There, basking in the light of a sun that was beginning to fade back behind the clouds, Amira caught a fleeting glimpse of the young man he must once have been. A look of peace settled onto his face. And he died.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Endless Wastes They walked many miles after the great battle of Winterkeep, the Vil Adanrath, the exiles, and the war wizard carrying their dead over the snow-covered steppes. Tired as they were, many of them wounded, the Vil Adanrath would not burn their dead so close to Iket Sotha. In killing the Fist of Winter, a great evil had been banished from the world, but many foul things still lurked in the dark places of Winterkeep. The survivors and their dead gathered in a valley filled with small trees and scraggly bushes. Those not wounded went far and wide, searching for enough wood to burn so many. Far away as they were, Amira could still smell Yal Tengri on the back of the north wind. The scent filled her with mixed emotions. She had seen so much horror and sadness there on the shore of the Great Ice Sea, but she had also regained her son there-and witnessed what she could only describe as a wonder. A miracle. Whatever beings had worked through Jalan, Gyaidun, and Erun… she was glad she had seen them. She didn't understand them, but in her heart she knew they were… good. There was no other word for it. In a world filled with so much sadness, so much compromise, corruption, so much light mixing with darkness, she had seen what she could only describe as good incarnate.
Jalan and Erun both slept beside the fire. Watching them, the knowledge she'd gained in Hro'nyewachu was confirmed. Anyone could have seen the family resemblance. The same high cheekbones, the slight cant to their eyes-both of them even slept with one arm outside the blanket. Separated by generations they certainly were, Erun only half-human, their relation distant at best, but the blood of Arantar ran strong in both of them. "Lady," said a voice behind her, and she turned. Lendri and Gyaidun stood there. Mingan the wolf lingered not far away, and Durja perched on his master's shoulder. Both warriors still bore the wounds of battle-both in the haunted look in their eyes and the many cuts, scrapes, and bruises behind their bandages. Amira had done what she could for them, mixing potions for which she could find ingredients, but she was no cleric, and her knowledge of healing went little beyond dressing battle wounds. "What is it?" she asked, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Erun and Jalan. "We must prepare the belkagen," said Lendri. "For the fire. At sunset, the pyres must be lit." "We?" she asked. "The duty falls to us." "But… but you're exiles and I'm an outlander. The Vil Adanrath-" "The belkagen died fighting by our side," said Gyaidun. "The duty falls to us." Amira looked to Lendri. "And your father, he approves of this?"
"It is our way," said Lendri. "The omah nin will not help us, but he will not interfere." Amira stood. "Show me what to do."
The three of them swaddled the belkagen in the remains of his cloak, wrapped him in one of the spare deerhide blankets, and bound it all with tough leather thongs. When they finished, only the belkagen's head could be seen. Dried blood and dirt still smeared his face and caked his hair. Amira used a little water and the hem of her cloak to clean it off. Amira looked down on the face and laughed sadly. "A ghost of fire." "What?" said Gyaidun. "The first time I saw him," she said, "I was wounded. Half dead, more likely. And delirious. I woke with him bending over me, chanting beside the fire. My first thought was, 'A ghost of fire.' Looking at him now, I see no ghost, no fire."
Both warriors exchanged a look and scowled, probably thinking it some subtlety of Common that they didn't understand. "Our people believe the body is only a home for our ghost," said Lendri, "and our word for 'ghost' is uskeche." "Uskeche?" "It means fire," said Gyaidun. Amira looked down at the belkagen's face. There was no fire there. Not anymore. Only a vague remembrance of it, like cold ashes. "I…" said Amira, and found tears welling in her eyes. "I never thought… it would be him. Going after my son, chasing his captors, I thought I might die. I half-expected you two to get yourselves killed, but I never thought… not him." They stood in silence over the body a moment before Lendri spoke. "I think he did." "What?" "I have thought long about this," said Lendri. "All belkagen are given wisdom in Hro'nyewachu. It is said it is the source of much of their power. But Belkagen Kwarun once told me that his blessing was just as much a curse. 'The one burden no warrior should ever bear,' he told me."
"What was it?" asked Amira. "He never told me, but I think Hro'nyewachu showed him his own death. It is the one thing every warrior risks but the one thing he never knows. But I think the belkagen knew." Gyaidun nodded, his eyes distant and a cold fire burning in them. "Yes," he said. "On Arzhan Island, when he heard Amira's tale… she awoke a great fear in him. I think it may have been why he balked at first." His face clouded, his nostrils flaring, and he looked away. "I shamed him. And myself. I… should have-"
"No," said Amira. "No, I think you made him proud. He was afraid, yes.
Who wouldn't be? But you reminded him of courage and woke it in him. I only knew him a short time, but I think he was proud-very proud-of both of you."
The Vil Adanrath built dozens of pyres, arranging them in a wide ring on the hilltop. Finding enough wood for so many had been no easy task, but the survivors had roamed many leagues and brought every scrap they could find. When that was not enough, they dug through the snow, cut the grass beneath, and bundled it into tight sheaves. The heavy snowfall-already melting with the return of autumn weather-made everything damp, but the Vil Adanrath had lived in the Wastes for many generations, and building fires in the snowfields was the least of their skills. The belkagen's pyre was the tallest of all, a waist-high bed of grass and sticks that stood in the middle of the great ring of dead Vil Adanrath. The belkagen lay upon it, his staff beside him. The sun touched the rim of the world in the west, and a great howling filled the air. The surviving Vil Adanrath, elves and wolves, stood just outside the ring of pyres. Each stood over a fallen comrade, brother, sister, or lover. Some few of the older elves stood over the body of one of their adult children. All stood honor's distance away from the hrayeket, Lendri and Gyaidun, who stood witness over the belkagen. Amira had chosen to stay with them, as had Jalan and Erun.