“You mean Winterkeep?” said Amira.
“Ah, Winterkeep, then.”
“It’s a ruin on the Great Ice Sea, said to have once been the capital of the Raumathari Empire.”
The belkagen smiled, seeming genuinely pleased. “Very good! I see you were a good student.”
“My family has had trading contacts in Nathoud for years. Most in House Hiloar study the lore of the East. Knowing your customers and competitors makes for good business.”
“You’ve heard of the legends surrounding the place, then?”
“What ruin isn’t surrounded in legends?”
The smile on the belkagen’s face fell to a frown. “You study history but disdain legend?”
“Disdain? No. But history is fact. Legend is … not. Scholars—”
“Scholars? Pfah! I have met some of these ‘scholars.’ Half-mad, most of them. Legends … well, they are known by the people, who are … what is your word? Sane.”
Amira chuckled, but it was an empty laugh with no humor in it. She buried her face in her palms and rubbed her eyes. Her head hurt. And getting a straight answer out of the belkagen … he was worse than any master or teacher among the war wizards. Gods, I hate the Wastes, she thought.
“What do your legends of Winterkeep have to do with me and my son?”
“And you still haven’t answered our question,” said Gyaidun. “Why have you kept us here? The trail goes colder as we sit by the fire, and this is the best lead we’ve had in over ten years. Ten years, Kwarun! If we lose—”
“Peace,” said the belkagen. “I know your need, Yastehanye. I share your need. But rushing to our deaths—”
“Rushing?” Gyaidun’s shout roused the wolf sleeping by Lendri’s side, and it sat up, its ears stiff. “Would that we were, Belkagen. Instead we sit by the fire and talk!”
The belkagen opened his mouth to respond, but Lendri spoke first. “Peace, rathla. I feel your hunger. But you did not face this … thing. Our oaths, both blood and milk, bind us. But we cannot keep them by rushing to our deaths. If making amrulugek will give us a chance to bring this thing down, then it is worth a small delay.”
“Look,” Amira broke in, “you three obviously have much to discuss, but I don’t understand half of what you’re talking about. All I want is to get my son back. If you can help, I will be in your debt. If not, then speed me on my way. I beg you.”
The belkagen muttered a long string of words in his own tongue. The speech was completely foreign to Amira, but she could sense the frustration in his words. He took a deep breath, then stared into the flames and spoke.
“Lady Amira, Lendri and Gyaidun and I have walked many horizons together, few of them pleasant. Forgive us our heated words.”
Amira glanced over at Gyaidun, who didn’t look at all apologetic.
“You were speaking of Winterkeep …” she said.
“Yes, Winterkeep. Iket Sotha. It is a place shunned by the people of these lands. In ancient days it was a place of beauty, but foul things happened there, and this cold earth has a long memory. One of the great weaknesses of your ‘histories,’ Lady Amira”—the belkagen gave her a weary smile—“is that if the tome and scholar are both lost, your ‘history’ is lost. The people of these lands have a better way of preserving truth. We remember the tales, sing the songs, and dance the fires. Your history is a book. Ours lives in us and our children.”
Amira took a deep breath and forced civility into her tone. “Honored Belkagen, my child—my only child—is getting farther away as we sit here. I would be most grateful if you came to your point soon.”
The belkagen’s smile fell to a frown. “As you say. Even a young, upstart people like the Tuigan know of the evil of Iket Sotha. They tell tales of how the angry ice gods rose from Yal Tengri and sealed the Raumathari kings and their sorcerers in ice. The Tuigan, who fear very few things in this land, will not go near Iket Sotha. But the Tuigan are a young people, and their tales only touch the leaves of a tree whose roots go deep, to a time when the Tuigan still dwelt in the East.
“In the dying days of the wars between Raumathar and the demon-haunted empire of Narfell, the Nars summoned great ice devils to fight for them. Every army sent against them was beaten or pushed back—until the rise of Arantar and Khasoreth. You have heard of them?”
Amira shook her head. “No.”
“Many songs are sung of their adventures in these lands. Arantar was a great sorcerer, the greatest of his age. Some have even said that his father was a god or some great being from beyond. Fire was the soul and song of Arantar, and he was its unquestioned master. Khasoreth was his apprentice, but his great love was for ice and cold. Arantar’s mother was Raumathari, and together, he and Khasoreth were able to stand against the armies of Nar and their demons. For the first time in many months, the Nar fled the battlefield, and for a time there was peace in these lands.”
“I take it the peace didn’t last,” said Amira.
“No,” said the belkagen. “One particularly bleak winter … something happened to Iket Sotha.”
“Something?”
“Here is where even the tales of my people fade to legend. It is not known what destroyed Iket Sotha, but one thing is certain: Great powers fell upon Iket Sotha. The Tuigan say they came from Yal Tengri. Raumathari legends say they came from the heart of Iket Sotha herself. But the one thing that all tales tell the same is that it was in the death of Iket Sotha that the Fist of Winter was born.”
“The Fist of Winter?”
“A name given to them among the people of the Endless Wastes.”
“I don’t understand,” said Amira. “What are they?”
The belkagen thought a long time before answering. “None know for sure. But they are … terrible. Their corrupted flesh cannot abide warmth, and so they dwell in the farthest reaches of the north. But in winter when Yal Tengri freezes, they often roam Iket Sotha and the surrounding lands, preying upon the unwary. Over the years, renegade bands of Sossrim have sworn allegiance to them. These are the Siksin Neneweth, the Frost Folk, and they worship the Fist of Winter as gods and offer blood sacrifices to them.”
“And you believe one of these … things has my son?”
Amira had been staring into the fire during the belkagen’s tale, but she looked at him now and was shocked at what she saw. The weariness still pulled on him, his shoulders slumping and his eyes seeming empty. But his face was now breaking into what seemed to her a mixture of sadness and fear. The belkagen cast a glance at Gyaidun, then quickly looked away. Amira looked to the big man. Fury seemed to come off Gyaidun in waves, like heat. His eyes were unblinking and fixed on the belkagen, and Amira could see the muscles of his neck standing up taut.
“Belkagen …?” said Amira.
“There …” The belkagen avoided everyone’s gaze and looked up where the smoke from the fire was curling into the mists. “There is more to the tale. The Fist of Winter and their servants prey upon any who come too close, and I’ve heard of many fortune-seekers going into the ruins of Iket Sotha and never coming out again. But in some years, during the winter months when days are cold and nights dark, the Fist of Winter roams throughout the east, hunting.”
“Hunting for what?”
“Boys,” said the belkagen. “Some very young and some just shy of manhood, like your Jalan. I’ve heard of boys being taken from tents, from the heart of cities, boys who are sent to watch the herds and are never—”
Gyaidun lunged over the fire, screaming and reaching for the belkagen. Amira saw murder in his eyes. She grabbed her staff and scrambled away as the belkagen jumped to his feet and ducked. Gyaidun and the belkagen were screaming at each other in their own tongue, and Lendri, weak as he was, had dropped his drink and was trying to pry the two of them apart. Wide-eyed, Amira held her staff ready to strike should the argument come her way.
Lendri managed to push himself between the two combatants. Gyaidun tried to shove him away, but the elf latched onto the
man’s shoulders and held on. Lendri shouted something, just one quick word in his language, and Gyaidun stopped as if slapped. But he still held his fists before him, and his gaze was burning, looking over Lendri’s shoulder to the belkagen, who stood a few paces away, guilt in his eyes.
Gyaidun said something, his voice harsh and angry. The belkagen replied. Amira couldn’t tell if his voice was trembling from indignation or fear. Both, she decided. Had Lendri not intervened, she was quite sure the big man would have hurt the belkagen. Gyaidun’s whole body was trembling, his face was twisted in a rictus of fury, and tears were running down his cheeks.
“What’s going on here?” she asked, her staff still held ready, her mind searching for an appropriate spell should any one of them come at her. “Have you all gone mad?”
No one said anything. Gyaidun was still staring daggers at the belkagen, who was returning the gaze, though he seemed pained and saddened. Lendri watched Gyaidun long enough to be sure the big man was under control, then turned to the belkagen. Amira saw mistrust and anger in his eyes as well.
“What is going on here?” she asked.
Gyaidun glanced at her and the tension left his body. He stood straight, looked back to the belkagen, and said, “I will not share a fire with a traitor. Sumezh.” He spat in the belkagen’s direction, then turned and stormed off. For a moment, he was a shadow in the mists, then they swallowed him.
Lendri watched him go, then turned to the belkagen. “I apologize for my rathla’s rude words, Belkagen. But you do owe us an explanation. Now.”
Defiance and anger flickered in the belkagen’s countenance, but neither caught. His shoulders slumped. “My apologies, Lady. You found yourself in the middle of a family quarrel.”
“It’s more than that,” said Lendri. “And you know it. Talk or I may not try to restrain him next time. You’ve known this—who was responsible for Erun—all these years, after all we’ve lost, but you said nothing. Why?”
The belkagen looked off into the mists where Gyaidun had disappeared. “Because there is nothing you could have done. Either of you. Or all the Vil Adanrath. You would have only been rushing to your deaths.”
“Listen,” Amira broke in. “I don’t understand any of this.
Who is this Erun? I just—”
“Be silent, woman,” said Lendri.
Amira opened her mouth to give the insolent elf the tongue-lashing of his life, but she shut it again when he looked at her. The fire caught in his eyes, and again she was reminded of the wolves in the darkness, circling her fire. The tongue-lashing could wait.
“Please, Lendri,” said the belkagen. “Sit down before you fall. And there is no need to be rude to our guest. None of this is her fault.”
“No,” said Lendri. He didn’t sit, though Amira could see his arms and legs trembling from the effort of standing. “It is yours. Do not hide behind her. Explain yourself.”
The belkagen sighed, then sat by the fire. He placed his staff across his lap, closed his eyes, and said, “I spoke truly. By the time I’d heard of Erun, many days had passed. Although I suspected the Fist of Winter was involved, it was only suspicions. I have become certain in my own mind only in the years since. I know you and your rathla. Had I told you, both of you would have rushed off to Iket Sotha like a pack on bloodscent. And both of you would have died. What happens to the children taken, I do not know. But whether they are alive or dead, you and Gyaidun could do nothing for Erun if you were dead.”
“So you did nothing? All these years, you simply sat?”
“No!” The belkagen looked up at Lendri, and a bit of the heat had returned to his eyes. “I have sought knowledge and chased every rumor, hoping and praying for any sign of Erun and the others. I only became more certain of the boy’s fate, but I learned nothing of how to save him.”
“I’m going after my son,” said Amira. “And don’t you silence me again, elf. Not ever. I have half a mind to broil the lot of you for keeping me here all day. You promised me help, Belkagen. You said if I waited, you might give me hope. Where is it?”
“I believe they are taking your son to Iket Sotha,” said the belkagen. “For what reason? I do not know. But knowing what I have told you, we can go after him prepared. Perhaps we can rescue your son. You said you did so once before. If we can get him away—”
“They’ll only take him again,” said a voice from the darkness. Gyaidun emerged from the mists. He looked down at the belkagen in disgust. “They did so once already. They traveled across half the world to get him.” He looked to Amira. “Do you wish to spend the rest of your life—and your son’s—running?”
“I’m going after my son,” said Amira, though the cold fear had returned to her heart. She had to force a steady calm into her voice. “I don’t think I can kill this dark one who leads them. His powers are beyond me. But I’ll get my son back or die trying. If I have to spend the rest of my life keeping him safe, so be it. I’m his mother.”
Gyaidun smiled, but it was one of the most frightening smiles Amira had ever seen. “Well said. Lendri and I will be going with you.”
“And me?” said the belkagen.
“You can sleep in the Nine Hells for all I care,” said Gyaidun.
“Rathla!” said Lendri. “Chu set!”
The belkagen said nothing, would not even look at Gyaidun.
A spasm seized Lendri and he would have fallen had Gyaidun not rushed over and caught him. The big man helped the elf to sit.
“Your anger is just,” said Lendri. “Your disrespect shames us both, rathla. The belkagen’s silence these years borders on deceit, but his words are not without some wisdom. If our foes are as dangerous as Lady Amira and the belkagen say, we will need help.”
“Who would—?” said Gyaidun the same time that Amira said, “There is no time—!” They both stopped and looked at each other.
“Tonight I walk the dreamroad,” said Lendri. “Tomorrow you two should follow the trail. I will seek out the Vil Adanrath.”
The belkagen hissed. “Foolish. They are more likely to kill you than help you. You know that.”
“This concerns Erun,” said Lendri. “Haerul may well kill me, but he’d hunt the Beastlord himself if there were a chance of finding Erun. If I can find them. If not, I will meet you at Akhrasut Neth in three days.”
“Wait,” said Amira. “Who is this Haerul? And who is Erun?”
“Erun is my son,” said Gyaidun. “He was taken eleven years ago. Just like Jalan.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Near the ruins of Winterkeep
The old, old woman raised her head and sniffed into the wind. A northern wind, it bit with the promise of ice. Not hard. Not yet. The season was passing, but she still had a few nights before the first snow, a few more days of scrabbling through the ruins. Every evening darkness caught the land earlier and held it longer. She would have to leave soon. Very soon. Old and powerful as she was, even she was not foolish enough to be caught at Winterkeep when the snows came.
As the first rim of the sun touched the western horizon, the old woman stood in a shadow cast by a massive stone. It had once stood tall and proud, and even now after all these years she could make out the remains of designs carved into the stone. They were rounded, smooth, some no more than faint indentations, but for those wise enough to know how to see, the designs had obviously been wrought by human hands. The men and mages who cut the stone and raised the temple had been bones and ashes for thousands of years. Their holy place high on the island had stood longer, but it too eventually succumbed to the never-ending winds off Yal Tengri, and fallen.
The old woman looked to the far shore a few hundred paces south of the island. Only a few broken stones littered the foundations there. Most of once-proud Iket Sotha lay underground where the brightest day was dark as sleep and it never grew warm, even in high summer. She’d spent several days scrabbling through the ruins, as she did every autumn, searching for relics and any old thing that might hold power. Thi
s season’s hunting had been particularly poor. Maybe she’d try the southern stair again tonight.
The wind off the water gusted, and she sniffed again. Yes. Snow soon. In her bones she could feel the clouds gathering far away over the northern ice. This would be her last day on the island.
The breeze died off, almost as if hushed, and inhaling as she was she caught a strange scent. She sneezed and muttered a curse. What was that foul stench? Almost like … flowers.
Crouching low and leaning upon her staff, she looked through the jumbles of rubble at her feet. Nothing but moss lined the wet stones. A few stunted shoots had pushed their way through a crack in the stone at the base of the large rock. She considered trampling them but decided against it. With the promise of snow, they would die soon enough anyway. She smiled.
Then the scent hit her again. Very faint but enough to make her scowl. She scrambled through the stones, poking at the rubble with her staff. Some old fish bones there, probably left behind by a tern. The eyes were empty and dead, but a bit of skin still clung round the sockets. The old woman picked it up, plopped it in her mouth, and began sucking on it, trying to soften the bits of skin and tissue.
The breeze brought the scent to her again. What was that?
The old woman lifted her gaze and stepped out of the shadow cast by the stone. It lay at the base of the island’s crest, a great pinnacle of rock that thrust out of Yal Tengri. Atop the crag stood a tree, long-dead and blackened by generations of winter. It had been a great thing once, not tall but thick and strong, its boughs twisted. Even the winter gales had never been able to topple it.
Something caught her attention. There it was! Something flickered on the tree, painted orange as an ember by the dying sunlight. Could it be a bird, caught in the ancient tree’s tangled branches? Perhaps if she were quiet she could sneak up on the poor thing, snatch it, and have more for her supper than old fish bones.
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