shouting back and forth in their own tongue. Their leader allowed it for a few moments, then cut them off with a harsh command. The barbarians stiffened, and Jalan could see that they did not approve of their lord's command but were too frightened to disagree. The leader shouted something, and the company set off again, heading northward, straight into the chorus of howls.
Amira found Gyaidun just under the northern lip of the ridge. The broad valley, now filled with snow, spread out beneath them. She sat down beside him and huddled into her cloak. Gyaidun glanced at her, then continued watching the land beneath them. There was an agitated stirring inside his cloak that Amira knew was Durja, huddled up and trying to keep warm. 'Where is Lendri?' she asked. 'He walks the dreamroad.' Gyaidun motioned up the rise, but Amira could see nothing up there but grass and bushes covered in snow. 'You have been speaking with the belkagen?' 'Yes.' 'Your… journey to Hro'nyewachu,' said Gyaidun, 'it went well?' Amira shuddered and closed her eyes. After their day's journey-two more trips with her magic, followed by a long run; the Mother's Bed was now far, far behind them-she'd spent most of the evening discussing her vision with the belkagen. Even after seeking his wisdom, she still did not understand parts of it, but what she did disturbed her. She now knew that she was not merely a parent on a desperate quest to save her son. She stood in the forefront of something much larger than she'd ever imagined, perhaps no more than a page or two in a long history that had been going on for thousands of years. It made her feel very small. She'd come to Gyaidun, the only other human for miles, in hopes of feeling a little less small-and not so terribly alone. 'If you don't wish to speak of it…' said Gyaidun.
'You want to know if I discovered anything to help your son.' 'Did you?' 'I… don't know.' 'You don't know?' Gyaidun's voice sounded flat, on the verge of anger. 'It wasn't like I thought it would be-me asking the oracle questions, her answering and demanding payment. It was-' Her body began to shiver and would not stop. 'Are you cold?' asked Gyaidun. 'Yes,' she said, though in truth she wasn't. The belkagen had given her more kanishta roots, and beyond giving her renewed energy, they filled her body-right down to her toes and fingertips-with a pleasant, buzzing warmth. Gyaidun moved closer, put his arm around her, and wrapped them both in his huge cloak. Durja squawked in protest but soon nestled between them quite comfortably.
'The oracle,' Amira continued, 'showed me… things. The past mostly, farther back even than the wars between Narfell and Raumathar that destroyed them both.' 'What does that have to do with my son? And yours?' He was very close, and Amira could feel his breath against her ear. She was shaking so hard that her teeth were chattering. 'You remember the belkagen speaking of Arantar?' 'Yes,' said Gyaidun.
'Everyone in these lands knows those tales.' 'If… if I understood correctly, it seems that Arantar is most likely one of your grandsires.' Gyaidun snorted. 'You can't meet anyone between the Lake of Steam and Yal Tengri who doesn't claim Arantar or Khasoreth as their grandsire.' 'Arantar had only one son before he… before he died. Khasoreth had no children.' Speaking Khasoreth's name, the warmth coursing through her body seemed to freeze. 'But Arantar's son had many children-and each of them in turn had many children. His blood spread throughout the Wastes.' 'What does this have to do with Erun and Jalan?' She had shared most of what she'd seen with the belkagen, his sharp brows furrowing deeper and deeper the longer she spoke. He'd taken it all in, adding his own bits of wisdom gleaned from years of study and learning the lore of the Wastes. And so they knew why young men were taken and who was taking them. But the belkagen had warned her most strongly not to tell Gyaidun. She'd balked, claiming he had as much right to know as she did-and more than the belkagen-and the old elf hadn't disagreed, but he'd told her,
'Gyaidun loved Hlessa and Erun more than anything. More than his own life and honor. He blames himself for their loss, the damned fool. And no amount of reasoning from you or me will convince him otherwise.
'All these years he has hoped of finding his son again. It is the one bit of tenderness left in his heart. Do not destroy that, Lady Amira.
Do not. It would be a wicked thing. A cruel thing.' And so Amira told Gyaidun an abbreviated version of what she'd learned, but she did not tell him what the sorcerers did with those they took. That, she spared Gyaidun. 'These five devil-possessed sorcerers,' said Gyaidun, 'they are the ones who took Erun, who have Jalan?' 'At least one of them, yes,' said Amira. 'And what can we do to stop them? To get Jalan back and save Erun?' 'I don't know.' 'You don't know?' His voice had returned to the edge of anger. 'I'm no mage or shaman, but even I can recognize runes of power when I see them. That's no walking stick she gave you.' Amira looked down at the staff across her lap. She'd spent what time she could studying it, and although the runes were like none she'd ever seen, she understood them. Whether the oracle had opened her understanding or the staff itself gave some power to its bearer, Amira did not know, but already she had learned several of its uses.
She didn't know if it would be enough to kill the thing that had her son, but based on her past encounter with him, she thought it would definitely give them an advantage. 'The oracle said… said to get Jalan to the Witness Tree. 'Beyond that, I give you no assurances,' she said. 'Death and life will meet. Only those who surrender will triumph.'' 'And what does that mean?' 'I have no idea, Gyaidun.' She felt his entire body stiffen beside her, but he said nothing. Between them, Durja ruffled his feathers, squawked, and pushed himself from between them to perch on Gyaidun's knee. 'May I tell you something?' she asked. She turned to Gyaidun, though in the dark his face was no more than a dim shadow. 'Will anything I say prevent it?' he replied, but she heard the humor in his voice. 'My old master, my mentor, the man who was more of a father to me than my real father, told me something the night before I set out to war. He said, 'The true warrior does not fight because he hates what is in front of him. The true warrior fights because he loves what is behind him.'' 'Lady,' said Gyaidun, 'the bastards we are hunting took away the only ones I ever loved-butchered my wife and left her body in the open for the vultures and took my son. All I have left now is hate. Hate and a thirst for vengeance.' 'And what then? What happens on the day you take your vengeance? What will you have left then?' He looked away.
'Gyaidun?'
'Yes?'
'Hold me.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Endless Wastes
The vanguard of winter wolves kept to their course, their pace unflagging, but every one was skittish. Winter wolves were one of the fiercest predators in the Endless Wastes, and a pack this size should have gone unchallenged. But the land ahead of them was alive with wolfsong, and in the howling the winter wolves heard a challenge. Even a huge pack of wolves should have fled before them. But these did not.
They were standing their ground and urging the winter wolves on. That made the winter wolves and their riders nervous, but still their leader urged them on. And so the vanguard, ten winter wolves in all, ran. On the crest of the rise before them they saw the smaller wolves-four furtive shadows against the white of the snow. The newcomers growled and barked, giving a show of threat, but as soon as the winter wolves headed for them, they turned tail and ran, disappearing over the hill. The winter wolves pursued, picking up their quarry's scent as they made their way over the rise. Below them the land fell into a stand of trees where a stream most likely flowed in spring and summer. The smaller wolves were just disappearing into the cover of the trees, and the winter wolves doubled their speed, bounding down the slope in great clouds of snow. The first entered the deep blue shadows beneath the trees, his fellows hard on his tail. A cold fire lit their eyes. As the last entered the wood, the first arrows hissed out from the high boughs, each one flying true into the sides of the winter wolves. Yelping, the great white wolves stopped, more shocked than hurt, and looked up into the trees. Many shapes were there, silver in the meager light reflecting off the snow, each of them holding a bow. The trees were not that high, and winter wolves were good jumpers. These silver shadows would make easy prey. Their leader growled, baring his fangs, the largest of them as long as a man's hand. The second volley tore into them, and a third just after.
The winter wolves roared in pain, but only two were truly hurt-one with a shaft deep in her throat, another who had taken an arrow in the eye and was taking his last breath. The winter wolves tightened their muscles, preparing to leap into the trees and feast on their attackers. Wolves-the four who had acted as bait joined by ten more-hit them from two directions, tearing with their teeth and swiping with their claws. The archers cast aside their bows, drew blade or spear, and leaped down. It was over in moments.
