mother's heart. You have a mother's need.
Your hearts will beat the same song, I think. I could brave Hro'nyewachu again, and if you refuse, I will go.' He had said it, had he not? I could brave Hro'nyewachu again… I will go… I will go … I will go… brave Hro'nyewachu again… His words came to him again and again, almost as if they were the echoes of the water drip-drip-dripping into the pool before him. Should he go after her? In his heart, he knew there was nothing he could do for her. He'd told her that, as well, and he knew it to be true. But neither could he just walk away. Not without knowing. Even if he couldn't help her, perhaps there was something he could learn to help them, some new vision thatHe heard a splash. Not of something falling into the water.
Nothing that hard. But he heard something breaking the surface of the water out beyond the reach of his light. 'Lady Amira?' he called.
Nothing. Just the steady plip-plip of water droplets hitting the pool.
But as he watched, the small globe of light reflecting on the surface rippled. Something had disturbed the water farther out. He listened, his ears straining, but there was nothing more. The belkagen raised his staff and spoke an incantation. The flames flickering along its tip roared to new life, a green beacon in the darkness. There!
Something was floating in the water. It wasn't moving. The belkagen tore at the ties of his cloak and left it piled on the shore. It would soak in the water and weigh him down. His clothes would as well, but he didn't want to take the time to remove them. Staff held high, he charged into the water. The shape floated several paces away, the waves caused by his passage pushed it farther out. He could make out no distinct features, but even in the dim light he could see long, dark hair and fair skin. He cursed and pushed his legs harder. The water was splashing up his chest and over his shoulders when he drew close enough to reach out and grab the figure. His fingers closed around wet hair and he pulled. It was Amira, floating facedown in the water. The belkagen got a better grip on her forearm, then dragged her back to shore. He threw her down and turned her over. Her skin was pale, cold to the touch, and her lips were blue. Long, wet tendrils of her hair spread over her bare breasts, and the belkagen saw that her chest did not move. She wasn't breathing. 'No!' He threw his staff aside and knelt beside her. Closing his eyes, he sent his senses through her body, washing over and through her skin, down into muscle, blood, and bone. There! Life still flickered within her, faint and growing weaker with each passing moment, but it was still there. She is not dead. The belkagen started and looked up. A great she-wolf, fur gray as clouds laden with spring rain, stood before the entrance, staring down at him with eyes the color of moonlight. 'Hro'nyewachu!' said the belkagen. The she-wolf walked toward him, and with each step her form blurred and swirled, and motes of light and darkness danced before the belkagen's eyes. When she stopped a few paces away, a tall, lithe woman stood over him. Whatever color her skin was, it was hidden beneath a dark, slick wetness that by the smell the belkagen knew to be blood, though not from any creature that walked in this world. Her hair was made up in scores of tight braids that hung to her waist, and bits of bone, feathers, and spring flowers peeked out from among them.
In her right hand she held a staff almost as long as she was tall. It was made from some golden-red wood flecked with darker grains of brown and black. The belkagen had never seen its like. 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 snow-blind 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
