CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Endless Wastes The sorcerer, still swathed in his scorched and torn ash-gray cloak, and his three remaining Frost Folk rode upon winter wolves to the shore of the Great Ice Sea. One riderless winter wolf trailed them. It was past midday, but the unrelenting storm was so thick, and the sky so dark, that it gave them enough cover to keep moving throughout the day. This close to the water the air was heavy with moisture, and the snow fell in great clumps, some almost as big as a man's hand. One of the Frost Folk fell from the back of his wolf and lay in the snow. The man had half a Vil Adanrath arrow in his ribs. He had spent most of the day coughing, and the front of his body was smeared with his own blood. The wolf he'd been riding sidestepped and looked down on him. The man lay in the snow, unmoving except for the swift rising and falling of his chest. Another of the Frost Folk lifted his leg and slid off his own mount. He knelt beside his fallen companion, examined the wound, then stood and spoke to his master. The sorcerer still sat atop his wolf, both of them staring into the face of the storm. He turned at his servant's words and looked down on the fallen man. "He is beyond help," said the sorcerer in the tongue of the far north. "And the wolves are hungry." The sorcerer dismounted.
His wolf turned and joined his fellows in their meager meal. The man never even screamed. One swift snap from a wolf's jaws, and it was over for him. The two remaining Frost Folk turned away from the carnage and watched their master. Ignoring them, the sorcerer climbed to the very lip of the promontory. Standing in the full force of the wind, the remains of his cloak and robes fluttered and cracked. It didn't seem to bother him, not even when his cowl flew back, exposing his long hair and pallid skin to the biting frost. The Frost Folk watched as their master basked in the frigid wind off the Great Ice Sea. The intense cold and fury of the storm seemed to lend him strength, reinvigorating him, but still he leaned heavily upon his staff. A foe-a woman!-had managed to do something no other had in generations. She'd hurt him. Hurt him badly. The sorcerer stood there a long while, his men watching. When he sat upon the very edge of the rock, the Frost Folk exchanged a furtive glance. Their forefathers had served the Fist of Winter for hundreds of years, their devotion born out of the rewards given to them by the dark sorcerers, but also out of fear. They served their fiendish masters because the Fist of Winter gave them the gifts necessary to survive in the far north, where months passed without the light of the sun. The Fist of Winter gave the Frost Folk power to overcome their enemies and to eke out a living in a world of ice and darkness. But the glance these two exchanged said something that none of their people had dared speak aloud for generations. They had a new fear: that their masters could be beaten, that there were stronger powers in the world. The sorcerer clutched his staff to his chest and leaned back, breathing deep of the storm's fury. Slowly at first, but gathering strength as he found his rhythm, the sorcerer began an incantation. What little warmth still gripped the air lost its hold. No longer did the snow fall in great, wet clumps. The flakes shrank and froze, hard as minuscule diamonds. Even the gray daylight dimmed to a thick gloom. A silver eldritch light flickered around the sorcerer. Beyond the sound of his voice, the hiss of driving snow, and the hard slap of the waves on the rocks below, came the sound of voices riding on the wind.
Amira finished stuffing the last of her supplies into the pack and pulled the straps tight. Jalan lay beside her, still sleeping beside the fire. She'd have to wake him soon. He'd awakened a while ago, but only long enough to have a few bites of food and swallow a mouthful of water. She had held him while he ate, and the fact that he let her filled her with a mixture of relief and dismay. Jalan had not let her hold him like this for years. He was on the verge of manhood, and though she missed holding her son, she understood why it made him uncomfortable. She'd welcomed holding him this morning, but doing so only emphasized how deeply Jalan had been hurt. Not so much on the outside-he looked underfed and exhausted, but other than the torn and bruised skin from too-tight ropes, his captors had done him no real harm. But his spirit had been hurt. Pensive and sometimes sullen Jalan had been replaced by a scared little boy who jumped at sudden sounds and huddled away from shadows. Amira heard footsteps behind her-heavy and deliberate, so unlike the furtive tread of the elves-and she knew at once who it was. She stood and turned to look up at Gyaidun. She almost didn't recognize him. His countenance had lost all vitality.
His features, which she had first seen as hard and chiseled, now seemed merely haggard and tired. Even his eyes seemed fragile and hollow. "Amira," he said. He stopped, his mouth hanging open as if he meant to continue, but then he shut it and shook his head. "Gyaidun," she said, and was ashamed to hear the accusation in her voice. Her head knew she should feel pity for the man, but her heart was angry.
"Did you come to say your farewells?" "Farewells?" "Lendri told me you aren't coming with us." No, she thought, you are staying here while your blood brother goes off to face certain death. "I can't, Amira," he said. "I can't come and… and try to kill my own son." Amira stood and hefted her pack. She felt no pity for that monster in the ash-gray cloak, not even a little, but still she tried to force some gentleness and warmth into her voice. "Gyaidun, he… he isn't your son anymore. You know that, don't you?" Gyaidun looked away. "I am sorry," she said. "I really am. What happened to your son, to Erun, it's… unforgivable. Monstrous. It's… blasphemous. But it happened. That thing you saw may have been wearing Erun's body, but the heart of what made him Erun isn't there anymore, Gyaidun. I know."
"You learned this," he said, his voice raw, "in Hro'nyewachu? She… she told you this?" Amira hesitated. The belkagen had warned her of the dangers of sharing the secrets of the oracle. "Told me?" she said.
"No. I saw it, Gyaidun. I saw it happen again and again through the centuries." Gyaidun stood there, letting that sink in, then said,
"You're going to kill him." Amira took a deep breath and looked Gyaidun in the eye. He towered over her. Still, as he was now, broken and hurt, she felt stronger, felt as though she should be the one protecting him. But this was one truth from which she could not protect him. That would be no mercy. "Yes," she said. "I'm going to try. If I don't, he'll do the same to my son. And others." "You know this?" he said, and the slightest flicker of the old Gyaidun's fire lit his gaze. "I do know it," she said. She put her gloved hand on his forearm and squeezed. He stared down at her hand, then looked up at her. "Watch out for Lendri," he said. "The Vil Adanrath will fight to the death, but they won't help him. He'll be on his own out there."
Not if you'd come with us, she wanted to say, but she didn't. Gyaidun turned and walked away. She watched until he was little more than a pale shadow cloaked in falling snow, then there was only the snow.
"Don't judge him too harshly." Amira turned, and the belkagen was standing only a few paces away. "I really thought he would come with us," she said. "Even with hope for Erun gone, I thought he'd want vengeance at least. Not, this, this…" "Despair?" "Yes." "Gyaidun is not a coward, Lady." "I know he isn't." The belkagen looked down at Jalan and asked, "Do you pray, Lady?" "Sometimes, yes." "Pray for Gyaidun. After what happened, he has embraced one of the gravest sins: