the snow-stitched darkness. Gyaidun scrambled backward, the sorcerer advancing on him, and on the fourth step his heel struck a rock or tussock buried under the snow and he stumbled. He hit the ground but kept going, struggling like a crab on all fours. The thing in the ash-gray cloak lunged, his cloak flaring in the gale, and grabbed Gyaidun under the chin. The grip was beyond cold. It seemed to leech every bit of warmth from Gyaidun's skull, and he could feel his bones and the fluids in his ears freezing. The sorcerer stood, and although the arm that gripped him was thinner than a starved cadaver, he lifted Gyaidun's thick frame off the ground and brought him close.
Even with his elf-blessed sight, Gyaidun's vision could not penetrate the depths of the sorcerer's cowl, not even when the sorcerer pulled him close. The wind was at the sorcerer's back, and Gyaidun could smell the stench of tombs and worse from the thing's robes. The sorcerer inhaled deeply-Gyaidun could just hear it over the wind.
'Yes,' said the sorcerer. 'I know your blood. You might have been the one. Might have-' Gyaidun thrust his knife into the robes. He kept the blade sharp enough to shave with, and the point punctured through the layers of cloth. Gyaidun felt the steel hit a rib, turn, and plunge deep. The sorcerer gasped, but his grip did not weaken. 'You have bite,' the sorcerer said. 'Like your pup. He fought, too.' Blind rage filled Gyaidun. He stabbed, slashed, kicked, and punched. The sorcerer caught his wrist that held the knife, twisted, squeezed-Gyaidun held on through the bones grinding, but when they broke he let go and the knife fell to the ground. 'Enough,' said the sorcerer. 'Time to die.
Time to-' An avalanche of snarling, whimpering fur hit them. The icy grip under his jaw slipped, and Gyaidun hit the snow and rolled free.
A massive paw smashed his shoulder into the ground, then was gone. His body was a mass of pain, but Gyaidun forced himself to keep rolling down the hill. He stopped several paces down and looked up just in time to see white haunches and tail disappearing into the storm. The sorcerer's winter wolf. It was still blinded by Amira's spell and maddened by pain. It must have slammed into them. Then the shadow was on him again, the life-draining hand gripping his throat and squeezing as the sorcerer lifted him. Gyaidun could feel the blood in his neck freezing, the veins bursting, his skin blistering and cracking from the cold. The grip tightened, and Gyaidun couldn't breathe. Darkness rimmed the edges of his vision, a pulsing mass of it closing in-and then Gyaidun noticed a change in the light. It seemed golden. Soft.
Even warm. And he had time to wonder if he was crossing over into the afterlife beforeA shard of light struck the sorcerer's midriff. A shriek louder than boulders cracking struck his ears, and Gyaidun went flying. He hit the ground hard, and his first thought was-Why do I smell blossoms? Gasping for air, he pushed himself up and wiped the snow from his face. Not ten paces away, the sorcerer and Amira were engaged in battle, spells flying and Amira's golden staff shining like summer's heart. It struck the sorcerer's blade, and sparks of silver and gold mingled with the blowing snowfall. 'Enough!' the sorcerer said, and he flew backward out of the lady's reach. He landed with the practiced ease of a Shou monk, then raised his hands to the storm and shouted, 'Uthrekh rakhshan thra!' The gale became a living thing, and Gyaidun felt the already frigid temperature plummet. The air in his throat thickened, choking him. The moisture in his eyes began to freeze, and his skin seemed to turn to stone. 'Kenhakye unethke!' shouted Amira, her staff held high. Warmth and light flowed out from her, pushing back the sorcerer's spell. The sorcerer stood, arms still outstretched, and stared at Amira. Although Gyaidun could not see his face, he could sense that sorcerer was stunned at the thwarting of his magic. Enraged, the sorcerer took to the air again in a great leap, his sword raised above his flying robes. Blade struck staff in another shower of sparks, but this time Amira did not retreat and counter.
Green fire erupted in her free hand and she reached in, grasping the sorcerer's robe. Despite the wind, the magic fire caught and ignited in the ash-gray robes, and he fell back screaming. But his cries twisted into an incantation, and the wind gusted, blowing Amira back and extinguishing the flames. Gyaidun, his broken wrist throbbing with pain, pushed himself to his feet and lurched forward. His toe struck something hard. His knife! He reached down, grabbed it, and charged.
He knew he was most likely done in and nothing he could do could stop the sorcerer, but if he could add his effort to the fight, perhaps Amira could conjure something strong enough to strike him down-or at the very least buy her time to escape. The sorcerer stood, blackened holes in his robes and cowl still smoldering, and as his charge brought him close Gyaidun could hear him snarling. Amira began her incantation, 'Keljan-' 'Hey!' Gyaidun roared, raising his knife to swipe at the sorcerer's face. The sorcerer turned his attention away from Amira to Gyaidun, and as he did so the wind caught in his tattered and burned cowl, ripping it off his head. Gyaidun saw the sorcerer's face for the first time. Older it was, and gaunt like a man long deprived of food, but there was no mistaking the face and the cant of his eyes. His mother's eyes. It was Erun. His son. '-saule!'
Amira finished, and from behind him Gyaidun felt the air ignite. 'No!'
Gyaidun threw himself between them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Endless Wastes
The wind died near dawn, but the snow kept falling as if Auril meant to bury the world. From the shelter of their camp-at the bottom of a washed-out gully where straggly bushes and long grass sagged over a lip of earth, offering a sort of half roof-Amira watched it come down. Under different circumstances she might have found it beautiful, but now she knew it would be waist deep by midmorning. Jalan was still asleep, wrapped in thick blankets beside her. She resisted touching him, fearing she might wake him. The belkagen had done all he could to heal him. Jalan's body would have to do the rest. Looking down at him, Amira's heart slowed but seem to beat with twice its usual strength.
She had her son back. His cheeks were sunken, dark circles ringed his eyes, his skin had a gray pallor she didn't like, and his breathing was strained, but he was alive and he was here. Right now, that was all that mattered. Amira heard footsteps wading through the snow, and then the belkagen ducked under the overhanging foliage and stepped around the small fire. 'How is he?' she asked. 'Gyaidun?' 'Yes.'
'He'll live.' The belkagen sat. His skin looked brittle as parchment and his shoulders sagged under his cloak. 'Healing the damage from your staff took most of my strength and wisdom. I'll have to rest before I see to his wrist and other injuries.' Amira opened her mouth then shut it again. She was torn between guilt and anger. Battered as Gyaidun had been in the fight, it had been her strike aimed at the sorcerer that had done the most damage. After it had struck Gyaidun in the back, the sorcerer had fled, fading into the deeper darkness of the storm. Gyaidun had lain unmoving in the snow, his torn shirt smoking and the flesh underneath steaming. She'd run to him, finding him breathing but little else. Part of her had wanted to pursue her foe, to finish this once for all, but there was no sign of him.
Looking down at Gyaidun, Amira had known he would die without help-and might well die with it. So she'd used her spell to take them both back to the belkagen. Even after the old elf's first attempt to heal him, Gyaidun had been almost insensate, tears streaming down his cheeks, raving and screaming. Amira had seen wounded men, some on the verge of death, trying to hold in their life's blood as they watched it pouring between their fingers, and she'd understood Gyaidun's cries were from no physical pain. She'd known others like him in the war. He could've swallowed hot iron with a smile. No, this had been something deeper, the cry of anguish, of a broken heart. The belkagen had poured a syrupy concoction down Gyaidun's throat. A shudder had run through him, followed by a violent bout of coughing. Gyaidun had looked up at her, and his eyes seemed haunted. He told the old elf what he'd seen.
Amira had been standing nearby, and she heard it all. 'Erun!' he said.
'It was Erun. My son! My son, my son…' 'Erun?' said the belkagen.
'That thing had Erun?' 'No!' Gyaidun grabbed the belkagen's shoulders.
'It was Erun. That thing was my son. My son!' That had shocked Amira as much as anyone-and filled her with a cold dread. So much of the past several tendays- Jalan's abduction, that damned sorcerer's dogged pursuit of him, the vision in Hro'nyewachu-was beginning to come together in her mind. Now, with Gyaidun off somewhere else, she voiced her concerns to the belkagen. 'Gyaidun's son…' 'Erun,' said the belkagen, his voice thick. 'Erun is-was his name.' 'Erun. He was taken, just like Jalan?' 'Fifteen years ago.' 'Out there…' said Amira. She stopped, gathering her thoughts. 'In the darkness, in the storm, Gyaidun was… beyond hurt. I've seen the carnage of battle,
