around the burning sorcerer. The tallest of the newcomers flung his palms out in an arcane gesture and screamed the words of a spell. A channel of wind filled with snow and sleet hit the gathered sorcerers, and so great was its force that the flames sputtered and died. Most of the sorcerer's robes had gaping holes. His face was that of a cadaver kept alive by dark magics, his skin withered, gray, and stretched over a hairless skull. His nose was long gone, leaving only a desiccated hole. His eyes were deep pits rimmed in cold frostfire, and they bore down on the belkagen, who still lay prostrate on the rocks. The sorcerer raised his hand and pointed even as he spoke the words of his incantation. The belkagen was halfway to his feet when the air around the sorcerer's hand coalesced and froze into a blue-white light and shot forth. The belkagen spoke his own spell and raised his staff just in time. The light struck the staff-a sharp crack, followed by a flash of darkness that the belkagen saw behind his eyesAnd the staff shattered, splinters and tiny shards of ice flying into the old elf's hand and face. The belkagen screamed but kept moving. He turned his cry of pain into words of power and spread his arms wide as he leaped.
The wind caught in his cloak, and as the hide billowed it rippled with magic, forming wings even as the elf's form shrank, his legs shortening and his feet stretching into claws, feathers covering his body. In a breath's time he transformed into an eagle and caught the wind current. Too late. Fierce channels of wind, twisting like tentacles and filled with ice, roared from above at the sorcerer's behest and struck the great bird from the sky. The belkagen lost his eagle form a dozen feet above the rocks and fell. He struck the rocks, bones shattering, not far from where Lendri was just now stirring. All breath left the belkagen's body, and dark clouds swam before his eyes.
Spells forming on their lips, the four sorcerers stepped toward the fallen elves. A flash of golden light lit the sky above them, and for an instant everyone froze. All eyes looked up in time to see the fifth sorcerer, flame and a summer-golden light enveloping him, fly like a comet overhead. He shot over the island, trailing a silvery-white smoke, and landed with a splash in Yal Tengri. The belkagen, struggling to breathe, and the four sorcerers, their spells frozen on their lips, turned to look up the hill. There, under the black boughs of the Witness Tree, stood Amira, her golden staff raised and Jalan clutched protectively under one arm.
Amira's eyes widened as she saw the four sorcerers coming straight at her. They didn't rush but walked at a deliberate pace. Their gaze, the light like a cold halo around their eyes, seemed to freeze her blood. 'Amira!' said a rasping voice behind her. She turned. Gyaidun, fresh wounds scraping his already-bloody skin, was crawling over the broken remnants of the wall. 'Hold them off!' he said. 'Just a few moments. I know how to stop them.' 'What?' 'Just hold them off! And don't… don't hurt Erun. Please.' She turned to look back down the hill. They were almost to the bottom of the steps. Behind them, beyond the broken bodies of Lendri and the belkagen, just crawling over the rocks at the edge of the island, was the sorcerer she'd sent sailing out into the Great Ice Sea. A snarl of rage twisted his rotting visage, but aside from the scorched robes he seemed unharmed. 'I don't think that's going to be an issue.' She looked down at her son and said, 'Jalan.' He looked up at her, his golden eyes wide, and in that instant she noticed that color had returned to his cheeks. He looked warm. And something else. His eyes had been golden all his life, but now there was a light behind them, still small and uncertain, but growing. 'I love you, Jalan,' she said, then pushed him away and charged down the stairs.
The belkagen watched the sorcerer emerge from Yal Tengri. He was soaked, most of his robes had burned away, and his decayed flesh hung off him, but still he pulled himself up the rocks and followed the others. His anger and malice seemed to fuel his strength. The old elf tried to take a deep breath, and pain shot through him. That fall had cracked ribs, his right arm was broken, and he couldn't feel his fingers on that hand. The words Hro'nyewachu had given to Amira came to him' The Witness Tree. There, all will be decided. Beyond that, I give you no assurances. Death and life will meet. Only those who surrender will triumph.' — and those she'd given to him' That task is for another.' The belkagen pushed himself to his feet. A cough that felt like sharp stones in his lungs shook him, and he saw bits of blood spatter from his lips. Lendri was struggling to his feet as well. God of my ancestors, the belkagen prayed, and you, Hro'nyewachu, if you can hear me… whatever is going to happen, please make it happen soon. He saw Amira charging, a golden light enveloping her. It lent him courage, for she looked like a goddess of summer incarnate-if summer were fury and fire. The belkagen spoke the words of power. They tore at his throat, but he forced them out-'Crith kesh het!' A globe of searing radiance, like a tiny sun, enveloped him. 'U werekh kye wu!' The steady wind at his back gusted, grasping and lifting him, and he flew forward into the midst of the sorcerers. The nearest turned to him, the wind blowing off the tattered cowl, and the belkagen saw that it was Erun. The boy the belkagen had watched take his first steps under the autumn boughs-No! the belkagen reminded himself. That is not Erun, but the thing that killed him! — snarled and raised a rapier, its silver steel glistening with fell magic. The sorcerer flinched as the globe of light enveloping the old elf hit him, but he held his ground.
Too weak to control his flight, the belkagen could not avoid the blade. His eyes went wide the instant before the point shattered his cracked ribs and tore through his heart and lungs. The belkagen's light went out, but he was smiling as the darkness closed in.
Amira saw the belkagen impaled upon that monster's sword, and she screamed, rage and sorrow cracking her voice. She hurled spells at her foes, magic flying from her staff and hands, but they bounced or shattered off the sorcerers' shields. Erun flung the body of the belkagen off his blade and turned. He looked up at Amira and began an incantation, his free hand weaving an arcane pattern that cut the air and left a blue light in its wake. Amira could feel the air crackling with gathering powerThen the wolf struck, a white mass of snarling fur and fangs that hit the sorcerer in the back, throwing him off balance.
More annoyed than hurt, Erun whirled, swinging his blade. The wolf dodged and backed off, favoring one leg, and in that moment Amira knew the wolf was Lendri. She renewed her attack, loosing spell after spell, but every one broke on the sorcerers' shields. 'Enough of this!' the sorcerer that had been Erun roared. He raised his arms, the golden aura that still flickered round Amira glittering off his blade.
'Uthrekh rakhshan thra!' In the time it took Amira to draw a breath, the air round the island froze, going from mist to ice. Amira felt the moisture on her eyes freezing, and her inner ears began to pop and crack. Dizziness and nausea gripped her. With what she felt sure would be her last breath she raised the staff the belkagen had named Karakhnir and shouted, 'Amalad saisen!' Heat. She felt it rising from the earth and flowing through her. It flared from the staff, struggling to push back the unearthly cold. The ice-for it was truly ice, hard and biting, not snow-falling from the sky struck the wave of heat and steamed, but Amira could feel the cold pressing down upon her, almost like the weight of the sky itself, and she fell to her knees.
The cold hit Jalan, stealing all breath from his body. The air bit through his clothes, and he could feel his skin contracting, ice forming over his body, then he heard his mother shout words he didn't recognize, and the cold retreated… a little. Jalan took a shuddering breath, then he saw his mother fall. He screamed. The blood-covered man grabbed him and pulled him under the lowest bough of the great tree. Jalan struggled-he had no idea who this blood-covered man who fell from the sky could be-but his mother had spoken to him as if she knew him. 'Jalan!' He looked up at the man. 'Jalan, you must trust me! There's still time to save your mother.' Jalan swallowed and said, 'What do you want me to do?' The big man bent and picked up a knife that had fallen on the ground. It was sharp only on one edge and nearly as long as the man's forearm. The man grabbed Jalan's wrist and brought the knife close. Panic seized Jalan and he struggled, trying to get away, but the man's grip was too strong. Jalan punched and kicked. 'Jalan!' said the man. 'Jalan, stop it! You must trust me!'
All the memories and horrors of the past days hit him-the sorcerer's blade drawing blood in the darkness, then coming at him, invading his mind-and he screamed and kicked all the harder. But through his panic and the memories came a voice that he recognized at once, saying, Surrender, Jalan. Trust him. Trust me. It was Vyaidelon. Panting, his eyes still wide with fear, Jalan relented and relaxed his arm. The big man nodded. 'Good,' he said. 'I'll go first so that you will trust me.' With that, the man grabbed his knife and yanked it down, opening a deep gash across his palm. Fresh blood poured down his forearm, mingling with the older blood and mud dried there. He reached for Jalan's hand, but Jalan flinched. 'Trust me, Jalan,' said the man.
Jalan could feel the cold pressing in again, could hear his mother crying. 'Trust me.' Trust, Jalan. Be not afraid. Jalan extended his right hand. The big man brought the edge of the blade across his open palm-Jalan winced-then brought their open palms together in a tight grip. Jalan could feel their blood mingling. It seemed hot and cold at the same time, soothing and biting. A large drop of their blood fell onto the root of the great tree. Jalan watched, his eyes going even wider, as the iron-hard wood of the long-dead tree drank it in, like dry earth soaking up spring rain. The cold pressing upon them faltered, and in his deepest heart Jalan could feel cracks running
