Frostfell

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Hro'nyewachu

Pain pulled Amira back to awareness. Her lungs felt like she was breathing daggers. All she could see was a warm blood red glow, like staring into the sunset with her eyes closed. Panic froze her mind, then her body took over. She coughed out a great gout of water, drew in a rattling breath, then coughed up more water. She coughed and gagged and heaved until she feared her eyes were going to burst from her head. When air began to find its way into her body again, her mind was able to emerge from the panic and take stock of her situation.

Still on her hands and knees-on a stone floor with a thin covering of grit, she noticed-she looked up through her drenched hair. The red light hadn't been brought on by her panic. She was in a cavern.

Stalactites large as war-horses hung from a ceiling far above. Some had melded with the stone below, forming columns of stone that glistened in the red glow. Glow-? She looked around. If the light had a source, she could not find it, but it filled the cavern. Even the great columns of stone cast no shadow. The chamber had no proper walls, but the ceiling formed a dome that fell to meet the floor.

Amira sat up on her knees, brushed her sodden hair out of her face, and looked around. Where is the entrance? she wondered. How did I get here? Where-? Her gaze stopped on the floor behind her. Not ten paces away lay the deer. It had been cut in two perfect halves, right down the middle, and each half set parallel so that the twin antlers nearly touched. Even the thick bone of the skull and spine had been split.

What could have done such a thing? The entrails and a great pool of blood-black in the cavern's light-lay between them, and just beyond them was a stone pedestal. It looked as if one of the great stone columns had been severed at table-height. Whether it had been carved or formed that way through some craft of magic or by long eons of stone-growth, Amira could not tell. Upon the stone table was the deer's heart, still beating, slowly but with a steady, unceasing rhythm. With each beat, a small trickle of blood pulsed from the heart. Already a sizeable pool had formed in the concave surface of the stone table. Amira's eyes widened, and she held her breath. The deer had been dead. How-? Stand. Amira gasped at the voice. It came to her mind, not her ears, and the language was one she'd never heard, though she understood it immediately. It was deep, husky, but obviously feminine. Where had it come from? Where-? Stand. There.

Amira stood and faced the table. A figure stepped out from behind one of the stone columns that flanked the table. She was tall-she could've looked down upon Gyaidun-but thin. Not emaciated, for the grace with which she moved hinted at great strength, but something about the way she moved seemed… unnatural, as if her muscles and joints were not fitted to her bones like other beings. She was quite naked, but Amira could not discern the color of her skin. A slick wetness covered her from head to toe, and in the red light of the cavern it was almost black. Blood. In her heart of hearts, Amira knew it. The woman's hair was made up in dozens and dozens of tight braids that hung to her waist. Woven among them were bits of bone, feathers, and flowers, which surprised Amira-spring flowers of many colors, here on the verge of winter, some in full bloom and some still in tight little buds. As the woman walked to the stone pedestal and stood behind it, her eyes held Amira's. They were set deep beneath hairless brows, and they seemed to deny the blood red light of the cavern and shone back a pale, dusty white-the color of the waxing moon on a cloudless winter night. You bring the gift to fulfill the covenant. As sworn. Name yourself. "I-" Amira's voice came out a croak. She swallowed and tried again. "Amira of House Hiloar of Cormyr. You are the… the oracle?"

The woman raised her right arm and pointed to the bisected deer carcass. In life, we walk in death. In death, life. Come. "Come?" To me. Now. Amira took a deep breath and began to walk around the bloody remains of the deer. Stop! said the figure, though in her head Amira heard the roar of an animal. A predator. "What-?" Through death you will walk, or to death you will go. The woman lifted her head back and took in a deep breath, her nostrils flaring. Though the stench of blood and death filled the cavern, Amira knew the oracle was smelling her, and she knew her promise of death was true. Amira closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again and walked between the halves of the deer. The blood was warm-almost hot-beneath the soles of her feet. She winced but did not look down as she almost slipped on the entrails. The stench was overwhelming, and tears flowed down Amira's cheeks. Amira stood before the table, and the tall figure looked down upon her. I smell winter upon you. "I… I have come to seek your aid," said Amira. "Something has my son. Something too powerful for me to defeat. I need your help." The oracle smiled, and it sent a shiver down Amira's back. There was no warmth in it, no pleasure, no human emotion at all. It was merely muscles drawing the lips back over teeth, and the teeth were sharp. The oracle placed her hands on the edge of the table, then bent over and buried her face in the pool of blood and drank, lapping at the blood like an animal.

Amira wanted to look away, but she stood frozen. The oracle straightened, fresh blood smeared over her face and running down her neck and breasts. With her right hand, she seized the still-beating heart, brought it to her open mouth and tore into it. Amira heard the tough muscle snap between the powerful jaws. The oracle put the heart back on the pedestal. Still it beat with a steady, if weaker rhythm.

The oracle chewed and swallowed. Now, you. "What?" Eat. Drink. "What?

I… I can't! The belkagen said noth-" Again a predator's growl cut her off, and this time Amira heard it in her ears as well as her mind.

Her own heart skipped a beat, then set to hammering like a bird's.

Looking up into the eyes of the oracle, Amira knew beyond doubt that her life now hung by the barest thread. Eat the flesh. Drink the blood. Amira placed her hands on the pedestal as the oracle had done.

The stone was warm, and Amira almost thought she felt a pulse beating within it. Before her sense and thirty years of ingrained Cormyrean propriety could talk her out of it, Amira plunged her face into the blood. She felt her hair fall around her, soaking up the blood, and she drank. Not just a sip, for at the first taste a thirst she had never known opened in her innermost being, and the blood down her throat seemed both to slake it and make her even more aware of the need to be slaked. Amira drank until her body cried out for air, then pushed herself up. The oracle looked down on her, eyes still shining, but now Amira thought she could almost see her own reflection in those pale depths. Now eat and fulfill the pact. Amira reached out. Her hand was trembling, but not from fear or weakness. Amira could feel the blood coursing through her, filling her spirit with a strength and warmth she had never known. Her skin burned with sensation, feeling even the tiniest stirring of air. Scents overwhelmed her-raw flesh, warm blood, stone older than Cormyr itself, the tiny buds and petals in the oracle's hair, and beneath it all something to which she could put no name but which awoke something ancient and primal in her, some part of her mind that still dreamed of the time before men built cities of stone and kept the wild at bay with their fires and prayers, when the wild was still part of them. Amira reached out, some part of her registering that her hand trembled not out of weakness or fear, but eagerness. She grabbed the heart, brought it to her open mouth, and bit down. The flesh was tough, resisting, and so she bit harder and harder until her teeth tore through. She grabbed the heart with both hands and shook her head like an animal, rending the flesh and finding herself enjoying it. Against her will, a low growl began to build deep in her throat. The part of her mind that still remembered Amira of House Hiloar, War Wizard of Cormyr, daughter of the royal courts, battered at her mind, screaming-What's happening to me? The portion of the heart tore loose in her mouth. She swallowed it whole, looked up into the eyes of the oracle-and fell in.

Darkness took her, but it was warm and wet, and when it began to break away, part of her cried out and tried to cling to it. It will be your death, said a voice. Whose? She could put no name to it, but she remembered eyes pale as the dust of the moon and the scent of spring blossoms. She let go. Light returned. Color. And cold. Not the deep cold of the winter or the nameless horror that stalked her memories, cloaked in ashes, but the crisp, clean coolness of the open air. The high, thin clouds of autumn, tattered and torn like rent tapestries, rode across a morning blue sky that stretched from horizon to horizon in every direction except one. Before her, breaking the perfect dome of the sky, rose a high mound, flat and broken on top and bleeding greenery into the grasslands below. She knew it, had seen it from just this view, but she could put no name to it. The name was in her memory; she knew it as she knew breath and blood, but it was closed to her. Something was moving near the crest of the hill. As if spurred by the thought, her vision flew toward it, coming closer and closer until she could make out the form of a man. Clothes of leather and cloth and robes of animal hides covered his lean frame. His hair was raven black, the top and sides pulled back into a thick braid that fell well below his waist. He walked with a staff that seemed to have been made from three woods, each of a different shade, twisted together and bound with leather and silver. Tassels made from bits of bone, stone, and sprigs of herbs dangled from the top of the staff. Arantar, said the voice. The man made his way through the woods. He stopped before a great fang of rock that broke through the surface of the hill. Again she felt as if she should know this place. The rock almost looked familiar, though taller and sharper than she knew it to be. The man stood before an opening in the rock, the autumn wind sending the loose bits of his hair waving before his face like tendrils of seaweed tossed by the tide. For the first time, she saw his face. His weather-worn skin was dark, the color of newly tilled soil, and his face was shaven. But his eyes… she didn't see them so much as she felt struck by them. They were golden, and even in the shadow cast by the fang of rock they shone with a light all their own. She had seen those eyes before-or ones very like them. Not quite so intense perhaps, their majesty weakened by the ages, but still she knew them, and for the first time her memory did not fail her. A name came to her. Jalan. Those were Jalan's eyes. Arantar stepped into the darkness within the rock. Again the darkness took her.

This darkness was different. Not warm but hot and foul. Choking.

She fled this darkness, clawing for clean air and light. And so she came out of the great column of smoke, and beneath her was a field of battle, men and women dying amid steel, flame, and spell. Though death filled the valley, it was near the center, amid the clashing of steel and the cries of dying men, where the battle would be decided. In the midst of his elite guard stood a man wreathed in tentacles of flame.

The fire did not touch his robes nor catch in his thick, black hair.

The top halves of skulls-both humans and beasts-dangled from his necklace, and within their eye sockets flickered a terrible life and vitality. The man did not radiate power. He drank it in. Frost spiraled from his fingertips and enveloped entire lines of the opposing forces, freezing them where they stood, still as statues.

"For Nar!" the sorcerer's forces shouted as they ran forward. They struck the frozen soldiers. Limbs broke off, heads cracked, and some few shattered into hundreds of shards. Still more warriors rushed forward to replace their fallen comrades. The sorcerer sent shards of ice, some large as daggers, some small as needles, into their midst.

They ripped through exposed flesh, sending a fine mist of blood to the ground. Scores of men died this way. Dozens more fled. The front lines of the opposing armies met, sword and spear clashing on shield.

Protected by their line, wizards from the opposing forces summoned magical shields to block the sorcerer's spells. The ice and frost broke on the invisible energy, and for the drawing of a breath the Nar advance faltered. The sorcerer chanted an incantation, and his own power absorbed the energy from the wizards. Their shields melted away, and he renewed his attacks. "Gaugan!" shouted the Nar as they renewed their attack. "Gaugan! For Nar! For Nar!" The opposing force's wizards died beneath sword and upon spear, and for a moment the Nar stood upon an open field, their foes fleeing back like the receding tide. But the tide parted around one who stood in the midst of the slaughter. She saw him, standing with staff in hand, the winds from the Nar sorcerer's spells sending his robes whipping around him. He was older, but she knew him. Arantar. Beside him stood another, similar in coloring, though his eyes were dark and his frame smaller. Where Arantar stood with the weight of years in his countenance, the one beside him still had the look of youth about him. Fading, yes, but still there. The two men raised their staffs. Every spell the Nar sorcerer sent against them, these two broke or sent back into the lines of Nar soldiers. The warriors who had fled before the Nar now turned, reformed their lines, and charged, shouting, "For Raumathar!"

Concern wrinkled the Nar sorcerer's brow, the briefest flicker of what could only have been fear, and then he smiled and began a new incantation. His back stiffened, his eyes rolled, showing only bloodshot white, and the muscles beneath his skin vibrated with a sick vitality. Behind him the air cracked and widened. Within the torn reality yawned blackness, and a wind poured forth, cold enough to freeze skin and crack bone. Five creatures, each twice the height of a man, clawed their way out of the ragged portal. They were like nothing that walked under the gods' sunlight. More insect than humanoid, they nevertheless walked on two legs, their mandibles clacking like the breaking of boulders, their long tails, covered in jagged barbs, whipped about their bodies, some even striking into the Nar ranks and ripping through armor and flesh alike. The Nar sorcerer pointed at the two Raumathari sorcerers. The five abominations struck the earth, tearing through grass and soil, and charged. The younger of the sorcerers stepped back, eyes wide and rimmed with fear, but Arantar stood his ground. Even as the first wave of frigid wind hit him, he raised his staff, looked to the sky, and shouted, "Father!" Darkness and cold seemed to falter, as if their foundation had been struck with a great hammer, and now tiny cracks ran through them. She looked down on Arantar, and two beings seemed to stand there in his frame, two hearts beating in his chest, and two minds looking out from his golden eyes. They shone with righteous indignation and a joy so pure that she cried out in wonder. The five creatures roared in defiance and agony, then struck at Arantar with claw and spell. The world melted away, flowing in great spirals, and as she fell, she heard Arantar laughing.

In the silence, she wept at the absence of Arantar's laughter.

Within it she had heard a power and majesty from beyond the circles of this world, and in its absence her heart felt heavy, yet strangely empty. Sound returned before sight, speaking a language she had never heard. Still, the meaning came through in her mind. "He is dangerous, Khasoreth." In this voice, deep and rich, she heard the faintest echo of that sweet laughter. "You know this." "I do know it," said another voice, this one younger. "Gaugan is dangerous, master. As are you-the most dangerous man in all the Empire." "I do not use my power to dominate. To conquer." "Nor did he, at first. He was as much victim as victor. You saw those devils he summoned. They fought at his command, but the leash by which he held them tore at his soul. You sensed it as well as I. They were using him as much as he used them." "All the more reason to be wary of him." "Wary, yes. But to murder him-" "Execute, Khasoreth. Execute. You know his crimes. None would call his death unjust." "No. But what is it that you have told me since before you taught me my first spell? 'In justice, let us remember mercy.'" Sight began to return to her, slowly at first but growing with each breath.

Arantar and the other, younger man, Khasoreth obviously-where had she heard that name? — stood in an empty hall. As she saw it more clearly, she realized that to call this a hall would be like calling the Trackless Sea a "body of water." Words did it no justice. Stone so white that it almost hurt the eyes made up the floor, the ceiling, and the great columns that joined them. Veins of gold and silver ran throughout the stone, fine as spider silk. The walls were of a darker, though no less smooth, stone. More the color of summer-sky clouds, heavy with rain, though not yet to the point of bursting. Artisans had carved scenes of battle into the very walls with such skill that she thought they might move at any moment. The grasses upon which heroes trod seemed to wave, and the blossom-laden trees through which they walked seemed to flutter in a unseen wind. Set between the great columns, brass braziers lit the room and filled it with warmth, their coals glowing with an almost golden radiance. Arantar stood a few paces away from one of the great columns, his arms crossed over his chest and his brows low and heavy over his eyes. He was dressed much as she had first seen him-in rough cloth and leathers covered by an animal-skin cloak. Before him stood Khasoreth, resplendent in clothes of linen and silk. The wine-red cloak draping his shoulders had threads of gold and gems woven into the hem, and his boots and gloves were of the finest lambskin. Arantar looked away, more intent on his own thoughts, and said, "It might be no mercy to let him live, my friend. His heart is dark as winter's heart." "Is he beyond redemption, then?" Arantar shook his head, then smiled down upon the younger man, but there was more sadness in the expression than anything. "The emperor has spoken, Khasoreth. Gaugan must die. You know this." "Yes," said the younger man. "And I know that the emperor's sister loves you, and you her. Were you to suggest-" "You would have me meddle? Question the word of the emperor?" Khasoreth laughed. "It's not as though you've never done it before. Were it not for Isenith whispering in his ear, he would have banished you dozens of times already. That business three years ago almost had him ordering your head brought to him on a spear. I'm not asking you to do anything you don't know to be right. 'In justice, remember mercy.'

Yes?" Arantar opened his mouth to answer, but what he said she did not hear. The world melted away again, and she felt herself falling.

Images swirled before her, running together so that she could not often separate one from another. She saw-Arantar walking the grasslands in summer and through snow, ever seeking, seeking… what-? -the Emperor of Raumathar granting mercy to one of the greatest foes his realm had ever faced. Gaugan the Nar, Gaugan sorcerer, Gaugan summoner of devils knelt before him, swearing loyalty, submission-Arantar standing in a royal bedchamber, the only light from one small candle, and the emperor's sister rushing to his arms-Khasoreth, his eyes alight with eagerness, standing upon a grassy hill that fell away to a pebble-strewn beach, then endless water. His hands wove intricate patterns in the air, his fingers dancing, and frost and ice came to his command. Laughing, he turned to the Nar sorcerer, who stood behind him, nodding in approval-"Take care, my friend," said Arantar. "I do not trust Gaugan's counsel." Khasoreth frowned-Arantar stood upon the height of the wooden tower, the Great Ice Sea extending to the far horizon below. The other towers of Winterkeep stood beneath him. He and Isenith stood upon the tallest, the Tower of Summer Sun. The wind off the sea blew back her cloak, and her hands went instinctively to her belly, which was just beginning to swell. Arantar smiled-"I beg of you," said Arantar, "do not do this!

You are not ready." "I am ready!" said Khasoreth, more than a little anger entering his voice. "More than ready. Besides, my apprentices will be there to assist me." "Apprentices, Khasoreth. Apprentices!

They are less ready than you. You are endangering those four as much as you. This is madness!" Khasoreth's eyes narrowed. "Gaugan believes me ready. He said your jealousy would not allow you to see it."

"Gaugan?" Arantar looked as if he had been struck. "His whispers have poisoned your senses. Listen to me, Kha-" "I am through listening to you, Master." He spoke the last word in a sneer. "I thank you for all your years of teaching and counsel. But I am the master now." Again the world fell away-

Khasoreth stood upon the promontory, the Hill of the Witness Tree at his back, the Great Ice Sea at his feet. The wind from the north, bringing the season's first snow, made his cloak seem like wings behind him. The hem of the rich garment, a great cloak the color of ash-the royal winter colors of Raumathar-given to him by the emperor himself, slapped at the torso of his nearest apprentice. They too had cloaks like their master, though the clothes beneath them were not nearly so fine. Three more apprentices stood not far behind their master, the last standing upon the lowest step of the hill itself.

Gaugan stood off to the side, two arms' lengths away from Khasoreth's outstretched hand. Khasoreth looked to Gaugan, his face exultant. "I am ready!" he said. Gaugan nodded and smiled. "Let it be done." "Let it begin!" said Khasoreth, then began his incantation. His four apprentices joined in, their tomes held open before them. Khasoreth had no such need. He had long since committed the rite to memory. As the sun set behind the clouds in the west, he would leave these mortal coils behind and achieve the union he had long desired-to become one with the element of cold and ice rather than simply wielding their power. Arantar was wrong. Gaugan had once served dark powers, but upon swearing loyalty to Raumathar he left such pursuits behind. Without him, Khasoreth would never have achieved such power and knowledge so quickly. The wind increased, driving the snow into his face and eyes and bringing a harsh, stinging spray off the sea that froze before it hit him. Still he chanted, and the wind blew even stronger. Cold and ice came at his command, and the beings who knew them as their very nature came at his summoning, answering his call and joining their voices to his. He spoke in rhythm with the crash of the waves, and his apprentices wove their own spells around his, four melodies creating a harmony around his driving beat. Khasoreth felt ice forming on his skin, in his hair, freezing the water in his eyes, and he smiled. It was working. Then came the pain. Slight at first, building not in his body but deep within his mind. The spark of life, the fire of his humanity, flickered and for a moment faltered. Khasoreth's smile fell, and he added force to the incantation. The pain increased. He heard one of his apprentices cry out, heard the pages of his tome being ripped away by the wind. Within the howl of the wind, behind the song of the elements, he heard cold laughter. The pain hit him again, even harder this time. Khasoreth looked to Gaugan. "Help me!" Gaugan rushed forward and fell to his knees. "Release me!" He pointed to the collar round his neck. The runes engraved there, the incantations binding his power, seemed to glow as the frost thickened in their crevices. "I cannot help you while bound!" Khasoreth hesitated, and Arantar's words from years ago ran through his mind-"His heart is dark as winter's heart." The pain in Khasoreth's mind flared to true agony. His heart hammered in his chest, but every other beat was weaker. His four apprentices were screaming. Khasoreth brought his staff around, spoke the word of power, and struck the collar round Gaugan's neck. A flash of light, and the collar fell away in six shards to clatter on the ground. Gaugan stood and laughed. His hands wove an intricate pattern through his own incantation, his back arched, his eyes rolled back in his head, and the muscles beneath his skin tightened to the point of tearing. The winter sky behind him split, and the wind that came through it held the stench of death and decay. Five sets of eyes peered out with cold fire, claws rent the air, and they came into the world, screaming. Gaugan laughed, his voice breaking in his own exultation. It lasted only a moment. The creatures fell upon him, rending and tearing. "No!" he cried. "No, I-" then he had no more throat with which to scream, and the gale blew his blood upon the stairs leading up to the Witness Tree. The gash in reality slammed shut, and the five devils fell upon Khasoreth and his apprentices.

Winter howled off the Great Ice Sea. The Road of the Sun, leading from the Royal Colonnade in Winterkeep to the Isle of Witness, could not withstand the onslaught of wind and wave. The wooden bridges fell, their stone supports crumbling. But in their ruin, five shapes, each swathed in a cloak the color of cold ash, emerged from the storm.

Death came to Winterkeep.

Screams still filled the night when Arantar returned to Winterkeep. Too late to save the royal city, he knew, but not too late to save those lives that remained. He found Isenith just inside the South Wall. She was leading survivors out of the city-servants mostly, but also a few guards, their eyes no less fearful than the others'.

Isenith held the baby in one arm while she used the other to issue orders. "Where is he?" said Arantar. "Where is Khasoreth?" "I don't know!" said Isenith. Tears streaked her face and froze upon her cheeks. "My brother said-" "Where is the emperor?" "Dead!" she shrieked, the first hint of hysteria entering her voice. "Oh, Arantar, they're all dead." "I must find Khasoreth. Together, perhaps he and I can put an end to this." "Don't leave me! Arantar, the baby-!" "Lead the people west. Get them to safety. Trathenik should be headed this way with his cavalry. Tell him what has happened. Tell him to shun Winterkeep until I send word. Allow no one to come near." "But, Aran-"

A great crash cut her off as the Tower of the Sun toppled into the city, crushing buildings and people beneath it. So great was the storm that even Arantar could no longer distinguish the howling of the wind from the cries of the damned. "Go, Isenith! Go! Take our child to safety." He gave her a last embrace, placed a tender hand on the bundle of his son, and pushed them out the gate. The others followed, the guards last. Arantar grabbed the final soldier, stopping him. He turned him and looked down into his eyes. "See them away. Should any harm befall my wife and son…" "My life for theirs, Honored One," said the soldier, and he bowed. Arantar pushed him after the others and turned into the city. She watched as if from a great height, seeing and hearing everything, even feeling the cold, though it did her no harm. People fled in every direction, dragging children and carrying what few possessions they could. The Royal Guard and City Watch offered some resistance, but the five creatures in the ash-gray cloaks froze them where they stood, destroyed buildings, and summoned the winds of winter to topple the last of the towers of Winterkeep.

Following the sounds of slaughter, Arantar at last came to face the destroyers of the capital of Raumathar. They stood before him, the wind whipping their cloaks like banners. One stood foremost. Upon seeing Arantar, he stopped and lowered his cowl. Arantar stopped and stared, his mouth hanging open. "Khasoreth? What… I-" The thing that had been Khasoreth laughed and struck, sending shards of ice at his former master. Arantar rebuffed the attack, then another and another.

After repelling the fourth, he struck back, but the five sorcerers absorbed the force he sent against them and used it to fuel their own strength. Spells flew faster than the snows driven by the gale, and shields of magic shattered and reformed themselves. Again and again the five struck at Arantar and he struck back. Their battle raged throughout the city, neither side gaining the upper hand, but Arantar's stand allowed the last of the survivors to escape onto the steppe. The five sorcerers called forth beings from the darkest planes to fight for them, but Arantar bound them and sent them back. He in turn sent fire and lightning upon his foes, but they blocked every strike. Their battle took them into the skies themselves as the combatants rode the winds of winter and magic. She watched as Arantar alighted upon the Isle of Witness, now an island in truth since the bridges joining it to the city lay beneath the waves. There, under the winter-bare boughs of the Witness Tree, Arantar made his last stand.

His eyes shone forth bright, but with each strike their light was growing dimmer. His foes surrounded him, and she watched as he leaned in weariness against the trunk of the great tree. His hand shook, and his staff fell from his hands to clatter down the stone steps. Seeing his foes approaching, Arantar smiled, closed his eyes, raised his face to the heavens, and called out, "Father!" The fabric of creation seemed to vibrate, as if a great bell had been struck or clarion sounded. The gait of the five sorcerers faltered, and when Arantar opened his eyes, they shone a white purer than the noonday sun. Again she looked, and it was as if two beings stood in Arantar's frame, one a man of Raumathar, wanderer of the steppes, and councilor of kings, and the other… beyond all that, one who looked down on the petty bickerings of kings and laughed. The five sorcerers howled in fury and struck, calling upon every spell they knew as they charged up the hill. Arantar and the Other struck back, and it was as if she could see beyond reality, see every note and harmony within the song of reality. The five were darkness and shadow infusing the bodies of Khasoreth and his four apprentices, and they drank in all warmth and corrupted all life around them. The attack from Arantar and the Other did not strengthen that disharmony, but rather fed it, pouring holy light and life into the never-ending hunger. The five screamed, and four fell to the ground. The dark infusion, the thousands of tendrils of unlife burrowed into their souls, twisted, frayed, and broke. The thing that had been Khasoreth fell to his hands and knees upon the ice-slick steps and looked up at Arantar. In the light cast by Arantar's countenance, the shadow lifted from Khasoreth's face, and his eyes cleared. "Master… please. Remember. Remember… mercy."

The exultant smile upon Arantar's face faltered, and his countenance deepened to what she could only call a profound pity. The light dimmed-and Khasoreth struck, sending a thick arm of darkness crashing into his former master. The thing within him shrieked in unholy delight. Arantar stumbled against the tree, and the thing that had been Khasoreth leaped, falling upon his former master with fist, tooth, and spell. She watched as the Other within Arantar gathered and concentrated his strength to strike. No! said Arantar, though his lips did not move. Mercy. The pure light in Arantar's eyes evaporated, and the Other began to lift away-but the thing that had been Khasoreth struck, its great arm of darkness seizing the Other, tearing at him.

For an instant-she knew it was no more than that, though it seemed to stretch for an eternity-darkness warred with light, then light surrendered. Arantar breathed his last, a small smile upon his lips, and the Other fell. The five creatures of darkness seized it, and she watched as they battered and tore at it. Again and again they tried, but to no avail. The Other sought the last bit of warmth, the last living thing upon the island-the Witness Tree-and fell into it. With a cry of triumph, the five struck, unable to destroy the now-hallowed tree, but sealing it with their darkest spells so that the Other could escape to oppose them no more.

Her vision followed them throughout the years. Winterkeep lay fallen and shunned by all people, but true victory had been taken from the five devils. The last attack by Arantar and the Other had warped their spell. Not only were they trapped within the bodies of the five sorcerers, but much to their dismay the bodies of Khasoreth's apprentices grew old, weak, and approached death as all men do. Filled with the dark powers, their bodies lasted many generations, but die they did. In their desperation the five devils refined their spells and sought the ancient magics of the people of the world in which they found themselves. Try as they might, they could find no way to free themselves from their imprisonment nor stop the decay of their mortal homes. But they did find a way for their fell spirits to seize other mortal forms. But only a chosen few. She watched as the years passed and the ruins of Winterkeep blew away with each passing winter or were buried beneath soil and snow. Powerful as the dark arts of the five were, they could not overcome one flaw. No mere mortal could contain them, but only those in whom the blood of Arantar and Isenith flowed.

She watched as Isenith learned the life of an exile, watching her son grow up, often in hunger and want. But he grew to a man that made his mother proud, though the sadness never left her eyes. Her son married, had many children, and his children had children, the royal blood of Raumathar mixing throughout the years with the peoples of the steppes.

The first did not disappear until Arantar's great-grandson was a young man. The second a few years after that-and then two others. Then no more for three generations. She watched as the five sorcerers fled into the dark north, seeking the coldest lands they could find, forever shunning lands of light and warmth. Her vision narrowed as she followed the strain of Arantar and Isenith's blood down through the ages. A king, warlords, shepherds, farmers, sorcerers, thieves, and slaves-all these and more were the fates of Arantar's offspring. In most, the blood of Arantar grew weaker with each passing generation, the golden eyes fading, the gifts of his heritage becoming only distant melodies in dreams. But in one line the blood ran strong and true, and her vision followed that line through the ages, seeing it mingle, dilute, and fade, only to gather strength as the bloodlines mingled again. Then came the Horde, and one man's ambition that would bring nations to war and change the fate of Amira Hiloar forever. The young war wizard fought in many battles, killing and almost being killed so many times that she stopped counting. War became her life.

Every day different but torturously the same. Until the day of the battle near the Well of the Broken Antlers, when a Tuigan warlord fled his camp before the Cormyrean troops. The warlord's warriors slaughtered every servant, slave, and captive in camp, leaving nothing for the westerners to take. One of Arantar and Isenith's descendants hid her child amid a collapsed tent before her lord's men cut her down. The Tuigan galloped off eastward. The dust of the horses' passage settled, and the little boy crawled from the tentcloth to find his dead mother. He looked up, and his eyes were golden. Jalan.

Amira's eyes snapped open and she sat up. She was still in the cavern of Hro'nyewachu. The stone pedestal, still drenched in blood, was not far away. The remains of the deer carcass and the heart were gone. How long she had lain on the stone floor, how long she had… dreamed, seen, whatever it had been. But her hair was dry, and the blood from her grisly meal felt hard and dry on her skin. You found what you sought? Amira turned. The oracle was standing behind her, the pale eyes no longer lit with hunger but with… what? Amira wondered.

Was that sympathy? "Was it…?" Amira said. Her throat felt raw.

Burned. "Was it real? What I saw? What I heard?" The oracle canted her head-a thoroughly inhuman gesture that reminded Amira of a bird. The dreamroad, she said, her lips still not moving, the voice coming straight to Amira's mind, the waking world, sleeping, waking… who is to say where reality begins and ends? The same mind that sees the world around you, that loves and hates and wars and creates, is the same mind that dreams. Why cling to one and discard the other? "So Arantar, Khasoreth… Gaugan, all of it. I saw it as it happened? It wasn't some dream inspired by the belkagen's fireside tales." The words of a belkagen spoken by fire are not to be taken lightly. A smile flickered across the oracle's face, faint and fleeting, but in the instant she saw it, Amira thought it looked a little sad. It has been many turnings of the world since Arantar last came to me. This world has not seen his like since, nor will it again. Amira considered all she had seen, and the urgency hit her all at once. "I must go," she said. "Jalan…" The scion of Arantar is in grave danger, said the oracle. His life teeters on the precipice. Amira stood and brushed the sand and grit off her bare skin. She looked up at the oracle, and she was struck by how tall the oracle really was. She would not have looked down upon Gyaidun. She would have towered over him. You have a cold road ahead of you, said the oracle. Out of affection for a friend long gone, I grant you one last question. It came to Amira at once, the only question worth asking, the only answer she needed. "How do I beat them?" The oracle smiled, and again it was the hungry gaze of the predator. 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. "Surrender?" said Amira. " 'Death and life will meet?' What does that mean?" The oracle's smiled broadened, her full lips pulling back over teeth that were pointed and sharp, fangs that seemed to glisten in the cavern's blood red light. "Never mind," said Amira. She looked around. There was no sign of the pool where the belkagen had taken her. "How… how do I get out of here?" I said one question, said the oracle. Now, you owe me. Snarling, the oracle struck.