The wind caught in his cloak, and as the hide billowed it rippled with magic, forming wings even as the elf's form shrank, his legs shortening and his feet stretching into claws, feathers covering his body. In a breath's time he transformed into an eagle and caught the wind current. Too late. Fierce channels of wind, twisting like tentacles and filled with ice, roared from above at the sorcerer's behest and struck the great bird from the sky. The belkagen lost his eagle form a dozen feet above the rocks and fell. He struck the rocks, bones shattering, not far from where Lendri was just now stirring. All breath left the belkagen's body, and dark clouds swam before his eyes.
Spells forming on their lips, the four sorcerers stepped toward the fallen elves. A flash of golden light lit the sky above them, and for an instant everyone froze. All eyes looked up in time to see the fifth sorcerer, flame and a summer-golden light enveloping him, fly like a comet overhead. He shot over the island, trailing a silvery-white smoke, and landed with a splash in Yal Tengri. The belkagen, struggling to breathe, and the four sorcerers, their spells frozen on their lips, turned to look up the hill. There, under the black boughs of the Witness Tree, stood Amira, her golden staff raised and Jalan clutched protectively under one arm.
Amira's eyes widened as she saw the four sorcerers coming straight at her. They didn't rush but walked at a deliberate pace. Their gaze, the light like a cold halo around their eyes, seemed to freeze her blood. "Amira!" said a rasping voice behind her. She turned. Gyaidun, fresh wounds scraping his already-bloody skin, was crawling over the broken remnants of the wall. "Hold them off!" he said. "Just a few moments. I know how to stop them." "What?" "Just hold them off! And don't… don't hurt Erun. Please." She turned to look back down the hill. They were almost to the bottom of the steps. Behind them, beyond the broken bodies of Lendri and the belkagen, just crawling over the rocks at the edge of the island, was the sorcerer she'd sent sailing out into the Great Ice Sea. A snarl of rage twisted his rotting visage, but aside from the scorched robes he seemed unharmed. "I don't think that's going to be an issue." She looked down at her son and said, "Jalan." He looked up at her, his golden eyes wide, and in that instant she noticed that color had returned to his cheeks. He looked warm. And something else. His eyes had been golden all his life, but now there was a light behind them, still small and uncertain, but growing. "I love you, Jalan," she said, then pushed him away and charged down the stairs.
The belkagen watched the sorcerer emerge from Yal Tengri. He was soaked, most of his robes had burned away, and his decayed flesh hung off him, but still he pulled himself up the rocks and followed the others. His anger and malice seemed to fuel his strength. The old elf tried to take a deep breath, and pain shot through him. That fall had cracked ribs, his right arm was broken, and he couldn't feel his fingers on that hand. The words Hro'nyewachu had given to Amira came to him" 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." — and those she'd given to him" That task is for another." The belkagen pushed himself to his feet. A cough that felt like sharp stones in his lungs shook him, and he saw bits of blood spatter from his lips. Lendri was struggling to his feet as well. God of my ancestors, the belkagen prayed, and you, Hro'nyewachu, if you can hear me… whatever is going to happen, please make it happen soon. He saw Amira charging, a golden light enveloping her. It lent him courage, for she looked like a goddess of summer incarnate-if summer were fury and fire. The belkagen spoke the words of power. They tore at his throat, but he forced them out-"Crith kesh het!" A globe of searing radiance, like a tiny sun, enveloped him. "U werekh kye wu!" The steady wind at his back gusted, grasping and lifting him, and he flew forward into the midst of the sorcerers. The nearest turned to him, the wind blowing off the tattered cowl, and the belkagen saw that it was Erun. The boy the belkagen had watched take his first steps under the autumn boughs-No! the belkagen reminded himself. That is not Erun, but the thing that killed him! — snarled and raised a rapier, its silver steel glistening with fell magic. The sorcerer flinched as the globe of light enveloping the old elf hit him, but he held his ground.
Too weak to control his flight, the belkagen could not avoid the blade. His eyes went wide the instant before the point shattered his cracked ribs and tore through his heart and lungs. The belkagen's light went out, but he was smiling as the darkness closed in.
Amira saw the belkagen impaled upon that monster's sword, and she screamed, rage and sorrow cracking her voice. She hurled spells at her foes, magic flying from her staff and hands, but they bounced or shattered off the sorcerers' shields. Erun flung the body of the belkagen off his blade and turned. He looked up at Amira and began an incantation, his free hand weaving an arcane pattern that cut the air and left a blue light in its wake. Amira could feel the air crackling with gathering powerThen the wolf struck, a white mass of snarling fur and fangs that hit the sorcerer in the back, throwing him off balance.
More annoyed than hurt, Erun whirled, swinging his blade. The wolf dodged and backed off, favoring one leg, and in that moment Amira knew the wolf was Lendri. She renewed her attack, loosing spell after spell, but every one broke on the sorcerers' shields. "Enough of this!" the sorcerer that had been Erun roared. He raised his arms, the golden aura that still flickered round Amira glittering off his blade.
"Uthrekh rakhshan thra!" In the time it took Amira to draw a breath, the air round the island froze, going from mist to ice. Amira felt the moisture on her eyes freezing, and her inner ears began to pop and crack. Dizziness and nausea gripped her. With what she felt sure would be her last breath she raised the staff the belkagen had named Karakhnir and shouted, "Amalad saisen!" Heat. She felt it rising from the earth and flowing through her. It flared from the staff, struggling to push back the unearthly cold. The ice-for it was truly ice, hard and biting, not snow-falling from the sky struck the wave of heat and steamed, but Amira could feel the cold pressing down upon her, almost like the weight of the sky itself, and she fell to her knees.
The cold hit Jalan, stealing all breath from his body. The air bit through his clothes, and he could feel his skin contracting, ice forming over his body, then he heard his mother shout words he didn't recognize, and the cold retreated… a little. Jalan took a shuddering breath, then he saw his mother fall. He screamed. The blood-covered man grabbed him and pulled him under the lowest bough of the great tree. Jalan struggled-he had no idea who this blood-covered man who fell from the sky could be-but his mother had spoken to him as if she knew him. "Jalan!" He looked up at the man. "Jalan, you must trust me! There's still time to save your mother." Jalan swallowed and said, "What do you want me to do?" The big man bent and picked up a knife that had fallen on the ground. It was sharp only on one edge and nearly as long as the man's forearm. The man grabbed Jalan's wrist and brought the knife close. Panic seized Jalan and he struggled, trying to get away, but the man's grip was too strong. Jalan punched and kicked. "Jalan!" said the man. "Jalan, stop it! You must trust me!"
All the memories and horrors of the past days hit him-the sorcerer's blade drawing blood in the darkness, then coming at him, invading his mind-and he screamed and kicked all the harder. But through his panic and the memories came a voice that he recognized at once, saying, Surrender, Jalan. Trust him. Trust me. It was Vyaidelon. Panting, his eyes still wide with fear, Jalan relented and relaxed his arm. The big man nodded. "Good," he said. "I'll go first so that you will trust me." With that, the man grabbed his knife and yanked it down, opening a deep gash across his palm. Fresh blood poured down his forearm, mingling with the older blood and mud dried there. He reached for Jalan's hand, but Jalan flinched. "Trust me, Jalan," said the man.
Jalan could feel the cold pressing in again, could hear his mother crying. "Trust me." Trust, Jalan. Be not afraid. Jalan extended his right hand. The big man brought the edge of the blade across his open palm-Jalan winced-then brought their open palms together in a tight grip. Jalan could feel their blood mingling.
It seemed hot and cold at the same time, soothing and biting. A large drop of their blood fell onto the root of the great tree. Jalan watched, his eyes going even wider, as the iron-hard wood of the long-dead tree drank it in, like dry earth soaking up spring rain. The cold pressing upon them faltered, and in his deepest heart Jalan could feel cracks running through the dark power at work. Beyond it all was the sweet singing he remembered from his childhood dreams-and it was growing stronger.
"No!" came a shout below them, and in the back of his mind Jalan recognized the voice of the sorcerer who had taken him, who had dragged him across the Endless Wastes, tormenting him all the way. A smile crept across Jalan's face, for he heard something new in the voice: despair. A pale flutter overhead caught Jalan's eye, and he looked up. There, just at the limit of his reach, was a pale bud, fluttering in the gale. Even as he watched, the bud opened into a full blossom, white petals round a gold center. Grab it! said Vyaidelon's song inside him. He did.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Isle of Witness
"Father!" The cry went out, echoing into realms beyond the paths of mortal men, and Vyaidelon answered. Arantar, his son, his only son born to him of a mortal woman, stood beneath the Witness Tree.
Weariness hung upon him, and the light in his eyes was dim. Five sorcerers, clad in the royal gray of Raumathar, surrounded him.
Vyaidelon could look beyond the scope of mortal eyes, and he saw the cold, hungry darknesses writhing within them, giving them great strength even as the darknesses consumed them. Vyaidelon merged with Arantar, combining their spirits and lending his strength to his son.
The five sorcerers howled in fury and struck, calling upon every spell they knew as they charged. Arantar and Vyaidelon, two beings sharing one body, struck back, pouring holy light and life into the never-ending hunger that filled the sorcerers. The five screamed, and four of them fell. The dark infusion, the thousands of tendrils of unlife burrowing into their souls, twisted and frayed. The leader, the one that had been Khasoreth, fell to his hands and knees upon the ice-slick steps and looked up at Arantar. The shadow lifted from Khasoreth's face, and his eyes cleared. "Master… please. Remember.
Remember… mercy." The words hit Arantar stronger than any of their spells had. They cut to his very heart, for they were ideals by which he had tried to live his entire life, as a servant to the people of the steppes, as a husband and father, and most of all as a man. In that moment of hesitation Khasoreth struck, sending a thick arm of darkness crashing into Arantar. The thing within Khasoreth shrieked in unholy delight, and Vyaidelon's song faltered. Arantar stumbled against the tree, and the thing that had been Khasoreth leaped, falling upon him with fist, tooth, and spell. Vyaidelon concentrated his strength to strike. No! said Arantar, calling to his father in the mind they shared. Mercy. He began to lift away, but the thing that had been Khasoreth struck, its great arm of darkness seizing Vyaidelon, grasping and tearing at him. Darkness warred with light, but this time Vyaidelon did not fight it. There would be another way. Another day when justice and mercy could meet as one. Do not fear, Vyaidelon told his son. You have planted the seed. It is not for you to see the flower bloom. Arantar breathed his last, a small smile upon his lips, and Vyaidelon fell. The five creatures of darkness seized him and battered at him, but their attempts were futile. Light was stronger, and Vyaidelon knew it even as he fell into the darkness. Vyaidelon sought the last bit of warmth, the last living thing upon the island-the Witness Tree-and fell into the pure essence of the tree.
The five sorcerers struck, but try as they might, they could not destroy the now-hallowed tree. Spell after spell and the darkest of magics broke upon it. Knowing that the murder of the tree was beyond them, the five sorcerers used their darkest spells and imprisoned Vyaidelon in the lifeblood of the tree. Through the long years, through the coldest winters and darkest nights, the deepest heart of the tree remained alive. Warmth and life still lived there, waiting.
Waiting for the true blood of Arantar to set free his celestial father.
Every bit of Gyaidun's body, both inside and out, pulsed with agony. Cracked bones, bruised muscles, skin cut and scraped-all of it clawed at his mind, trying to drag him down to unconsciousness. He fought it, willing his eyes to stay open, forcing his lungs to breathe, as he watched his life's blood pouring out of the gash in his hand. Damn my haste, he thought. Cut too quick. Too deep. Gyaidun heard Amira cry out, saw the blood from his and Jalan's hands soak into the roots of the tree-that thing at the bottom of the stairs cried out, "No!" — then the boy stood, stretched out his hand, and grabbed a pale blossom fluttering in the wind. A blossom? Gyaidun thought. Hro'nyewachu said nothing aboutJalan's hand blazed. It was as if a thousand suns had condensed into the boy's fist and exploded with all the light they'd ever held or would hold. And then, in the deepest recesses of Gyaidun's mind where he walked in dreams, Gyaidun heard music. It came as if from a great distance, but in the melody he felt warmth and light filling his soul, and in the corners of his mind that had known only darkness for years, something old and buried awoke: hope. Jalan looked down at Gyaidun, and the scared boy was gone. In his place stood a lord, a hero, and in that moment Gyaidun believed Amira's words, that the boy was of the line of Arantar himself. Jalan was smiling, and his eyes sparkled like sunlight through amber. A shard of blue light struck Jalan, and the boy stumbled. Gyaidun turned. Three of the dark sorcerers had come; the tallest led them, the magic of his spent spell still sparking minuscule lightning around his fist. Two of the other sorcerers struck, one sending a funnel of frost spiraling at the boy, the other loosing a barrage of blue-white light that seemed to devour all warmth from the air. With a wave of Jalan's hand, the air before him solidified into a concave golden shield, and the sorcerers' spells shattered against it. "Kneel, worm!" said the sorcerers' leader. "Submit, and I will make your death swift." Jalan laughed, and Gyaidun heard two voices-one young and full of life, the other old beyond the reckoning of human minds. "Your time has come," said Jalan. "Time to release them." The leader snarled and turned, motioning behind him. Up the stairs behind him came the two remaining sorcerers-one who shambled, almost on his hands and knees, and the other was Erun. He held Amira under her arm, the point of his sword resting against her neck. She struggled to walk, arching her back to keep the blade from piercing her skin. The leader turned back to Jalan. "Surrender and die quickly," he said, "or he will kill her slowly." Jalan glanced down at his mother. His smile faltered, for a moment seeming almost sad, then he said, "No, he will not." A look of triumph and utter joy filled Jalan's countenance. It looked as if the boy's skin were glowing, as if a power so great filled him that it was leaking out through his pores. Jalan extended both hands, palms open, to Erun and began to sing a music that was beyond words. Gyaidun gasped as he saw Erun's muscles tighten to thrust the sword, but then he sensed something ripple between Jalan and the sorcerer, and Erun trembled. He blinked and shook his head as if confused, then his muscles spasmed, his back arched, and a scream beyond sound was torn from him. Amira ripped herself away and stumbled down the stairs. The sorcerer's blade clattered to the stone. Jalan's song filled Gyaidun, awakening his senses beyond anything he'd ever experienced. He'd sometimes heard the belkagen speak of the heart's eye, the vision that the enlightened were granted on the dreamroad, and for the first time he understood it. He saw beyond fleshy reality to the deeper life within it, saw Erun's tortured and tormented body, his imprisoned soul; latched onto it like a parasite was a cold darkness, a thing of never-ending hunger and malice. But even as Gyaidun watched, the dark thing's grip weakened. Three of the other sorcerers shrieked in confusion and fear, and their leader screamed, "No! You dare not! You dare not!" And then the dark thing was gone, and Erun fell upon the stone steps. He did not move, but with his new sight, Gyaidun could see life there-weak, faint, and hurt, but there. The remaining sorcerers turned all their strength and spells upon Jalan. Even the weak one loosed spell after spell as he clawed his way up the final steps. J
alan blocked or turned most of their spells, but some few managed to break through, and Jalan fell back, frost and ice forming where the blue shards of light struck him. Walking backward to Gyaidun and continuing to try to block their barrage, his song changed. It did not lessen in power but broadened in scope, and even Gyaidun, who had never studied the ways of priests or sorcerers, recognized it for what it was: A call. A summons. The sorcerers doubled their efforts, fanning out to hit Jalan both in front and to the sides. Still smiling, Jalan shouted, "Wed chai'el!" and a great wall of flame roared from the stones of the island between him and his foes. So great was the heat that Gyaidun backed away. In that moment of respite, his enemies cut off, Jalan turned to Gyaidun and extended his hand. The gash where Gyaidun had cut the palm still bled freely.
"Gyaidun," said a strong voice, the voice of the singer speaking through Jalan. "Time for you to trust me." Gyaidun reached out. He grasped Jalan's hand with his own bleeding palm, and their blood mingled anew. Gyaidun gasped, and the gasp turned into a laugh, for he saw whom Jalan had summoned.
Over the wind and crashing waves, through the roar of magic and the crackle of the flames, Amira heard something she had never heard nor hoped to hear: a laugh of pure, utter, unrestrained joy-and it was coming from Gyaidun. She tossed her hair out of her eyes and looked up from where she'd fallen at the bottom of the stone stairway. The four sorcerers had fanned out in a half-ring at the crown of the hill, and they faced a great wall of fire. But even as Amira watched, the four summoned a great wind off the sea and the flames bent and died. Amira pushed herself to her feet. Her skin was a mass of bruises, scrapes, and cuts. Her arm still throbbed from where the sorcerer had held her, and she'd twisted both her right knee and ankle in the fall. Agony flared in every injury, but she forced herself up the stairs. The sorcerer had taken her staff and thrown it away, but she knew she dared not take the time to look for it now. She still had a few spells of her own ready. She had to get to Jalan. Amira passed the body of the fallen sorcerer but did not spare it a glance. The sounds of spells and the incantations of the other sorcerers shook the air above her, and she forced herself to move faster. When her knee gave out on her, she crawled up, tearing her clothes on the rough stone of the stairway. She crested the hill, pulling herself over the final step and through the rubble of the broken wall, but the sight she saw there stopped her. Passing the dead tree in a slow, deliberate walk, the four sorcerers advanced upon… a god. Amira blinked and shook her head. No, it wasn't a god. It was Jalan, but a power-a living power-beyond anything she had ever experienced filled her son, and through him it held back the devil-possessed sorcerers. But she could see that he was at the limit of his powers, and the attacks of the sorcerers were breaking through more and more with each strike.
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