me. I found out that he'd had my mother killed. He was planning a suitable death for me when the caravan was attacked by bandits. They killed old Koro. Staked him in the sun and cut off his eyelids. But they took me captive and headed east. 'Gone from the hands of one master to another, I killed the man guarding me and fled. I grew up among various tribes, clans, and nomads. I was fifteen or so when the bandits I ran with were attacked by the Vil Adanrath. They spared me. Why, I don't know, but they did.
I spent many days as their captive. Eventually, Haerul, their omah nin-like a chief or a king-set me free, but I followed them, mile upon mile, day after day.' Gyaidun shrugged. 'It is a long tale, but I came to live among them. Lendri was Haerul's son. In many hunts, he saved my life, and I saved his. We…' They walked on, the horses plodding behind them. Amira was beginning to fear that Gyaidun had decided against sharing any more with her when he finally spoke up again.
'They named me athkaraye-'elf-friend' in your tongue, maybe-and I gained many blessings, both of spirit and body, with the honor, but I will never truly be Vil Adanrath. They are an ancient folk, not of this world. But… Lendri and I, we swore our lives to one another.
Life for life. Death to death. Blood brothers. Rathla.' 'Blood brothers? Because you cut hands? Mingle your blood?' 'Brothers of the same womb are called milk brothers,' said Gyaidun, 'because they share the same mother's milk. It is a sacred bond, but only so far. The gods choose your family. Rathla choose each other. The pact is sworn before the gods as we mingle our blood. He who breaks the covenant of milk is cast out from the clan.' Gyaidun took his free hand and traced the scars along his cheeks. 'The scars of an exile, barred from the pack.
But he who breaks the covenant of blood is lower than a dog. His own clan and family will hunt him down and scatter his body to the four winds.' 'You broke the… the covenant of milk? That's why you and Lendri were exiled?' 'Do all ladies of your land ask so many questions?' 'No.' Amira looked at him. His eyes still scanned their surroundings. There had been no malice in his voice. The ways of these easterners were strange to her, and after so long being among them-years fighting in the war and days that turned into tendays searching for her son in these lands-she had learned much, but she'd never been comfortable with their ways. Until now. Though the big man's face was still a mask of serene seriousness, she saw it for just that: a mask. Something in his tone said that he was at ease with her.
One desperate parent with another, willing to kill and die for a child. One warrior to another. For the first time since she'd been taken in by this big man and his rathla and thrust in the midst of their strange ways, she felt oddly… at ease. 'I've never been quite … at home among my people,' said Amira. 'Questioning my parents, my family, my 'betters' among the aristocracy, my arcane masters. I…'
She stopped, searching for the proper words. None came. 'Kweshta,' said Gyaidun. 'What?' 'Kweshta. It is a word of the Vil Adanrath.
There is no good word in the Common tongue. It means a special one.
One who does not quite… 'fit in.' But in a good way. A special one.
Dear. Unique. You stand out among your people, part of them still, but set apart.' Gyaidun shrugged, and Amira thought she saw the hint of a blush in his cheeks. 'Kweshta.' Amira felt her own cheeks growing hot.
'You didn't answer my question.' 'Question?' 'Why were you and Lendri…?' 'Exiled?' 'Yes.' 'Enough talk for now,' said Gyaidun, and his countenance had gone hard and implacable. His eyes continued to search their surroundings. 'I did not mean to pry,' said Amira. 'I-'
'Enough,' said Gyaidun. 'All you do is pry. No more. Time to walk.' He quickened his pace, dragging the plodding horses behind him and putting distance between him and Amira. Amira could have easily kept up with him. The stubborn side of her nature-the dominant side of her nature-would have and almost did. But this once she let it go.
They walked through most of the morning. Though the Mother's Bed loomed large on the horizon, dozens of small gullies, dry washes, and little valleys broke the land between them and the hill. It was near midday before they came to the first rise in land that marked the foot of Akhrasut Neth. Gyaidun stopped to rest the horses, and Amira turned and looked off southward. By Gyaidun's estimate they had traveled more than a hundred miles with Amira's spell. If Jalan and his captors were indeed on winter wolves-and Amira had little doubt, given the tracking skills she'd seen Gyaidun display the past two days-their quarry could easily cross that distance in two nights. Amira turned to Gyaidun and said, 'If we linger here waiting for Lendri and the belkagen, Jalan's captors will be miles ahead of us.' Gyaidun nodded. 'I've considered that. If they're headed for Winterkeep as you say, their path is some miles north of us. We came almost due east. If they continue in the direction their tracks were headed, they're headed northeast-straight to Iket Sotha if'-slight hesitation-'the belkagen was right. If you can work your magic again… you can, can't you?' 'With rest and study, yes.' 'We can get ahead of them. If Lendri can gather the Vil Adanrath, we'll spread out. The pack will find them.' 'If Lendri or the belkagen can find them,' said Amira. 'You said yourself that you two are exiles.' 'Haerul will come.' 'Haerul?' 'My wife's father.'
'The one who cast you and Lendri out?' Amira smirked, but Gyaidun was looking off southward and didn't see it. 'Yes,' he said. Amira snorted. 'What makes you so sure?' 'If there is even a whisper of hope of finding his grandson, he'll tear a hole to the Nine Hells-and gods have mercy on any who stand in his way.' 'We're after Jalan, Gyaidun.
Jalan. If we learn something of your son, I swear on my family I'll help you if you help me save Jalan. But right now we know Jalan is alive. That is certain. Your son is just a… a hope.' Gyaidun gave her a dark look, then turned his back and began leading the horses up the hill.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Endless Wastes
Dark and cold. Cold and dark. They had filled Jalan since waking.
Through the dried flesh and stale drink that served as his evening breakfast, through the binding of his wrists, the forced march, the wind in his face, the stench of wolf… through it all had been dark and cold. Even the distant stars seemed only points of ice in darkness. But that cold darkness cracked. A fire in the valley below, a distant promise of warmth, broke through the night. From it Jalan could hear the last of the screams. After running half the night, Jalan's captors had come across a band of nomads. They'd fallen on them like an autumn gale, tooth and claw ripping into their sentries, sword and spear stabbing and cutting even as the nomads had struggled out of their blankets and yurts. Jalan sat on the rise above the carnage. His guard had dismounted from the huge white wolf and pulled him down after. Better that the wolf not be encumbered as it slaughtered. Tired and terrified as he was, Jalan had not been able to look away. He guessed it was well past midnight but a while still till dawn, the moon long since set, and he could see little but the occasional shadow passing in front of the distant fire. But he could hear them. Hear the nomads screaming-first in warning, then in defiance, then in despair. They did not cry for mercy. Just as well, Jalan thought. The wolves and their riders had none. Jalan shivered.
Even with their cloaked leader down there amid the carnage, still his unearthly cold lingered. Heat, warmth, light… Jalan remembered them only as abstracts. Concepts. He knew they existed but could not remember their feeling. Despite the screams and the blood he knew soaked the grass, the deepest part of him longed for the fire glowing in the valley below. A scream-a woman's, Jalan thought-rose high, then was cut off, almost instantly, and just behind the sighing of the wind over the grass Jalan thought he half-heard and half-felt the sound of jaws shredding and bone crunching. Then the wolves below set to howling, filling the night with their song. Jalan's guard grabbed his bound wrists, lifted him to his feet, and dragged him down the slope.
Jalan's feet moved of their own accord. His body longed for the warmth of the fire, but his mind fled screaming at being pulled nearer to the one in the ash-gray cloak that he knew walked the shadows below. They entered the camp, passing groups of wolves crouched over the remains of their prey. The guard pulled Jalan to the fire, took the bonds from his wrists, and dropped him to the ground. The fire burned low, but the light and warmth pulsing from it like lifeblood pulled Jalan in.
One of the huge wolves stood just inside the circle of light cast by the fire. It crouched over what had once been a Tuigan nomad but was now no more than an unmoving mass of cooling blood and gore that steamed in the chill night air. The wolf lifted its snout from its feast and looked at Jalan, its muzzle a contrast of white fur and wet darkness that Jalan knew was blood. Light, hungry and hot, reflected in its eyes, then it lowered its muzzle to its
