Frostfell w-4

by Marc Sehestedt

  "But if the heart wants something strong enough…" "You told me what you saw in Hro'nyewachu. The road of years you walked. You saw the fate of Khasoreth and his apprentices. Jalan's forefathers. Did your heart… imagine that?" "No. Mystra help me, no. If anything, I would want to believe it was all some twisted dream. But I know it wasn't." The belkagen gave a deep sigh and nodded. "I know it also. I never walked that road, but I have walked many others. Long roads through doubt, darkness, and worse. I believe what you saw in Hro'nyewachu was truth. I do not doubt it. But my question is: Why?"

  Amira scowled. "Why?" "You went seeking aid for your son, not… what you would call 'a history lesson.' " "The staff-" "Was given to aid your fight. But it was not the help you sought. Hro'nyewachu told me the staff would 'sharpen the bite' you gave your enemies, but that it was for another to save Jalan." "Sharpen the bite?" Amira's mouth opened and closed twice before more words would come to her.

  "Hro'nyewachu… told you? She told you? What else did she tell you?"

  The belkagen looked up, and again Amira felt herself caught in a hunter's gaze. "Many things, sacred things for her and me alone. But she told me that for you. The staff is meant to aid your fight, not win it. That task is for another." "Another?" she said. "Gyaidun? You mean Gyaidun?" "I mean no one," he said. "They are the words of Hro'nyewachu, not the words of the belkagen. Is the other Gyaidun?"

  The belkagen shrugged. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Who can tell?" "Then what damned good is it?" Amira said. "If we can't understand any of it, what does it mean?" "It means this fight is not over." "What?"

  Amira could not look away from the belkagen's wolf stare. He'd run last night while she stood and fought, yet here she sat feeling like a snowblind hare caught in the open. "You are thinking about taking Jalan back to Cormyr," he said. "Back to the safety of your knights, wizards, and castles." "And if I am?" "Your knights, wizards, and castles could not protect him before." "They cau-!" "And they will not protect him now!" said the belkagen. "Nor you. You did an amazing thing last night, Amira Hiloar. You hurt… the sorcerer. You did something that no one has done in many ages, I think-not even your own precious knights and wizards. But now he knows it. And he knows you.

  He will come upon you when you least suspect it, when you are tired or alone. Whatever Erun has become, it is a thing of cold and darkness.

  He does not care for honor or fairness. He will come upon you when you are at your weakest. You will not survive that, I think. You will die, and he will have Jalan again." Amira said nothing, but she did not look away. Wolf's gaze or no, her Hiloar pride would not permit it.

  "You saw the sorcerer," said the belkagen. "If that's what he is. It was Erun, twisted into something… vile. Unholy. Think, Amira! It was Erun." "We've established that." "Erun. Gyaidun's son. Erun, who was taken just like Jalan." The reality of it hit her. How could she have been so foolish? All she'd seen! All the oracle had shown her.

  How could she not have seen this herself? "What happened to Gyaidun's son," she said. "They mean the same thing for Jalan." "You saw Khasoreth's fate. You saw him and his pack of devilspawn walking through the years, not living but never dying, taking new vessels to contain the darkness within them. You saw this, Lady. You told me so."

  "I did." They sat together in silence for a long while, the belkagen watching the snowfall while Amira watched nothing at all. She sat looking inward, going over every detail of the oracle's visions, looking for some flaw in the elf's reasoning. There was none. Her shoulders slumped and she sighed. "Have you," she said, "have you… told Gyaidun?" "Told him what has happened to Erun?" Amira nodded.

  "Not yet. You said it yourself. The hope of finding his son has been the one thing giving him life and purpose all these years. If we take that away…" "Hope," said Amira, wishing she could find her own.

  "You think he has any left at this point?" "Hope is for those who seize it," said a voice above them. Lendri leaped off the lip of the gully and landed in the snow. Mingan followed. Elf and wolf looked at Amira and the belkagen, then joined them under the overhanging grass.

  Lendri sat down beside the belkagen while his wolf-brother sat with his head on his paws and watched Jalan. The wolf's ears twitched, and he let out a long whine. "How long have you been there, pup?" asked the belkagen. "Not long," Lendri answered, though his eyes were fixed on Amira. "I heard you discussing my rathla. I listened." The belkagen scowled. "You listened to a private conversation of the belkagen. Very rude. Almost dishonorable." Lendri shrugged, not seeming the least bit chagrined. "She is not belkagen, and I am hrayek. My honor is sullied already." He looked at both of them and steel entered his voice. "If you know something about Erun, something you are not telling Gyaidun.

  .." "How much did you hear?" asked the belkagen. Lendri looked at Amira a long moment, then turned his gaze back to the belkagen and said, "Have you ever haggled with the merchants along the Golden Way?"

  The belkagen scowled. "What does that have to do with-?" "They are liars," said Lendri. "Unrepentant liars. I learned long ago that the best way to judge the honesty of someone is to ask them a question to which you already know the answer and see what they say. I have yet to meet a merchant who does not make a practice of lying." The belkagen's eyes narrowed to slits, and his voice became soft as velvet over a knife. "You accuse me of lying, Lendri hrayek?" Lendri shrugged. "I accuse the belkagen of nothing. But I'm not going to answer his question until he answers mine." "Where is your resp-?" "Please!"

  Amira cut them off and looked to Lendri. "Do we know what happened to Gyaidun's son?" She cast a quick look at the belkagen, who was scowling. "Yes," she continued, "gods help us, I think we do. But what you are really asking, I think, is, 'Have we found a way to help him?'

  And the answer to that, Lendri, is no. Damn it all, we haven't. I swear by my gods and my House that I'm telling you the truth." "Your House is a house of merchants, is it not?" "They are," she said.

  "Liars, the lot of them. I can't stand them either." Lendri smiled, but his eyes were sad. "That, I understand. Family troubles seem to plague all peoples." "Then you believe me?" "I see no reason for you to lie. But why do you hide the truth from Gyaidun?" "What good would it do him?" "None," said Lendri. "But na kwast wahir athu kyene wekht unarihe-'better a cold truth than a warm lie.' I know my rathla. He would rather be hurt than ignorant." "This hurt might be more than your rathla could bear," said the belkagen. "That should be his decision. Not yours." The belkagen sighed. "You must choose your own path, even if it means destroying your rathla, but I will tell you this: You have no truth to give your rathla. We know only that the Fist of Winter took Erun and twisted him into something vile and evil.

  That much Gyaidun already knows. His greatest hope-that his son is still alive-has met his greatest fear-the one who took him-and they are one. Your rathla is… confused now, Lendri. Hurting. Despair has gripped him. What we know, what Amira learned in Hro'nyewachu will only deepen that. Consider my words. I will argue this with you no more." They sat in silence for a long while, the belkagen's scowl deepening, Amira watching her sleeping son, and Lendri scratching Mingan behind the ears. "I will think on what you have said," said Lendri, and stood and walked away, Mingan at his heels. "You think he's going to tell Gyaidun?" asked Amira. "Most certainly," said the belkagen. "I love those two like sons, but they can be stubborn as dwarves. Gyaidun is more obvious about it because he blusters and roars, but Lendri… that one, he is quiet and so hides it, but he's even worse." "What will Gyaidun do, do you think?" "Knowing him as I do, I can only be sure that it will be something foolish." "And you aren't going to stop him?" "He's a grown man, Lady, and Lendri is five times your age, at least. If those two want to rush off and get themselves killed… well, it won't be the first time they've tried, and they're still here. Stubborn and hotheaded as they both are, they never cease to surprise me. I must trust them to follow their own path. But you…" "What about me?" The belkagen fixed her with that predator's gaze that made her feel so small a
nd said, "Now that you have your son, what will you do, Lady?" "Winterkeep," said Amira. "What?" "Winterkeep. Iket Sotha you called it. That's where the sorcerer was headed with Jalan." "You are certain?" "Yes," Amira answered. "Mystra help me, I am." "This is what you want?" said the belkagen. "You wish to go to the enemy?" "I want to take the fight to them," said Amira. "You said it yourself. Jalan won't be safe till we end this. One way or the other."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Endless Wastes

  The sorcerer, still swathed in his scorched and torn ash-gray cloak, and his three remaining Frost Folk rode upon winter wolves to the shore of the Great Ice Sea. One riderless winter wolf trailed them. It was past midday, but the unrelenting storm was so thick, and the sky so dark, that it gave them enough cover to keep moving throughout the day. This close to the water the air was heavy with moisture, and the snow fell in great clumps, some almost as big as a man's hand. One of the Frost Folk fell from the back of his wolf and lay in the snow. The man had half a Vil Adanrath arrow in his ribs. He had spent most of the day coughing, and the front of his body was smeared with his own blood. The wolf he'd been riding sidestepped and looked down on him. The man lay in the snow, unmoving except for the swift rising and falling of his chest. Another of the Frost Folk lifted his leg and slid off his own mount. He knelt beside his fallen companion, examined the wound, then stood and spoke to his master. The sorcerer still sat atop his wolf, both of them staring into the face of the storm. He turned at his servant's words and looked down on the fallen man. "He is beyond help," said the sorcerer in the tongue of the far north. "And the wolves are hungry." The sorcerer dismounted.

  His wolf turned and joined his fellows in their meager meal. The man never even screamed. One swift snap from a wolf's jaws, and it was over for him. The two remaining Frost Folk turned away from the carnage and watched their master. Ignoring them, the sorcerer climbed to the very lip of the promontory. Standing in the full force of the wind, the remains of his cloak and robes fluttered and cracked. It didn't seem to bother him, not even when his cowl flew back, exposing his long hair and pallid skin to the biting frost. The Frost Folk watched as their master basked in the frigid wind off the Great Ice Sea. The intense cold and fury of the storm seemed to lend him strength, reinvigorating him, but still he leaned heavily upon his staff. A foe-a woman! — had managed to do something no other had in generations. She'd hurt him. Hurt him badly. The sorcerer stood there a long while, his men watching. When he sat upon the very edge of the rock, the Frost Folk exchanged a furtive glance. Their forefathers had served the Fist of Winter for hundreds of years, their devotion born out of the rewards given to them by the dark sorcerers, but also out of fear. They served their fiendish masters because the Fist of Winter gave them the gifts necessary to survive in the far north, where months passed without the light of the sun. The Fist of Winter gave the Frost Folk power to overcome their enemies and to eke out a living in a world of ice and darkness. But the glance these two exchanged said something that none of their people had dared speak aloud for generations. They had a new fear: that their masters could be beaten, that there were stronger powers in the world. The sorcerer clutched his staff to his chest and leaned back, breathing deep of the storm's fury. Slowly at first, but gathering strength as he found his rhythm, the sorcerer began an incantation. What little warmth still gripped the air lost its hold. No longer did the snow fall in great, wet clumps. The flakes shrank and froze, hard as minuscule diamonds. Even the gray daylight dimmed to a thick gloom. A silver eldritch light flickered around the sorcerer. Beyond the sound of his voice, the hiss of driving snow, and the hard slap of the waves on the rocks below, came the sound of voices riding on the wind.

  Amira finished stuffing the last of her supplies into the pack and pulled the straps tight. Jalan lay beside her, still sleeping beside the fire. She'd have to wake him soon. He'd awakened a while ago, but only long enough to have a few bites of food and swallow a mouthful of water. She had held him while he ate, and the fact that he let her filled her with a mixture of relief and dismay. Jalan had not let her hold him like this for years. He was on the verge of manhood, and though she missed holding her son, she understood why it made him uncomfortable. She'd welcomed holding him this morning, but doing so only emphasized how deeply Jalan had been hurt. Not so much on the outside-he looked underfed and exhausted, but other than the torn and bruised skin from too-tight ropes, his captors had done him no real harm. But his spirit had been hurt. Pensive and sometimes sullen Jalan had been replaced by a scared little boy who jumped at sudden sounds and huddled away from shadows. Amira heard footsteps behind her-heavy and deliberate, so unlike the furtive tread of the elves-and she knew at once who it was. She stood and turned to look up at Gyaidun. She almost didn't recognize him. His countenance had lost all vitality.

  His features, which she had first seen as hard and chiseled, now seemed merely haggard and tired. Even his eyes seemed fragile and hollow. "Amira," he said. He stopped, his mouth hanging open as if he meant to continue, but then he shut it and shook his head. "Gyaidun," she said, and was ashamed to hear the accusation in her voice. Her head knew she should feel pity for the man, but her heart was angry.

  "Did you come to say your farewells?" "Farewells?" "Lendri told me you aren't coming with us." No, she thought, you are staying here while your blood brother goes off to face certain death. "I can't, Amira," he said. "I can't come and… and try to kill my own son." Amira stood and hefted her pack. She felt no pity for that monster in the ash-gray cloak, not even a little, but still she tried to force some gentleness and warmth into her voice. "Gyaidun, he… he isn't your son anymore. You know that, don't you?" Gyaidun looked away. "I am sorry," she said. "I really am. What happened to your son, to Erun, it's… unforgivable. Monstrous. It's… blasphemous. But it happened. That thing you saw may have been wearing Erun's body, but the heart of what made him Erun isn't there anymore, Gyaidun. I know."

  "You learned this," he said, his voice raw, "in Hro'nyewachu? She… she told you this?" Amira hesitated. The belkagen had warned her of the dangers of sharing the secrets of the oracle. "Told me?" she said.

  "No. I saw it, Gyaidun. I saw it happen again and again through the centuries." Gyaidun stood there, letting that sink in, then said,

  "You're going to kill him." Amira took a deep breath and looked Gyaidun in the eye. He towered over her. Still, as he was now, broken and hurt, she felt stronger, felt as though she should be the one protecting him. But this was one truth from which she could not protect him. That would be no mercy. "Yes," she said. "I'm going to try. If I don't, he'll do the same to my son. And others." "You know this?" he said, and the slightest flicker of the old Gyaidun's fire lit his gaze. "I do know it," she said. She put her gloved hand on his forearm and squeezed. He stared down at her hand, then looked up at her. "Watch out for Lendri," he said. "The Vil Adanrath will fight to the death, but they won't help him. He'll be on his own out there."

  Not if you'd come with us, she wanted to say, but she didn't. Gyaidun turned and walked away. She watched until he was little more than a pale shadow cloaked in falling snow, then there was only the snow.

  "Don't judge him too harshly." Amira turned, and the belkagen was standing only a few paces away. "I really thought he would come with us," she said. "Even with hope for Erun gone, I thought he'd want vengeance at least. Not, this, this…" "Despair?" "Yes." "Gyaidun is not a coward, Lady." "I know he isn't." The belkagen looked down at Jalan and asked, "Do you pray, Lady?" "Sometimes, yes." "Pray for Gyaidun. After what happened, he has embraced one of the gravest sins:

  Despair." "I have never seen despair as a sin." He looked her in the eye and smiled. "Then you've never considered it." "What do you mean?"

  "Despair is the forsaking of hope, believing that you know all paths.

  Embracing doom. But no mortal can see so far-even those like us who have been shown"-the belkagen stopped and swallowed-"shown such things. We are given the greatest burden of all, I think,
to be shown some of what lies ahead that we might still dare to hope." Amira scowled. She had the feeling that the belkagen wasn't talking about Gyaidun anymore. What had the old elf seen in Hro'nyewachu? She'd asked, but he'd refused to answer. In some ways, he seemed little more than a simple, old mystic who'd spent too long out in the sun, but at times like now she found him more inscrutable than the greatest masters of her Art. "I know Gyaidun is no coward," she said. "You know it now, but later, when this fight is done… the thought might come to you. When it does, know that it is a lie." Amira looked down at Jalan, who was still sleeping. She didn't look up as she said, "You really think there will be a later?" "Dare to hope, Lady. We must dare to hope."