he grew to a man that made his mother proud, though the sadness never left her eyes. Her son married, had many children, and his children had children, the royal blood of Raumathar mixing throughout the years with the peoples of the steppes.
The first did not disappear until Arantar's great-grandson was a young man. The second a few years after that-and then two others. Then no more for three generations. She watched as the five sorcerers fled into the dark north, seeking the coldest lands they could find, forever shunning lands of light and warmth. Her vision narrowed as she followed the strain of Arantar and Isenith's blood down through the ages. A king, warlords, shepherds, farmers, sorcerers, thieves, and slaves-all these and more were the fates of Arantar's offspring. In most, the blood of Arantar grew weaker with each passing generation, the golden eyes fading, the gifts of his heritage becoming only distant melodies in dreams. But in one line the blood ran strong and true, and her vision followed that line through the ages, seeing it mingle, dilute, and fade, only to gather strength as the bloodlines mingled again. Then came the Horde, and one man's ambition that would bring nations to war and change the fate of Amira Hiloar forever. The young war wizard fought in many battles, killing and almost being killed so many times that she stopped counting. War became her life.
Every day different but torturously the same. Until the day of the battle near the Well of the Broken Antlers, when a Tuigan warlord fled his camp before the Cormyrean troops. The warlord's warriors slaughtered every servant, slave, and captive in camp, leaving nothing for the westerners to take. One of Arantar and Isenith's descendants hid her child amid a collapsed tent before her lord's men cut her down. The Tuigan galloped off eastward. The dust of the horses' passage settled, and the little boy crawled from the tentcloth to find his dead mother. He looked up, and his eyes were golden. Jalan.
Amira's eyes snapped open and she sat up. She was still in the cavern of Hro'nyewachu. The stone pedestal, still drenched in blood, was not far away. The remains of the deer carcass and the heart were gone. How long she had lain on the stone floor, how long she had… dreamed, seen, whatever it had been. But her hair was dry, and the blood from her grisly meal felt hard and dry on her skin. You found what you sought? Amira turned. The oracle was standing behind her, the pale eyes no longer lit with hunger but with… what? Amira wondered.
Was that sympathy? "Was it…?" Amira said. Her throat felt raw.
Burned. "Was it real? What I saw? What I heard?" The oracle canted her head-a thoroughly inhuman gesture that reminded Amira of a bird. The dreamroad, she said, her lips still not moving, the voice coming straight to Amira's mind, the waking world, sleeping, waking… who is to say where reality begins and ends? The same mind that sees the world around you, that loves and hates and wars and creates, is the same mind that dreams. Why cling to one and discard the other? "So Arantar, Khasoreth… Gaugan, all of it. I saw it as it happened? It wasn't some dream inspired by the belkagen's fireside tales." The words of a belkagen spoken by fire are not to be taken lightly. A smile flickered across the oracle's face, faint and fleeting, but in the instant she saw it, Amira thought it looked a little sad. It has been many turnings of the world since Arantar last came to me. This world has not seen his like since, nor will it again. Amira considered all she had seen, and the urgency hit her all at once. "I must go," she said. "Jalan…" The scion of Arantar is in grave danger, said the oracle. His life teeters on the precipice. Amira stood and brushed the sand and grit off her bare skin. She looked up at the oracle, and she was struck by how tall the oracle really was. She would not have looked down upon Gyaidun. She would have towered over him. You have a cold road ahead of you, said the oracle. Out of affection for a friend long gone, I grant you one last question. It came to Amira at once, the only question worth asking, the only answer she needed. "How do I beat them?" The oracle smiled, and again it was the hungry gaze of the predator. The Witness Tree. There, all will be decided. Beyond that, I give you no assurances. Death and life will meet. Only those who surrender will triumph. "Surrender?" said Amira. " 'Death and life will meet?' What does that mean?" The oracle's smiled broadened, her full lips pulling back over teeth that were pointed and sharp, fangs that seemed to glisten in the cavern's blood red light. "Never mind," said Amira. She looked around. There was no sign of the pool where the belkagen had taken her. "How… how do I get out of here?" I said one question, said the oracle. Now, you owe me. Snarling, the oracle struck.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hro'nyewachu
The belkagen's concern had long since deepened to worry, and his worry was becoming true fear. Lady Amira had been gone for too long.
It had been near midnight when she'd entered the pool, and in his heart that knew the turning of the seasons and the paths of the stars like a husband knows the curves of his wife's body, the belkagen knew dawn was not far away. Amira had been gone too long. He stood at the water's edge, leaning upon his staff, its green light reflecting off the water. After Amira had gone, the ripples left in her wake had caught the staff's light and painted the cavern in dancing light and shadow, but it had long since returned to a calm broken only by the minuscule plipping of water droplets falling from the ceiling. Now, save for one spot several paces out where the light of his staff floated like a tiny green moon, the water was black as slate. The belkagen stood waiting, his eyes open but no longer really watching.
Alone in the darkness, the words he had spoken to Lady Amira came back to him" Hro'nyewachu has a mother's heart. You have a mother's need.
Your hearts will beat the same song
, I think. I could brave Hro'nyewachu again, and if you refuse, I will go." He had said it, had he not? I could brave Hro'nyewachu again… I will go… I will go … I will go… brave Hro'nyewachu again… His words came to him again and again, almost as if they were the echoes of the water drip-drip-dripping into the pool before him. Should he go after her? In his heart, he knew there was nothing he could do for her. He'd told her that, as well, and he knew it to be true. But neither could he just walk away. Not without knowing. Even if he couldn't help her, perhaps there was something he could learn to help them, some new vision thatHe heard a splash. Not of something falling into the water.
Nothing that hard. But he heard something breaking the surface of the water out beyond the reach of his light. "Lady Amira?" he called.
Nothing. Just the steady plip-plip of water droplets hitting the pool.
But as he watched, the small globe of light reflecting on the surface rippled. Something had disturbed the water farther out. He listened, his ears straining, but there was nothing more. The belkagen raised his staff and spoke an incantation. The flames flickering along its tip roared to new life, a green beacon in the darkness. There!
Something was floating in the water. It wasn't moving. The belkagen tore at the ties of his cloak and left it piled on the shore. It would soak in the water and weigh him down. His clothes would as well, but he didn't want to take the time to remove them. Staff held high, he charged into the water. The shape floated several paces away, the waves caused by his passage pushed it farther out. He could make out no distinct features, but even in the dim light he could see long, dark hair and fair skin. He cursed and pushed his legs harder. The water was splashing up his chest and over his shoulders when he drew close enough to reach out and grab the figure. His fingers closed around wet hair and he pulled. It was Amira, floating facedown in the water. The belkagen got a better grip on her forearm, then dragged her back to shore. He threw her down and turned her over. Her skin was pale, cold to the touch, and her lips were blue. Long, wet tendrils of her hair spread over her bare breasts, and the belkagen saw that her chest did not move. She wasn't breathing. "No!" He threw his staff aside and knelt beside her. Closing his eyes, he sent his senses through her body, washing over and through her skin, down into muscle, blood, and bone. There! Life still flickered within her, faint and growing weaker with each passing moment, but it was still there. She is not dead. The belkagen started and looked up. A great she-wolf, fur gray as clouds laden with spring rain, stood before the entrance, staring down at him with eyes the color of moonlight. "Hro'nyewachu!" said the belkagen. The she-wolf walked toward him, and with each step her form blurred and swirled, and motes of light and darkness danced before the belkagen's eyes. When she stopped a few paces away, a tall, lithe woman stood over him. Whatever color her skin was, it was hidden beneath a dark, slick wetness that by the smell the belkagen knew to be blood, though not from any creature that walked in this world. Her hair was made up in scores of tight braids that hung to her waist, and bits of bone, feathers, and spring flowers peeked out from among them.
In her right hand she held a staff almost as long as she was tall. It was made from some golden-red wood flecked with darker grains of brown and black. The belkagen had never seen its like. You remember me, Kwarun. Though her lips did not move, he heard her husky voice clearly in his mind. It has been many years. "I… I could never forget you, Holy One," said the belkagen, and for a moment the years did not weigh so heavily upon him, and he remembered a younger Kwarun, who had come here seeking wisdom and power-and the price he'd paid. It had come with pleasure and pain. He remembered the feel of the oracle's skin under his caresses, the burning heat of her breath-even now, his heart beat faster at the memory-and the agony of the burden she'd placed on him. Not long now, said the oracle. The burden shall be yours not much longer. "That will be both pain and relief." As are all things worth having. "Holy One," said the belkagen, and he looked down upon Amira.
"Why…? Is she…?" She lives. "You did this to her." Do you care for her so much? The oracle leaned forward slightly and sniffed.
Have you given your heart to her? "You know I haven't." The oracle's eyes flashed. I do know it. I could smell a lie on you-and I do not.
Your truth pleases me. You know my jealousy. "Is that why you did this to her?" No. "Then why?" She was impertinent. Arrogant. Still, she has a hunter's heart. Teach her some humility, and she might be great one day. "What is wrong with her, Holy One?" The oracle did not answer, and the belkagen looked up. Her form had shrunk somewhat, her features softened into the young maiden that a young Kwarun had first met so many years ago. A small smile played across her lips, but around her eyes was sadness. I wanted a moment alone with you, she said, before your final road. We shall not meet again. You should have come to me more often during your time in this world. "Our last coupling nearly killed me, Holy One." You did not seem to mind at the time. Kwarun blushed at the memory and found himself chuckling. I have a gift for the girl, said the oracle, and she held up the staff. "It will help her save her son?" No, said the oracle as she knelt and placed the gold-red staff in Amira's limp hand. But it will sharpen the bite she gives her enemies. Saving her son… that task is for another.
"Another, Holy One?" said the belkagen. "Who?" Amira's hand closed around the staff, she took a deep breath, and the oracle was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Endless Wastes
Jalan discovered something he had not known since Walloch's slavers captured him and his mother. Hope. That and just a sliver of pride. They swelled in him, giving warmth to a heart that had known only cold for many days. He still wasn't sure how he had done it, but he knew one thing for certain: He had hurt that bastard. Hurt him bad.
That thing in the ash-gray cloak had threatened to gouge out his eye, and he had taken the thing's own dagger and made it blaze like the sun. The shriek the cloaked leader had uttered had been surprise, yes, but also pain and fear-and that more than anything… felt good.
Give that bastard a taste of his own toxin and see how he likes it, Jalan thought. Trussed like the huntsman's catch on the back of the huge wolf as he was, cramped and sore, his skin raw from the ropes' chafing, still Jalan had to fight to keep his eyes open as the wolves ran over the steppe. He'd awakened as they'd left camp, still dazed from the cloaked leader striking him, his ribs still aching from where the barbarian had kicked him. All that after the long rest should have chased sleep far away, but still Jalan had to fight it. His mind felt thick and foggy. Had his captors given him something, some foul concoction poured down his throat while he was unconscious? He couldn't remember. Maybe something worse. Maybe the cloaked leader had done something to his mind. He shivered at the thought, but for once the idea of that monster hurting him didn't make him afraid. It made him angry, and he knew he had something inside him that could hurt that monster. Jalan realized that miles had passed. The air felt frigid and thick. And when had it started snowing? Already the wolves ran through a thick blanket of snow. And still it kept falling and falling from the sky-huge, wet flakes that steamed as they melted off the wolf's pelt in front of him. True wakefulness returned before dawn, and Jalan passed the time trying to dredge up whatever power had caused that dagger to shine. He knew beyond doubt that he had done it.
He'd felt the power flow through him like blood through an opened vein. But how? He searched for that thing inside him, that living otherness he'd felt so strongly not long ago. When the power had shot through him, it had felt… beyond good. Wonderful. Intoxicating. He could still sense it-see it almost, but no matter how hard he concentrated, it remained elusive and distant. It might as well have been the sun shining above the surface of the water, and he the drowning man, reaching out, the light forever beyond his grasp. The hope that Jalan had cherished all night began to fade again. He closed his eyes. Concentrating all his will, he prayed, Vyaidelon! Vyaidelon, help me! Nothing. He hadn't heard a thing from Vyaidelon since the dream three nights ago. May
be it had been just a dream. His heart knew better, but doubt was beginning to nag at him. Jalan's heart lurched as the wolf on which he rode leaped into the air, then fell and fell.
A scream was building in Jalan's throat-he was sure the stupid beast had gone snow-blind and run them off a cliff-when the wolf's paws struck the ground, causing Jalan to bite the inside of his cheek. The wolf ran on, and Jalan heard others making the jump behind him. The flatness of the land was ending, the steppe beginning to rise and fall in long hills-some miles wide. Amid the rolling snowfields, fissures broke the earth. Most likely gullies where the spring rains gathered and ran on their way to the Great Ice Sea. The wolves leaped down or sometimes all the way across the smaller valleys. The huge wolves were surprisingly sure-footed and found their way in and out of even the most treacherous of the snow-covered gashes in the earth. The light was strong enough that Jalan could see several paces in every direction when they stopped at a wide gully with sides so steep that they were forced to search for a safe way down. Jalan watched as their cloaked leader spoke with his barbarian servants. Even a few of the wolves seemed to be attending to the conversation. Although Jalan could not understand their words, he guessed what they were talking about. If he could see this far in such a fierce storm, it meant the sun had risen. Every day so far they had stopped to camp before sunrise. Despite the cloaked leader's power, he seemed unable to abide the daylight. Scouts scattered up and down each side of the gully, the great wolves pawing and sniffing. A small chorus of howls announced success, and shortly after the entire band was gathering about a small overhang on the northern side of the gully. The body of two wolves, both torn and mangled, their blood spotting the snow, lay on the ground not far away. Tracks led off eastward where more had fled.
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