Eyes clenched tight, Amira knew her spell had worked. One moment she was in the midst of the cries of men, elves, and wolves, and the wind howling through the valley, rattling the bare branches. The next, she stood on the bare hillcrest, knee deep in snow, back in the storm with the wind shrieking and the snow hitting her with a million tiny hammerstrikes. She opened her eyes, but away from the belkagen's spell all was darkness. She could not even see her hair blowing into her face or the snow striking her skin. Straining her ears, she could just make out the distant cries of battle below her and to the right. Then … something else. Something large headed right for her. With the realization of what it was, her heart skipped a beat. She'd placed herself too well. Amira raised her staff and shouted, "Amalad saisen!"
Heat flared in the staff and flowed up her arm and through her body.
She felt it build in her, permeating blood and bone, then golden light shone around her as if she had become a fragment of the sun, and the entire hillside was bathed in its heat. The winter wolf bearing down upon her-now only a half-dozen paces away-yelped as if it had been scalded. It tried to stop, but so great was its momentum that its own weight caused it to slide and tumble in the snow. In her mind Amira cried-Jalan! — and then the wolf slid past her so close that the cloud of snow its fall produced fell over her like a wave. Still the power of the staff flowed through her, causing the snow to evaporate even as it touched her skin. She felt the unearthly cold radiated by the dark sorcerer strike the aura of light around her and rebound. The huge wolf regained its feet and turned to face her. She was awed by the sheer size of the beast. Its hackles, raised and trembling, stood as high as the mane of the finest stallions in her father's herds, and its fangs were longer than her hands. Its growl was like tumbling boulders, and its eyes narrowed to slits so that she could see only an ember of fire reflected in its gaze. The instinct of years of battle-training took over. Holding her staff high in hopes of distracting the beast's attention, Amira thrust her other palm outward and said, "Dramasthe!" A bolt of energy shot from her hand and struck the wolf's face. There was the briefest sound of sizzling flesh, then even the howl of the wind was drowned out by the wolf's shriek. It half-turned and half-fell, then stumbled up the hillside, dragging its scalded face in the snow. Amira focused her attention farther down the hill. Something lay there, unmoving, and through the gaps in white where the fall and storm had not yet covered it in snow, Amira saw a tattered cloak, set in a pattern of waves. She could not see them at this distance, but she knew those waves were etched in a gold-colored thread. She'd stitched them herself. "Jalan!" she shouted, and ran down the hill. But just beyond Jalan another form rose, and the snow seemed to gather and cling to its ash-colored cloak. It took two steps toward Jalan, then bent down to grab him. "Dramasthe!" Amira shouted, and again the energy shot from her hand. The sorcerer spoke an incantation and swiped at the bolt with his hand. It evaporated in a sizzling shower of sparks, then the sorcerer stood to his full height and reached within the folds of his cloak. Amira heard the cold whisk of steel being drawn, and when the blade emerged from the depths of the cloak, she recognized it at once. It was Walloch's rapier-the one that had almost killed her only a few days ago. "Silo'at!" Cold and frost funneled outward from the blade, but as it struck the core of the golden aura surrounding Amira, it hissed like cold water thrown on hot coals. The shower of frost and ice that raked her face hurt, but it was a bearable pain. Amira thrust her staff forward and said,
"Keljan saule!" The runes along the staff flared, and a shard of light shot out. It hit the sorcerer in the chest, throwing him away from Jalan and down the slope. Though no sound came to her ears, in her mind Amira heard a shriek that seemed to seek out all the dark places of her mind and rattle there like shards of glass. Seeing the smoldering cloak hit the ground, she cried out in triumph and ran for Jalan. But the darkness within the cloak congealed, and in the part of her mind where instinct ruled, Amira sensed fell power gather and spring. The sorcerer leaped and took to the air like a great bird of prey, his cloak rippling like a tattered banner, and then he was falling toward her. Amira opened her mouth to form a spell, then an image hit her-Mursen charging into the fray, ducking as the broken body of a knight flew past him. A spell passed his lips, the rod in his hand flared-then darkness in an ash-gray cloak lunged. Snap! Like the sound of a green branch breaking, the thing's hand reach out, grabbed Mursen by the head and twisted, breaking his neck-and the spell faltered on Amira's lips. The light round her dimmed as darkness incarnate descended. A silver shadow struck the sorcerer the instant before he would have hit her. Silver shadow and ash-colored cloak went down in a snarling explosion of snow. Amira watched, dumbfounded. The sorcerer threw the wolf off, but it turned in midair and hit the ground running. Four long strides and it jumped again. The sorcerer crouched and brought his sword around in an arc before him. The wolf's snarl turned into a yelp. The animal hit the ground and slid to a stop at Amira's feet. The blade had opened a gash along the side of the wolf's head and haunches, and the sheer force of the blow had shattered bone. It broke Amira from her stunned silence. "Dramasthe!"
She sent a bolt outward. The sorcerer swiped it to sparks with his blade and advanced on her. Again-"Dramasthe!" — and again he knocked it away, almost nonchalantly. But that shot had been meant as a distraction. Amira took a step back and pointed her staff at her foe.
"Keljan saule!" The runes along the staff flared like hot coals kissed by a soft breeze. She aimed for the bastard's head-and that was her mistake. He didn't bother to try to deflect the shard of light, but crouched. The light flew over his head to disappear in the storm.
Amira gathered her breath, hoping there was time for another spell. A shadow emerged from the swirling snow. The light emanating from Amira did not reflect off the club the man was whirling on the end of a leather leash, for it was of the blackest iron. "Gyaidun, no!" she shouted. But where her attack had failed, Gyaidun's struck. Perhaps the dark sorcerer had simply been expecting only magical attacks, for the warrior's club swung down and connected with solid flesh somewhere in the folds of the cloak. The sorcerer did not collapse, but he did stumble down the slope. Gyaidun turned to her and shouted, "Get Jalan and go! Go!" Then he turned back to his foe, and it was all he could do to stay alive. Tears welling in her eyes, Amira turned and ran down the hill.
Every childhood nightmare, every horror feared at the back of the north wind, had taken form before Gyaidun, swathed in an ash-gray cloak, and it was coming for him. No battle cry or taunts of defiance did the sorcerer make. He was cold death, and he was coming for Gyaidun. The muscles in Gyaidun's shoulder were a mass of pain from swinging the heavy iron club, his legs felt both heavy and empty, and every breath of frigid air was like needles in his lungs. Still, Gyaidun fought, swinging his club and long knife. For the first few strikes, it was attack, if only in hopes of buying Amira enough time to get away. But then every swipe became an effort to keep the sorcerer at bay or to parry a thrust of his sword. Gyaidun retreated, half-stumbling back up the hill and away from Amira and Jalan.
In the confusion of the fight, Amira had lost her bearings, and it took her a moment to relocate Jalan. When she saw him, her first thought was that he had not moved since she'd seen him, her second that the blanket of snow was so thick on him now that he would soon be covered completely, and the third was to wonder at the dark shape that emerged from nothingness over Jalan. Amira screamed. But then the shape unfolded and she saw it for what it was-a huge cloak made up of many animal hides and painted in arcane symbols. The belkagen emerged from the folds of his cloak and stood over Jalan. "Go help Gyaidun! I will take the boy!" "No!" Amira said as she slid to a stop over her son. "I'm not leaving him again." "You must!" "I won't!" "Lady," said the belkagen, and though he had to shout to be heard over the wind, there was tenderness in his voice. "Hro'nyewachu does not give such weapons of power lightly. The staff was given to you for a reason. Do not let it be in vain." Amira knelt over her son. She brushed
the snow away and pulled at the fabric until she could see his face. His eyes were closed-he looked so thin and worn! — but she could see his chest rising and falling. He was alive. If he had been hurt in the fall, it did not seem serious. "I will see to him, Lady!" said the belkagen.
She rose and looked the old elf in the eye. "Your blood if you don't."
The belkagen flinched, but something told Amira it was not at her threat but at something else her words had hit. "On my blood!" said the belkagen. Amira took two steps up the hill, then turned again.
"Tell him…" she said. "Tell Jalan I love him." She looked down at her son, then spun and sped up the hill.
Flickers of light, like minuscule bolts of cold lightning, flashed along the sorcerer's blade. Gyaidun stepped out of range and swung his own weapon, putting every bit of strength into it. The sorcerer's blade flicked down and then up, and Gyaidun felt the leather connecting his wrist to his club part. The heavy weight of black iron flew into the snow-stitched darkness. Gyaidun scrambled backward, the sorcerer advancing on him, and on the fourth step his heel struck a rock or tussock buried under the snow and he stumbled. He hit the ground but kept going, struggling like a crab on all fours. The thing in the ash-gray cloak lunged, his cloak flaring in the gale, and grabbed Gyaidun under the chin. The grip was beyond cold. It seemed to leech every bit of warmth from Gyaidun's skull, and he could feel his bones and the fluids in his ears freezing. The sorcerer stood, and although the arm that gripped him was thinner than a starved cadaver, he lifted Gyaidun's thick frame off the ground and brought him close.
Even with his elf-blessed sight, Gyaidun's vision could not penetrate the depths of the sorcerer's cowl, not even when the sorcerer pulled him close. The wind was at the sorcerer's back, and Gyaidun could smell the stench of tombs and worse from the thing's robes. The sorcerer inhaled deeply-Gyaidun could just hear it over the wind.
"Yes," said the sorcerer. "I know your blood. You might have been the one. Might have-" Gyaidun thrust his knife into the robes. He kept the blade sharp enough to shave with, and the point punctured through the layers of cloth. Gyaidun felt the steel hit a rib, turn, and plunge deep. The sorcerer gasped, but his grip did not weaken. "You have bite," the sorcerer said. "Like your pup. He fought, too." Blind rage filled Gyaidun. He stabbed, slashed, kicked, and punched. The sorcerer caught his wrist that held the knife, twisted, squeezed-Gyaidun held on through the bones grinding, but when they broke he let go and the knife fell to the ground. "Enough," said the sorcerer. "Time to die.
Time to-" An avalanche of snarling, whimpering fur hit them. The icy grip under his jaw slipped, and Gyaidun hit the snow and rolled free.
A massive paw smashed his shoulder into the ground, then was gone. His body was a mass of pain, but Gyaidun forced himself to keep rolling down the hill. He stopped several paces down and looked up just in time to see white haunches and tail disappearing into the storm. The sorcerer's winter wolf. It was still blinded by Amira's spell and maddened by pain. It must have slammed into them. Then the shadow was on him again, the life-draining hand gripping his throat and squeezing as the sorcerer lifted him. Gyaidun could feel the blood in his neck freezing, the veins bursting, his skin blistering and cracking from the cold. The grip tightened, and Gyaidun couldn't breathe. Darkness rimmed the edges of his vision, a pulsing mass of it closing in-and then Gyaidun noticed a change in the light. It seemed golden. Soft.
Even warm. And he had time to wonder if he was crossing over into the afterlife beforeA shard of light struck the sorcerer's midriff. A shriek louder than boulders cracking struck his ears, and Gyaidun went flying. He hit the ground hard, and his first thought was-Why do I smell blossoms? Gasping for air, he pushed himself up and wiped the snow from his face. Not ten paces away, the sorcerer and Amira were engaged in battle, spells flying and Amira's golden staff shining like summer's heart. It struck the sorcerer's blade, and sparks of silver and gold mingled with the blowing snowfall. "Enough!" the sorcerer said, and he flew backward out of the lady's reach. He landed with the practiced ease of a Shou monk, then raised his hands to the storm and shouted, "Uthrekh rakhshan thra!" The gale became a living thing, and Gyaidun felt the already frigid temperature plummet. The air in his throat thickened, choking him. The moisture in his eyes began to freeze, and his skin seemed to turn to stone. "Kenhakye unethke!" shouted Amira, her staff held high. Warmth and light flowed out from her, pushing back the sorcerer's spell. The sorcerer stood, arms still outstretched, and stared at Amira. Although Gyaidun could not see his face, he could sense that sorcerer was stunned at the thwarting of his magic. Enraged, the sorcerer took to the air again in a great leap, his sword raised above his flying robes. Blade struck staff in another shower of sparks, but this time Amira did not retreat and counter.
Green fire erupted in her free hand and she reached in, grasping the sorcerer's robe. Despite the wind, the magic fire caught and ignited in the ash-gray robes, and he fell back screaming. But his cries twisted into an incantation, and the wind gusted, blowing Amira back and extinguishing the flames. Gyaidun, his broken wrist throbbing with pain, pushed himself to his feet and lurched forward. His toe struck something hard. His knife! He reached down, grabbed it, and charged.
He knew he was most likely done in and nothing he could do could stop the sorcerer, but if he could add his effort to the fight, perhaps Amira could conjure something strong enough to strike him down-or at the very least buy her time to escape. The sorcerer stood, blackened holes in his robes and cowl still smoldering, and as his charge brought him close Gyaidun could hear him snarling. Amira began her incantation, "Keljan-" "Hey!" Gyaidun roared, raising his knife to swipe at the sorcerer's face. The sorcerer turned his attention away from Amira to Gyaidun, and as he did so the wind caught in his tattered and burned cowl, ripping it off his head. Gyaidun saw the sorcerer's face for the first time. Older it was, and gaunt like a man long deprived of food, but there was no mistaking the face and the cant of his eyes. His mother's eyes. It was Erun. His son. "-saule!"
Amira finished, and from behind him Gyaidun felt the air ignite. "No!"
Gyaidun threw himself between them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Endless Wastes
The wind died near dawn, but the snow kept falling as if Auril meant to bury the world. From the shelter of their camp-at the bottom of a washed-out gully where straggly bushes and long grass sagged over a lip of earth, offering a sort of half roof-Amira watched it come down. Under different circumstances she might have found it beautiful, but now she knew it would be waist deep by midmorning. Jalan was still asleep, wrapped in thick blankets beside her. She resisted touching him, fearing she might wake him. The belkagen had done all he could to heal him. Jalan's body would have to do the rest. Looking down at him, Amira's heart slowed but seem to beat with twice its usual strength.
She had her son back. His cheeks were sunken, dark circles ringed his eyes, his skin had a gray pallor she didn't like, and his breathing was strained, but he was alive and he was here. Right now, that was all that mattered. Amira heard footsteps wading through the snow, and then the belkagen ducked under the overhanging foliage and stepped around the small fire. "How is he?" she asked. "Gyaidun?" "Yes."
"He'll live." The belkagen sat. His skin looked brittle as parchment and his shoulders sagged under his cloak. "Healing the damage from your staff took most of my strength and wisdom. I'll have to rest before I see to his wrist and other injuries." Amira opened her mouth then shut it again. She was torn between guilt and anger. Battered as Gyaidun had been in the fight, it had been her strike aimed at the sorcerer that had done the most damage. After it had struck Gyaidun in the back, the sorcerer had fled, fading into the deeper darkness of the storm. Gyaidun had lain unmoving in the snow, his torn shirt smoking and the flesh underneath steaming. She'd run to him, finding him breathing but little else. Part of her had wanted to pursue her foe, to finish this once for all, but there was no sign of him.
Looking down at Gyaidu
n, Amira had known he would die without help-and might well die with it. So she'd used her spell to take them both back to the belkagen. Even after the old elf's first attempt to heal him, Gyaidun had been almost insensate, tears streaming down his cheeks, raving and screaming. Amira had seen wounded men, some on the verge of death, trying to hold in their life's blood as they watched it pouring between their fingers, and she'd understood Gyaidun's cries were from no physical pain. She'd known others like him in the war. He could've swallowed hot iron with a smile. No, this had been something deeper, the cry of anguish, of a broken heart. The belkagen had poured a syrupy concoction down Gyaidun's throat. A shudder had run through him, followed by a violent bout of coughing. Gyaidun had looked up at her, and his eyes seemed haunted. He told the old elf what he'd seen.
Amira had been standing nearby, and she heard it all. "Erun!" he said.
"It was Erun. My son! My son, my son…" "Erun?" said the belkagen.
"That thing had Erun?" "No!" Gyaidun grabbed the belkagen's shoulders.
"It was Erun. That thing was my son. My son!" That had shocked Amira as much as anyone-and filled her with a cold dread. So much of the past several tendays- Jalan's abduction, that damned sorcerer's dogged pursuit of him, the vision in Hro'nyewachu-was beginning to come together in her mind. Now, with Gyaidun off somewhere else, she voiced her concerns to the belkagen. "Gyaidun's son…" "Erun," said the belkagen, his voice thick. "Erun is-was his name." "Erun. He was taken, just like Jalan?" "Fifteen years ago." "Out there…" said Amira. She stopped, gathering her thoughts. "In the darkness, in the storm, Gyaidun was… beyond hurt. I've seen the carnage of battle, and I've seen few men take a beating like that and still remain on their feet. But Gyaidun was still fighting. He must have been running on will alone. Is it possible that… that-" "That he imagined the whole thing?" "Yes," she said, her hope gathering strength. "His search for his son has consumed him for so long. It's been the one thing that kept him going. Finding Jalan… I knew from the beginning, since that night by the lake when we first spoke, that Gyaidun was after Erun, not Jalan. Is it possible he wanted to find his son so much-maybe too much-that his mind saw what it wanted to see?" The belkagen sat in silence for a long while. When he spoke, his voice was cold and hard. "You think Gyaidun wanted to see his son warped and twisted into that… thing? That horror?" "No," said Amira.
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