Frostfell

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The Endless Wastes

They walked many miles after the great battle of Winterkeep, the Vil Adanrath, the exiles, and the war wizard carrying their dead over the snow-covered steppes. Tired as they were, many of them wounded, the Vil Adanrath would not burn their dead so close to Iket Sotha. In killing the Fist of Winter, a great evil had been banished from the world, but many foul things still lurked in the dark places of Winterkeep. The survivors and their dead gathered in a valley filled with small trees and scraggly bushes. Those not wounded went far and wide, searching for enough wood to burn so many. Far away as they were, Amira could still smell Yal Tengri on the back of the north wind. The scent filled her with mixed emotions. She had seen so much horror and sadness there on the shore of the Great Ice Sea, but she had also regained her son there-and witnessed what she could only describe as a wonder. A miracle. Whatever beings had worked through Jalan, Gyaidun, and Erun… she was glad she had seen them. She didn't understand them, but in her heart she knew they were… good. There was no other word for it. In a world filled with so much sadness, so much compromise, corruption, so much light mixing with darkness, she had seen what she could only describe as good incarnate.

Jalan and Erun both slept beside the fire. Watching them, the knowledge she'd gained in Hro'nyewachu was confirmed. Anyone could have seen the family resemblance. The same high cheekbones, the slight cant to their eyes-both of them even slept with one arm outside the blanket. Separated by generations they certainly were, Erun only half-human, their relation distant at best, but the blood of Arantar ran strong in both of them. "Lady," said a voice behind her, and she turned. Lendri and Gyaidun stood there. Mingan the wolf lingered not far away, and Durja perched on his master's shoulder. Both warriors still bore the wounds of battle-both in the haunted look in their eyes and the many cuts, scrapes, and bruises behind their bandages. Amira had done what she could for them, mixing potions for which she could find ingredients, but she was no cleric, and her knowledge of healing went little beyond dressing battle wounds. "What is it?" she asked, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Erun and Jalan. "We must prepare the belkagen," said Lendri. "For the fire. At sunset, the pyres must be lit." "We?" she asked. "The duty falls to us." "But… but you're exiles and I'm an outlander. The Vil Adanrath-" "The belkagen died fighting by our side," said Gyaidun. "The duty falls to us." Amira looked to Lendri. "And your father, he approves of this?"

"It is our way," said Lendri. "The omah nin will not help us, but he will not interfere." Amira stood. "Show me what to do."

The three of them swaddled the belkagen in the remains of his cloak, wrapped him in one of the spare deerhide blankets, and bound it all with tough leather thongs. When they finished, only the belkagen's head could be seen. Dried blood and dirt still smeared his face and caked his hair. Amira used a little water and the hem of her cloak to clean it off. Amira looked down on the face and laughed sadly. "A ghost of fire." "What?" said Gyaidun. "The first time I saw him," she said, "I was wounded. Half dead, more likely. And delirious. I woke with him bending over me, chanting beside the fire. My first thought was, 'A ghost of fire.' Looking at him now, I see no ghost, no fire."

Both warriors exchanged a look and scowled, probably thinking it some subtlety of Common that they didn't understand. "Our people believe the body is only a home for our ghost," said Lendri, "and our word for 'ghost' is uskeche." "Uskeche?" "It means fire," said Gyaidun. Amira looked down at the belkagen's face. There was no fire there. Not anymore. Only a vague remembrance of it, like cold ashes. "I…" said Amira, and found tears welling in her eyes. "I never thought… it would be him. Going after my son, chasing his captors, I thought I might die. I half-expected you two to get yourselves killed, but I never thought… not him." They stood in silence over the body a moment before Lendri spoke. "I think he did." "What?" "I have thought long about this," said Lendri. "All belkagen are given wisdom in Hro'nyewachu. It is said it is the source of much of their power. But Belkagen Kwarun once told me that his blessing was just as much a curse. 'The one burden no warrior should ever bear,' he told me."

"What was it?" asked Amira. "He never told me, but I think Hro'nyewachu showed him his own death. It is the one thing every warrior risks but the one thing he never knows. But I think the belkagen knew." Gyaidun nodded, his eyes distant and a cold fire burning in them. "Yes," he said. "On Arzhan Island, when he heard Amira's tale… she awoke a great fear in him. I think it may have been why he balked at first." His face clouded, his nostrils flaring, and he looked away. "I shamed him. And myself. I… should have-"

"No," said Amira. "No, I think you made him proud. He was afraid, yes.

Who wouldn't be? But you reminded him of courage and woke it in him. I only knew him a short time, but I think he was proud-very proud-of both of you."

The Vil Adanrath built dozens of pyres, arranging them in a wide ring on the hilltop. Finding enough wood for so many had been no easy task, but the survivors had roamed many leagues and brought every scrap they could find. When that was not enough, they dug through the snow, cut the grass beneath, and bundled it into tight sheaves. The heavy snowfall-already melting with the return of autumn weather-made everything damp, but the Vil Adanrath had lived in the Wastes for many generations, and building fires in the snowfields was the least of their skills. The belkagen's pyre was the tallest of all, a waist-high bed of grass and sticks that stood in the middle of the great ring of dead Vil Adanrath. The belkagen lay upon it, his staff beside him. The sun touched the rim of the world in the west, and a great howling filled the air. The surviving Vil Adanrath, elves and wolves, stood just outside the ring of pyres. Each stood over a fallen comrade, brother, sister, or lover. Some few of the older elves stood over the body of one of their adult children. All stood honor's distance away from the hrayeket, Lendri and Gyaidun, who stood witness over the belkagen. Amira had chosen to stay with them, as had Jalan and Erun.

"It is time, Lady Amira," said Lendri. "The sun sets, and the song of the people will sing their brothers home." Amira raised her staff, the gift of Hro'nyewachu that the belkagen had named Karakhnir, and she spoke the words of power. Fire roared to life beneath the belkagen's body, flames the same color as the sunset consuming the shell of her friend. She forced herself to watch. The old elf's hair, the hoary gray mixed with glistening silver, lit at once, curling and blackening in bright, tiny blue flames that produced a thick, black smoke. The skin tightened, shriveled, and blackened. Amira could hear it sizzling. Bile rose in her throat, but she would not let herself look away. The old elf had risked his life for her and died protecting her son. She would not look away from his death. The flames quickened and soon she could see no more than a dark form amid the flames. Lendri half-spoke and half-chanted a long string of words in his own tongue.

When he was finished, Gyaidun translated for Amira and Jalan.

Flames of this world, bear our brother's flame to our ancestors.

Kwarun burned bright. His exile is ended, his rest assured.

The five of them stood in silence, watching the smoke in flames, then Lendri spoke again. "Lady, someone must take fire to the omah nin, that the other pyres might be lit." "Me?" said Amira. "Gyaidun and I, we are hrayeket. We cannot." Amira tore her eyes away from the fire and looked to the omah nin, standing several dozen paces away over the body of his younger brother. Leren stood beside him. "After all you did," said Amira, "risking your lives. Still he stands behind his honor"-she made no attempt to keep the bile from the last word-"rather than beside his firstborn." "Your ways are not our ways, Lady." "Indeed," said Amira. "Let the omah nin get his own damned fire." Lendri scowled. Amira looked to Gyaidun and caught the flicker of a smile before the sternness returned to his face. "Lady," said Lendri. "That is… most discourteous." "My ways are not his ways."

"Lady-" "I will take it." Everyone turned to look at who had spoken.

Erun. He still bore the scars of his… ordeal. Amira felt stupid calling such torture an "ordeal." Monstrous, she had named it to Gyaidun. Blasphemous. Even those words seemed to fall short. Yet already the young man showed signs of recovery. Whatever being had come to him-no, Amira corrected herself-through him, much of that strength remained. Yes, his cheeks were still sunken like a corpse-far beyond the natural thinness he'd inherited from his mother's people-his bones showed under his skin, and much of his color had not yet returned, but there was a light in his eyes. Not burning, precisely. But smoldering. A glow of promise, perhaps, like the bright sky before sunrise. Looking at him now, standing next to his father, Amira thought it would be a wonder indeed to see what would happen when the sun fully rose in him. Erun stepped forward and pulled one of the larger sheaves out from the bottom of the pyre. Half of it was already well ablaze. He stood, his back straight, and looked to his father. "My grandfather will take fire from me," he said, and Amira heard a deeper meaning in his words. She watched him walk away, strength and confidence in his gait, and in that moment an image struck Amira-Arantar, wise and powerful, walking the steppes. She turned to Gyaidun and saw a dark look on his face. "What is it?" she asked. "What is what?" "You look as if you just saw your own death."

Gyaidun looked her in the eye. "No. It…" "What?" He returned his gaze to his son, walking without fear to the omah nin. "Things happen quicker than I thought they would." "Things?" It hit Amira then that in the past day-the joy at being reunited with Jalan, the grief at finding the belkagen, funeral preparations, not to mention being tired beyond all rational thought-she had forgotten to ask Gyaidun exactly how he had turned up on the shore of the Great Ice Sea knowing what had to be done. Standing over the pyre of her friend, she remembered Gyaidun's argument with the belkagen, asking why he could not seek Hro'nyewachu if she knew something about Erun. "You did it, didn't you?" she said. Even Lendri and Jalan turned to look at Gyaidun.

Durja, resting on Gyaidun's shoulder, squawked as his master looked down on all of them. His gaze raked over each of them, his jaw grinding, then he stared into the fire. "You went to Hro'nyewachu" said Amira. "Didn't you?" Still he said nothing. "Rathla?" said Lendri, awe in his voice. "Is this true?" Durja squawked again and flapped his wings but did not leave his master's shoulder. "I had no choice," said Gyaidun. "You sought the Mother's Heart and lived?" said Lendri. "How…?" "You are not Vil Adanrath," said Amira. "The belkagen said-" "I am athkaraye," said Gyaidun. "Human, yes, but the blood of the Vil Adanrath lives in me through Lendri." He raised his right hand, opened it, and the gash showed plainly across his palm.

"And through Hlessa, and through Erun." "But the belkagen said you couldn't, said you hadn't studied the arcane or the ways of the gods, said-" "The belkagen was one of the wisest I have ever known," said Gyaidun. "And I sometimes ill-treated him, to my shame. But he did not know everything." "What do you mean?" said Lendri. "Hro'nyewachu," said Gyaidun, "she… she is a being of… need." "So said the belkagen. Yes." "A mother's need," said Amira. "That's what he said.

What the belkagen told me. 'Hro'nyewachu has a mother's heart.' He said I had a mother's need, and that our hearts would beat the same song." Gyaidun looked back at his son, who had reached the omah nin and was presenting him with the fire. The Vil Adanrath chieftain stood tall and proud, almost rigid, but he took the fire. "So how did you survive?" Lendri asked Gyaidun. "I introduced her to a father's need."

"At the shore," said Amira, "after you came back, you were covered in blood. Much of it your own." Gyaidun shrugged. His wounds had been tended, but he still bore many new cuts and scrapes. "It was not an easy… conversation. I…" "What?" Gyaidun stared into the fire a long while before answering. "I was blinded by grief, despair, anger.

Kehrareth we would say. I… I think I went there hoping she would kill me. At least grant me a warrior's death. I went with no sacrifice." Lendri gasped. Amira remembered what the belkagen had told her-"Hro'nyewachu is… akai'ye. There is no good word in your tongue. Ancient. Primal. Tame blood will not sate her. She needs the blood of the wild." "The blood of the wild," said Amira. "She took your blood instead. As sacrifice." Gyaidun flinched and looked back to his son, who now stood beside the omah nin, the pyre in front of them burning. "No," said Gyaidun. "Not me." Amira followed his gaze. Erun stood beside his grandfather. The young man was considerably shorter, and emaciated as he was, still his countenance radiated power. He stood beside the omah nin an equal. What was it, Gyaidun had said, what had prompted this entire conversation? "Things happen quicker than I thought they would." "Erun," said Amira. "She wants Erun.

Doesn't she?" Gyaidun said nothing, but the look on his face was all the answer that she needed. "I wouldn't worry," said Amira. "I saw Erun on the island. I think he might give even Hro'nyewachu pause."

Lendri looked to his rathla and said, "What did she say, Brother?" " 'I will require your blood,' " said Gyaidun. "Her words. I… I thought she meant me, and I did not care. But now…" He looked back to his son. The omah nin had lit his pyre, and Erun was carrying the flame to the next one. "Rathla," said Lendri, "do not dread. I do not think Hro'nyewachu would help you find your son only to take him again. 'I will require your blood.' Erun? Perhaps. But consider this.

A belkagen-perhaps one of the greatest to have ever served our people-has left the world. His presence will be missed, and Hro'nyewachu… I do not think she will tolerate such an absence for long. Besides, look at him." They did. All of them, even Mingan and Durja. "Who does he remind you of?" said Lendri. "His gait. His confidence. 'My grandfather will take fire from me.' Such boldness."

Arantar, Amira wanted to say. He reminds me of Arantar. But she held her tongue. "You think Erun might be a… belkagen?" said Gyaidun.

Lendri considered this a moment, then said, "I think you should heed the lady's advice. Do not fear for Erun." "Gyaidun?" said Amira. He looked to her. "The night you left the encampment, you made it all the way to Akhrasut Neth, and from there all the way to here. So far so fast, that's… impossible. Even for you." Gyaidun held up his right fist. A ring of some dark red metal-copper perhaps-was on his little finger. Runes, in the same style as those she'd seen on the belkagen and the omahet, were carved along its surface. "Before I left," he said, "the belkagen gave me this. It performs the same magic that you used on the steppe, able to send me great distances in the blink of an eye." "Will you keep it?" asked Lendri. "I have walked all my life," said Gyaidun. "I see no reason to stop now. Still, I might have need of it again."

With the sun gone, all warmth left the air. Cold seemed to radiate from the endless miles of snow, and the northern breeze had the bite of ice. The pyres smoldered, giving off a little heat, but their flames were gone, so that the only light was the thick sliver of moon and the hundreds of stars surrounding it. But with so much snow still on the ground, the land around them reflected the light of moon and stars, so that Amira could see surprisingly well. Still, the Vil Adanrath kept vigil over their dead, and Amira and her companions sat huddled in their cloaks and blankets next to the great pile of ashes.

Durja huddled inside Gyaidun's cloak, and Mingan crouched at Lendri's feet. Erun and Jalan slept in their blankets between the men and Amira. No one had spoken in some time. "We wait here till morning?" asked Amira. "Yes," said Lendri. "At sunrise, we help the wind to scatter the ashes. You may sleep if you wish. I will keep the vigil."

"I'm not tired," said Amira, and she was surprised to find it true.

After the past several tendays, she ought to have been exhausted, but a growing apprehension filled her and would not let her mind relax.

"So," said Gyaidun. "What now?" "What?" "You have your son. What now?"

Amira looked down at Jalan, breathing steadily inside his blankets.

"Jalan has been through something that no boy his age should ever have to experience. He's alive, and I have him back. The rest…" Her lips curved in a sad smile. "There will be time for the rest later."

Gyaidun said nothing. Listening to the fire smoldering, Amira found the lapse in the conversation unsettling. "I… I owe you both a great debt. Without you and the belkagen-and the Vil Adanrath, I suppose-I never would have been able to get my son back. If there is ever anything-" "So you're leaving, then?" said Gyaidun, anger in his voice. "That's it?" "What did you expect?" said Amira. "Jalan deserves a good home, a safe home, a family that cares for him-" "And he has this in Cormyr?" Stung, Amira turned her gaze fixed to the snowfield.

"What are you asking?" "Are you-you and Jalan-returning to Cormyr?"

"If we don't, they'll come looking for us. My family might well leave us for dead, but the war wizards… they'll come." "And you will go with them?" She looked back to him. "I won't fight my own people, Gyaidun." He returned her gaze, and in the moonlight she could see a small smile crack his stern features. "You won't have to, Amira." He motioned with his head to Lendri and Mingan and patted the long knife in the sheath at his belt. Amira's eyebrows rose, and she looked at Lendri. The elf said nothing but gave her a feral grin that did nothing to hide the wolf in his nature. Again he looked on her with those predator's eyes, the moon and starlight catching therein and shining out, but for the first time Amira did not feel caught in the wolf gaze. She felt part of the pack. She took a deep breath and looked back out on the endless miles of rolling steppe, now covered in snow. For the first time since she'd come to this land, she took in its beauty. It was a hard land, Lendri had said, and it bred hard children. But right now Amira was almost awestruck by its splendor. "I used to hate the Wastes, you know," she said. Gyaidun chuckled. "I can't imagine why."

A Guide to the Words and Phrases of the Vil Adanrath akai'ye: "ancient," "primal," or "primeval." Akhrasut Neth: "the Mother's Bed," a hill sacred to the Vil Adanrath. alet: a command, meaning "come here." amrulugek: "council" or "meeting." aniq: A command, meaning "ready" or "be ready." athkaraye: "friend of the elves." belkagen: "good seer," the name given to the holy men of the Vil Adanrath. besthunit nenle: a proverb, meaning "hurry up slowly;" in other words: be quick, but not so quick that you do it badly. chu set: "hold calm;" a more general translation would be "control yourself," "be still," or "calm down." crithta: "sunbeam" crith kesh het: "sun-shield to me." dilit: a command, meaning "be quiet." gaudutu: "burning legs;" the Vil Adanrath name for an extremely venomous centipede common to some parts of the Endless Wastes.

Hinakaweh: A clan of the Vil Adanrath. hrayek: "cut off," but most often used to mean "exile" or "outcast." Hro'nyewachu: "Heart of the Piercing," the name of one of the most sacred sites of the Vil Adanrath. Iket Sotha: "fort of winter," the Vil Adanrath name for Winterkeep. ikwe: a command, meaning "get back" or "get away." Inisach tin Nekutha Hro'nyewachwe: "Seeker and survivor of the Heart of the Piercing." kaharenharik ket: Literally "fires of heaven fall." kanishta: A type of root, the juices of which help the body and stay warm and provide energy. Karakhnir: "sharpens the bite." kaweh rut, kyed: "speak out, now." kehrareth: "intense grief" or "despair;"

"fey." kweshta: "a special one," but in the sense of one who does not quite fit in, but in a good way; a looser translation might be "dear" or "unique." na kwast wahir athu kyene wekht unarihe: a proverb, meaning "better a cold truth than a warm lie." newetik: "without heart"; an insult that means "without honor." omah: "leader" or "chief." omah nin: "highest chief." rathla: "blood-bound," but most often used to mean "blood brothers." Siksin Neneweth: "Ice Skins," the Vil Adanrath name for the Frost Folk. sumezh: "stray dog;" it is commonly used as an insult. te?: "well?" or "huh?" uskeche: "fire" or "flame," but more commonly used as the Vil Adanrath word for "spirit" or "ghost." u werekh kye wu: "great winds be born." uwethla:

"skin-bound," the Vil Adanrath name for the holy symbols etched onto the skin of omahet and belkagenet. vil: wolf. viliniketu: "wolves of the ice fields." the Vil Adanrath name for winter wolves. wutheh: a command, meaning "find" or "seek." Yastehanye: "Honored Exile." about the author Mark Sehestedt (no relation to Laurence Tureaud) was born in Portales, New Mexico. He grew up on a steady diet of Marvel? comic books, Star Trek? reruns, Star Wars? science fiction, horror, and Mel Brooks movies. His first attempt at a book was How Not to Get Captured by Monsters on Halloween Night, which he wrote at age four while watching Scooby-Doo?. It still hasn't found a publisher. He now lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, six children, a dog, a bird, a gecko, and various unnamed spiders. Frostfell is his first novel. Film rights are still available.