You remember me, Kwarun. Though her lips did not move, he heard her husky voice clearly in his mind. It has been many years.
“I … I could never forget you, Holy One,” said the belkagen, and for a moment the years did not weigh so heavily upon him, and he remembered a younger Kwarun, who had come here seeking wisdom and power—and the price he’d paid. It had come with pleasure and pain. He remembered the feel of the oracle’s skin under his caresses, the burning heat of her breath—even now, his heart beat faster at the memory—and the agony of the burden she’d placed on him.
Not long now, said the oracle. The burden shall be yours not much longer.
“That will be both pain and relief.”
As are all things worth having.
“Holy One,” said the belkagen, and he looked down upon Amira. “Why …? Is she …?”
She lives.
“You did this to her.”
Do you care for her so much? The oracle leaned forward slightly and sniffed. Have you given your heart to her?
“You know I haven’t.”
The oracle’s eyes flashed. I do know it. I could smell a lie on you—and I do not. Your truth pleases me. You know my jealousy.
“Is that why you did this to her?”
No.
“Then why?”
She was impertinent. Arrogant. Still, she has a hunter’s heart. Teach her some humility, and she might be great one day.
“What is wrong with her, Holy One?”
The oracle did not answer, and the belkagen looked up. Her form had shrunk somewhat, her features softened into the young maiden that a young Kwarun had first met so many years ago. A small smile played across her lips, but around her eyes was sadness.
I wanted a moment alone with you, she said, before your final road. We shall not meet again. You should have come to me more often during your time in this world.
“Our last coupling nearly killed me, Holy One.”
You did not seem to mind at the time.
Kwarun blushed at the memory and found himself chuckling.
I have a gift for the girl, said the oracle, and she held up the staff.
“It will help her save her son?”
No, said the oracle as she knelt and placed the gold-red staff in Amira’s limp hand. But it will sharpen the bite she gives her enemies. Saving her son … that task is for another.
“Another, Holy One?” said the belkagen. “Who?”
Amira’s hand closed around the staff, she took a deep breath, and the oracle was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Endless Wastes
Jalan discovered something he had not known since Walloch’s slavers captured him and his mother. Hope. That and just a sliver of pride. They swelled in him, giving warmth to a heart that had known only cold for many days.
He still wasn’t sure how he had done it, but he knew one thing for certain: He had hurt that bastard. Hurt him bad. That thing in the ash-gray cloak had threatened to gouge out his eye, and he had taken the thing’s own dagger and made it blaze like the sun. The shriek the cloaked leader had uttered had been surprise, yes, but also pain and fear—and that more than anything … felt good. Give that bastard a taste of his own toxin and see how he likes it, Jalan thought.
Trussed like the huntsman’s catch on the back of the huge wolf as he was, cramped and sore, his skin raw from the ropes’ chafing, still Jalan had to fight to keep his eyes open as the wolves ran over the steppe. He’d awakened as they’d left camp, still dazed from the cloaked leader striking him, his ribs still aching from where the barbarian had kicked him. All that after the long rest should have chased sleep far away, but still Jalan had to fight it.
His mind felt thick and foggy. Had his captors given him something, some foul concoction poured down his throat while he was unconscious? He couldn’t remember.
Maybe something worse. Maybe the cloaked leader had done something to his mind. He shivered at the thought, but for once the idea of that monster hurting him didn’t make him afraid. It made him angry, and he knew he had something inside him that could hurt that monster.
Jalan realized that miles had passed. The air felt frigid and thick. And when had it started snowing? Already the wolves ran through a thick blanket of snow. And still it kept falling and falling from the sky—huge, wet flakes that steamed as they melted off the wolf’s pelt in front of him.
True wakefulness returned before dawn, and Jalan passed the time trying to dredge up whatever power had caused that dagger to shine. He knew beyond doubt that he had done it. He’d felt the power flow through him like blood through an opened vein. But how?
He searched for that thing inside him, that living otherness he’d felt so strongly not long ago. When the power had shot through him, it had felt … beyond good. Wonderful. Intoxicating. He could still sense it—see it almost, but no matter how hard he concentrated, it remained elusive and distant. It might as well have been the sun shining above the surface of the water, and he the drowning man, reaching out, the light forever beyond his grasp.
The hope that Jalan had cherished all night began to fade again.
He closed his eyes. Concentrating all his will, he prayed, Vyaidelon! Vyaidelon, help me!
Nothing. He hadn’t heard a thing from Vyaidelon since the dream three nights ago. Maybe it had been just a dream. His heart knew better, but doubt was beginning to nag at him.
Jalan’s heart lurched as the wolf on which he rode leaped into the air, then fell and fell. A scream was building in Jalan’s throat—he was sure the stupid beast had gone snowblind and run them off a cliff—when the wolf’s paws struck the ground, causing Jalan to bite the inside of his cheek. The wolf ran on, and Jalan heard others making the jump behind him.
The flatness of the land was ending, the steppe beginning to rise and fall in long hills—some miles wide. Amid the rolling snowfields, fissures broke the earth. Most likely gullies where the spring rains gathered and ran on their way to the Great Ice Sea.
The wolves leaped down or sometimes all the way across the smaller valleys. The huge wolves were surprisingly sure-footed and found their way in and out of even the most treacherous of the snow-covered gashes in the earth.
The light was strong enough that Jalan could see several paces in every direction when they stopped at a wide gully with sides so steep that they were forced to search for a safe way down. Jalan watched as their cloaked leader spoke with his barbarian servants. Even a few of the wolves seemed to be attending to the conversation. Although Jalan could not understand their words, he guessed what they were talking about. If he could see this far in such a fierce storm, it meant the sun had risen. Every day so far they had stopped to camp before sunrise. Despite the cloaked leader’s power, he seemed unable to abide the daylight.
Scouts scattered up and down each side of the gully, the great wolves pawing and sniffing. A small chorus of howls announced success, and shortly after the entire band was gathering about a small overhang on the northern side of the gully. The body of two wolves, both torn and mangled, their blood spotting the snow, lay on the ground not far away. Tracks led off eastward where more had fled. Jalan watched as one of the pale barbarians crawled out of a shield-sized hole in the gully wall, pulling the body of another dead wolf behind him.
Several of the wolves from the northerners’ band began feasting on the remains of the pack whose den they’d just pillaged. Jalan grimaced and turned away. His gaze fell on the leader, snow dusting the ash-gray of his cloak, who had dismounted and was headed straight for him.
Jalan pulled away, but his mount lowered to its haunches, and the leader cut him loose. The wolf bounded away, and the leader grabbed Jalan by the rope around his chest and held him up with one hand. Jalan found himself staring into the darkness of the hood. He could make out no distinct features, just a pale blur hinting at the face within.
“Good,” said the leader. “You’re awake. It will make our business easier.”
Rope s
till bound Jalan’s wrists and elbows, but his legs were free and he kicked at the leader’s torso. One blow connected, but it was like striking a tree.
The hand released him, and Jalan fell. After riding for so long in one position, his legs were stiff. Pain shot through his joints. He was halfway to his knees when he felt the leader’s hand grabbing his hair. Jalan just had time to take a quick breath before his face was slammed into the snow. The first time was more surprise than pain, for the snow was thick. But the second truly hurt, and with the third blow his face went all the way through the snow to the rocky ground beneath.
“Enough?”
Jalan found himself looking up into the dark confines of the hood, though he had no memory of being picked up.
“Stop struggling,” said the leader, “or I will begin truly hurting you.”
Jalan tasted blood, snow, and grit in his mouth, but he swallowed it, afraid that spitting it out would be seen as a sign of defiance. Again his mind scrabbled for the power inside him. He found it, but it was dormant, and nothing he did could rouse it.
“This is the very behavior we are about to correct,” said the leader, and he set off through the snow, dragging Jalan behind him.
Jalan could see little more than the hem of the leader’s cloak and boots and the snowy ground beneath, but judging from the general direction, he knew where they were headed.
The leader ducked into the entrance of the wolf den and pulled Jalan after. As the darkness closed over him, panic set in, and raw instinct almost took over and set Jalan to kicking and streaming, but the last of his conscious mind and will held on. He closed his eyes and tried to prepare for the worst.
The tunnel was short, turned upward near the end, and ended in a fair-sized burrow. It was dim but not altogether dark. The all-covering snow outside reflected the light quite some way into the tunnel. Scraps of bone and tufts of hair littered the ground. Roots from the grass on the surface hung down from the ceiling. Then the light winked out—someone had covered the entrance—and Jalan found himself in complete darkness with the thing inside the ash-gray cloak. His nose was overwhelmed with the thick, musky scent of animal, and what little warmth had been left in the den fell into the presence of the cloaked leader like water funneling down a drain. Jalan shivered.
“Long, long years it has been,” said a voice from the darkness. “Long years since we found one where the blood runs as pure as it does in you. I almost wish it were my time. Gerghul will be pleased with you. You will last a long time.”
“D-don’t make me hurt you,” Jalan said, but even he heard the empty threat. His hoarse whisper, just on the verge of tears. “I can, you know. I w-will. D-don’t—”
“Yes, you can. I know you can. And that is why we are here. We’ll have no more of that.”
Hands cold as tomb frost seized Jalan and pulled him close. He kicked and tried to pull away, but the thing’s strength was implacable. He could feel breath, cold and fetid on his face, and he choked. Bile rose to his throat and tears streamed down his cheeks.
In the darkness before him, less than a hand’s width away, he saw two rings of cold fire, like a starlight nimbus filtered through frost. Eyes. They were eyes rimmed in ice, vast and empty. Portals to nothingness, and Jalan felt himself falling in, trying to find something to hold onto, but there was nothing. Drowning. He was drowning in emptiness.
Then something was with him. In his mind. Something hungry and very much aware of him. He could feel its full attention bearing down on him, coming closer.
Jalan could no longer feel his body, but in his mind he screamed. Then the thing had him.
Hro’nyewachu
During the night, the mists froze on the steppes below Akhrasut Neth, and the sky let loose a great cascade of snow—thick, wet flakes that fell harder with each passing moment. By the time the first hint of dawn—no more than a lightening of the dark curtain in the east—struck the sky, Akhrasut Neth and all the surrounding lands lay beneath new snow.
Still Gyaidun, Lendri, and the nearby Vil Adanrath kept their vigil. The wolves found shelter beneath the boughs of the nearby trees—all save Mingan, who stayed with his master near the entrance to the cave. But he was restless, partially from the weather that kept trying to give him a blanket of snow he didn’t want, but also from something else, perhaps some scent or sound coming from the cave.
It was Gyaidun, who paced only a few feet from the entrance, who saw them first.
“There!” he said.
“What is it?” said Lendri, and behind him he heard the Vil Adanrath rustling among the trees.
“A light.”
Lendri saw it then—a faint greenish glow down in the cave that grew stronger with each passing moment. Before long, it was quite bright, staining even the snow outside the entrance the color of new spring leaves.
Mingan hopped around the entrance, barking and yipping, and Durja emerged from the folds of Gyaidun’s cloak to alight upon an outcropping of stone beside the entrance.
They saw the belkagen first, his staff held high, the flames at its tip the source of the green glow. Behind him walked Amira, huddled in her cloak, her long hair still damp. Her left hand held her cloak closed against the chill, but her right held a staff almost as tall as Gyaidun.
The pair emerged from the cave. The belkagen stopped just outside the entrance, and Mingan came to lick his fingers. Gyaidun stepped to the entrance to take Amira’s hand and help her up the final step. She gave him a smile of thanks. Lendri noted the weariness around her eyes.
“Are you well?” Gyaidun asked her.
“Well enough,” she said. “Very tired.”
“Hear me, my people!” said the belkagen.
Lendri turned and saw that the Vil Adanrath came as close as their honor would allow, hugging the treeline. His father stood just outside the nearest boughs, the falling snow dusting his head and shoulders.
“Hro’nyewachu guides our road,” said the belkagen. “Lady Amira has sought her wisdom and lived.”
The Vil Adanrath, both elves and wolves, let out a great howl, and even Mingan joined in.
“Gather your strength,” said the belkagen. “For tonight we hunt!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Endless Wastes
Screaming. Jalan could hear it, made faint by distance or … something else. Some barrier or thickness. The voice was familiar. He knew it. He was sure. Then it hit him. It was his own voice, the screams and yells and shrieks finally fading to pleading—all that and more in the den of the dead wolves.
Another sound intruded. Howling. But not the malicious howling of the cloaked leader’s pack that reminded Jalan of cold winter and empty places. This howling came from far away, and in it he heard the call of brothers.
Jalan opened his eyes. Again he was tied to the back of one of the great wolves. The sky was dark, but the fresh snowfall seemed to gather in the tiniest bit of light and reflect it back, giving the world a muted ghostly cast. He could make out the large forms of the other wolves and their riders milling about.
They’d stopped. Why?
The howling. It came from the distant horizon in front of them. Jalan had once spoken to one of the rangers who patrolled around High Horn. The man told him that wolves have a language all their own, far more intricate than most people knew. They spoke not with words, but with movement, posture, the cant of ears and tail, a look of the eye, yips, barks, growls, and over great distance they howled. What they were saying now, Jalan did not know, but the wolves of the cloaked leader’s band obviously did. They seemed agitated, and Jalan could feel the growling deep within his mount’s chest.
The barbarians were shouting back and forth in their own tongue. Their leader allowed it for a few moments, then cut them off with a harsh command. The barbarians stiffened, and Jalan could see that they did not approve of their lord’s command but were too frightened to disagree.
The leader shouted something, and the company set off again, heading northward
, straight into the chorus of howls.
Amira found Gyaidun just under the northern lip of the ridge. The broad valley, now filled with snow, spread out beneath them. She sat down beside him and huddled into her cloak. Gyaidun glanced at her, then continued watching the land beneath them. There was an agitated stirring inside his cloak that Amira knew was Durja, huddled up and trying to keep warm.
“Where is Lendri?” she asked.
“He walks the dreamroad.” Gyaidun motioned up the rise, but Amira could see nothing up there but grass and bushes covered in snow. “You have been speaking with the belkagen?”
“Yes.”
“Your … journey to Hro’nyewachu,” said Gyaidun, “it went well?”
Amira shuddered and closed her eyes. After their day’s journey—two more trips with her magic, followed by a long run; the Mother’s Bed was now far, far behind them—she’d spent most of the evening discussing her vision with the belkagen. Even after seeking his wisdom, she still did not understand parts of it, but what she did disturbed her.
She now knew that she was not merely a parent on a desperate quest to save her son. She stood in the forefront of something much larger than she’d ever imagined, perhaps no more than a page or two in a long history that had been going on for thousands of years. It made her feel very small. She’d come to Gyaidun, the only other human for miles, in hopes of feeling a little less small—and not so terribly alone.
“If you don’t wish to speak of it …” said Gyaidun.
“You want to know if I discovered anything to help your son.”
“Did you?”
“I … don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Gyaidun’s voice sounded flat, on the verge of anger.
“It wasn’t like I thought it would be—me asking the oracle questions, her answering and demanding payment. It was—” Her body began to shiver and would not stop.
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