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.