Amira reached out, some part of her registering that her hand trembled not out of weakness or fear, but eagerness. She grabbed the heart, brought it to her open mouth, and bit down. The flesh was tough, resisting, and so she bit harder and harder until her teeth tore through. She grabbed the heart with both hands and shook her head like an animal, rending the flesh and finding herself enjoying it. Against her will, a low growl began to build deep in her throat. The part of her mind that still remembered Amira of House Hiloar, War Wizard of Cormyr, daughter of the royal courts, battered at her mind, screaming—What’s happening to me?
The portion of the heart tore loose in her mouth. She swallowed it whole, looked up into the eyes of the oracle—
—and fell in.
Darkness took her, but it was warm and wet, and when it began to break away, part of her cried out and tried to cling to it.
It will be your death, said a voice.
Whose? She could put no name to it, but she remembered eyes pale as the dust of the moon and the scent of spring blossoms.
She let go. Light returned. Color. And cold. Not the deep cold of the winter or the nameless horror that stalked her memories, cloaked in ashes, but the crisp, clean coolness of the open air. The high, thin clouds of autumn, tattered and torn like rent tapestries, rode across a morning blue sky that stretched from horizon to horizon in every direction except one. Before her, breaking the perfect dome of the sky, rose a high mound, flat and broken on top and bleeding greenery into the grasslands below. She knew it, had seen it from just this view, but she could put no name to it. The name was in her memory; she knew it as she knew breath and blood, but it was closed to her.
Something was moving near the crest of the hill. As if spurred by the thought, her vision flew toward it, coming closer and closer until she could make out the form of a man. Clothes of leather and cloth and robes of animal hides covered his lean frame. His hair was raven black, the top and sides pulled back into a thick braid that fell well below his waist. He walked with a staff that seemed to have been made from three woods, each of a different shade, twisted together and bound with leather and silver. Tassels made from bits of bone, stone, and sprigs of herbs dangled from the top of the staff.
Arantar, said the voice.
The man made his way through the woods. He stopped before a great fang of rock that broke through the surface of the hill. Again she felt as if she should know this place. The rock almost looked familiar, though taller and sharper than she knew it to be.
The man stood before an opening in the rock, the autumn wind sending the loose bits of his hair waving before his face like tendrils of seaweed tossed by the tide. For the first time, she saw his face. His weather-worn skin was dark, the color of newly tilled soil, and his face was shaven. But his eyes … she didn’t see them so much as she felt struck by them. They were golden, and even in the shadow cast by the fang of rock they shone with a light all their own.
She had seen those eyes before—or ones very like them. Not quite so intense perhaps, their majesty weakened by the ages, but still she knew them, and for the first time her memory did not fail her. A name came to her.
Jalan.
Those were Jalan’s eyes.
Arantar stepped into the darkness within the rock.
Again the darkness took her.
This darkness was different. Not warm but hot and foul. Choking. She fled this darkness, clawing for clean air and light.
And so she came out of the great column of smoke, and beneath her was a field of battle, men and women dying amid steel, flame, and spell. Though death filled the valley, it was near the center, amid the clashing of steel and the cries of dying men, where the battle would be decided.
In the midst of his elite guard stood a man wreathed in tentacles of flame. The fire did not touch his robes nor catch in his thick, black hair. The top halves of skulls—both humans and beasts—dangled from his necklace, and within their eye sockets flickered a terrible life and vitality. The man did not radiate power. He drank it in. Frost spiraled from his fingertips and enveloped entire lines of the opposing forces, freezing them where they stood, still as statues.
“For Nar!” the sorcerer’s forces shouted as they ran forward. They struck the frozen soldiers. Limbs broke off, heads cracked, and some few shattered into hundreds of shards.
Still more warriors rushed forward to replace their fallen comrades. The sorcerer sent shards of ice, some large as daggers, some small as needles, into their midst. They ripped through exposed flesh, sending a fine mist of blood to the ground.
Scores of men died this way. Dozens more fled.
The front lines of the opposing armies met, sword and spear clashing on shield. Protected by their line, wizards from the opposing forces summoned magical shields to block the sorcerer’s spells. The ice and frost broke on the invisible energy, and for the drawing of a breath the Nar advance faltered.
The sorcerer chanted an incantation, and his own power absorbed the energy from the wizards. Their shields melted away, and he renewed his attacks.
“Gaugan!” shouted the Nar as they renewed their attack.
“Gaugan! For Nar! For Nar!”
The opposing force’s wizards died beneath sword and upon spear, and for a moment the Nar stood upon an open field, their foes fleeing back like the receding tide. But the tide parted around one who stood in the midst of the slaughter.
She saw him, standing with staff in hand, the winds from the Nar sorcerer’s spells sending his robes whipping around him. He was older, but she knew him. Arantar. Beside him stood another, similar in coloring, though his eyes were dark and his frame smaller. Where Arantar stood with the weight of years in his countenance, the one beside him still had the look of youth about him. Fading, yes, but still there.
The two men raised their staffs. Every spell the Nar sorcerer sent against them, these two broke or sent back into the lines of Nar soldiers.
The warriors who had fled before the Nar now turned, reformed their lines, and charged, shouting, “For Raumathar!”
Concern wrinkled the Nar sorcerer’s brow, the briefest flicker of what could only have been fear, and then he smiled and began a new incantation. His back stiffened, his eyes rolled, showing only bloodshot white, and the muscles beneath his skin vibrated with a sick vitality.
Behind him the air cracked and widened. Within the torn reality yawned blackness, and a wind poured forth, cold enough to freeze skin and crack bone.
Five creatures, each twice the height of a man, clawed their way out of the ragged portal. They were like nothing that walked under the gods’ sunlight. More insect than humanoid, they nevertheless walked on two legs, their mandibles clacking like the breaking of boulders, their long tails, covered in jagged barbs, whipped about their bodies, some even striking into the Nar ranks and ripping through armor and flesh alike.
The Nar sorcerer pointed at the two Raumathari sorcerers. The five abominations struck the earth, tearing through grass and soil, and charged.
The younger of the sorcerers stepped back, eyes wide and rimmed with fear, but Arantar stood his ground. Even as the first wave of frigid wind hit him, he raised his staff, looked to the sky, and shouted, “Father!”
Darkness and cold seemed to falter, as if their foundation had been struck with a great hammer, and now tiny cracks ran through them.
She looked down on Arantar, and two beings seemed to stand there in his frame, two hearts beating in his chest, and two minds looking out from his golden eyes. They shone with righteous indignation and a joy so pure that she cried out in wonder.
The five creatures roared in defiance and agony, then struck at Arantar with claw and spell. The world melted away, flowing in great spirals, and as she fell, she heard Arantar laughing.
In the silence, she wept at the absence of Arantar’s laughter. Within it she had heard a power and majesty from beyond the circles of this world, and in its absence her heart felt heavy, yet strangely empty.
Sound returned before sight, speaking a language she had never heard. Still, the meaning came through in her mind.
“He is dangerous, Khasoreth.” In this voice, deep and rich, she heard the faintest echo of that sweet laughter. “You know this.”
“I do know it,” said another voice, this one younger. “Gaugan is dangerous, master. As are you—the most dangerous man in all the Empire.”
“I do not use my power to dominate. To conquer.”
“Nor did he, at first. He was as much victim as victor. You saw those devils he summoned. They fought at his command, but the leash by which he held them tore at his soul. You sensed it as well as I. They were using him as much as he used them.”
“All the more reason to be wary of him.”
“Wary, yes. But to murder him—”
“Execute, Khasoreth. Execute. You know his crimes. None would call his death unjust.”
“No. But what is it that you have told me since before you taught me my first spell? ‘In justice, let us remember mercy.’ ”
Sight began to return to her, slowly at first but growing with each breath. Arantar and the other, younger man, Khasoreth obviously—where had she heard that name?—stood in an empty hall. As she saw it more clearly, she realized that to call this a hall would be like calling the Trackless Sea a “body of water.” Words did it no justice.
Stone so white that it almost hurt the eyes made up the floor, the ceiling, and the great columns that joined them. Veins of gold and silver ran throughout the stone, fine as spider silk. The walls were of a darker, though no less smooth, stone. More the color of summer-sky clouds, heavy with rain, though not yet to the point of bursting.
Artisans had carved scenes of battle into the very walls with such skill that she thought they might move at any moment. The grasses upon which heroes trod seemed to wave, and the blossom-laden trees through which they walked seemed to flutter in a unseen wind. Set between the great columns, brass braziers lit the room and filled it with warmth, their coals glowing with an almost golden radiance.
Arantar stood a few paces away from one of the great columns, his arms crossed over his chest and his brows low and heavy over his eyes. He was dressed much as she had first seen him—in rough cloth and leathers covered by an animal-skin cloak.
Before him stood Khasoreth, resplendent in clothes of linen and silk. The wine-red cloak draping his shoulders had threads of gold and gems woven into the hem, and his boots and gloves were of the finest lambskin.
Arantar looked away, more intent on his own thoughts, and said, “It might be no mercy to let him live, my friend. His heart is dark as winter’s heart.”
“Is he beyond redemption, then?”
Arantar shook his head, then smiled down upon the younger man, but there was more sadness in the expression than anything. “The emperor has spoken, Khasoreth. Gaugan must die. You know this.”
“Yes,” said the younger man. “And I know that the emperor’s sister loves you, and you her. Were you to suggest—”
“You would have me meddle? Question the word of the emperor?”
Khasoreth laughed. “It’s not as though you’ve never done it before. Were it not for Isenith whispering in his ear, he would have banished you dozens of times already. That business three years ago almost had him ordering your head brought to him on a spear. I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t know to be right. ‘In justice remember mercy.’ Yes?”
Arantar opened his mouth to answer, but what he said she did not hear. The world melted away again, and she felt herself falling.
Images swirled before her, running together so that she could not often separate one from another. She saw—
—Arantar walking the grasslands in summer and through snow, ever seeking, seeking … what—?
—the Emperor of Raumathar granting mercy to one of the greatest foes his realm had ever faced. Gaugan the Nar, Gaugan sorcerer, Gaugan summoner of devils knelt before him, swearing loyalty, submission—
—Arantar standing in a royal bedchamber, the only light from one small candle, and the emperor’s sister rushing to his arms—
—Khasoreth, his eyes alight with eagerness, standing upon a grassy hill that fell away to a pebble-strewn beach, then endless water. His hands wove intricate patterns in the air, his fingers dancing, and frost and ice came to his command. Laughing, he turned to the Nar sorcerer, who stood behind him, nodding in approval—
—“Take care, my friend,” said Arantar. “I do not trust Gaugan’s counsel.” Khasoreth frowned—
—Arantar stood upon the height of the wooden tower, the Great Ice Sea extending to the far horizon below. The other towers of Winterkeep stood beneath him. He and Isenith stood upon the tallest, the Tower of Summer Sun. The wind off the sea blew back her cloak, and her hands went instinctively to her belly, which was just beginning to swell. Arantar smiled—
—“I beg of you,” said Arantar, “do not do this! You are not ready.”
“I am ready!” said Khasoreth, more than a little anger entering his voice. “More than ready. Besides, my apprentices will be there to assist me.”
“Apprentices, Khasoreth. Apprentices! They are less ready than you. You are endangering those four as much as you. This is madness!”
Khasoreth’s eyes narrowed. “Gaugan believes me ready. He said your jealousy would not allow you to see it.”
“Gaugan?” Arantar looked as if he had been struck. “His whispers have poisoned your senses. Listen to me, Kha—”
“I am through listening to you, Master.” He spoke the last word in a sneer. “I thank you for all your years of teaching and counsel. But I am the master now.”
Again the world fell away—
Khasoreth stood upon the promontory, the Hill of the Witness Tree at his back, the Great Ice Sea at his feet. The wind from the north, bringing the season’s first snow, made his cloak seem like wings behind him. The hem of the rich garment, a great cloak the color of ash—the royal winter colors of Raumathar—given to him by the emperor himself, slapped at the torso of his nearest apprentice. They too had cloaks like their master, though the clothes beneath them were not nearly so fine. Three more apprentices stood not far behind their master, the last standing upon the lowest step of the hill itself. Gaugan stood off to the side, two arms’ lengths away from Khasoreth’s outstretched hand.
Khasoreth looked to Gaugan, his face exultant. “I am ready!” he said.
Gaugan nodded and smiled. “Let it be done.”
“Let it begin!” said Khasoreth, then began his incantation.
His four apprentices joined in, their tomes held open before them. Khasoreth had no such need. He had long since committed the rite to memory. As the sun set behind the clouds in the west, he would leave these mortal coils behind and achieve the union he had long desired—to become one with the element of cold and ice rather than simply wielding their power. Arantar was wrong. Gaugan had once served dark powers, but upon swearing loyalty to Raumathar he left such pursuits behind. Without him, Khasoreth would never have achieved such power and knowledge so quickly.
The wind increased, driving the snow into his face and eyes and bringing a harsh, stinging spray off the sea that froze before it hit him. Still he chanted, and the wind blew even stronger.
Cold and ice came at his command, and the beings who knew them as their very nature came at his summoning, answering his call and joining their voices to his. He spoke in rhythm with the crash of the waves, and his apprentices wove their own spells around his, four melodies creating a harmony around his driving beat.
Khasoreth felt ice forming on his skin, in his hair, freezing the water in his eyes, and he smiled. It was working.
Then came the pain.
Slight at first, building not in his body but deep within his mind. The spark of life, the fire of his humanity, flickered and for a moment faltered.
Khasoreth’s smile fell, and he added force to the incantation.
The pain increased. He
heard one of his apprentices cry out, heard the pages of his tome being ripped away by the wind. Within the howl of the wind, behind the song of the elements, he heard cold laughter.
The pain hit him again, even harder this time.
Khasoreth looked to Gaugan. “Help me!”
Gaugan rushed forward and fell to his knees. “Release me!” He pointed to the collar round his neck. The runes engraved there, the incantations binding his power, seemed to glow as the frost thickened in their crevices. “I cannot help you while bound!”
Khasoreth hesitated, and Arantar’s words from years ago ran through his mind—“His heart is dark as winter’s heart.”
The pain in Khasoreth’s mind flared to true agony. His heart hammered in his chest, but every other beat was weaker. His four apprentices were screaming.
Khasoreth brought his staff around, spoke the word of power, and struck the collar round Gaugan’s neck.
A flash of light, and the collar fell away in six shards to clatter on the ground. Gaugan stood and laughed. His hands wove an intricate pattern through his own incantation, his back arched, his eyes rolled back in his head, and the muscles beneath his skin tightened to the point of tearing.
The winter sky behind him split, and the wind that came through it held the stench of death and decay. Five sets of eyes peered out with cold fire, claws rent the air, and they came into the world, screaming.
Gaugan laughed, his voice breaking in his own exultation. It lasted only a moment.
Frostfell Page 17
