Frostfell

CHAPTER FOUR

Arzhan Island, the Lake of Mists in the lands of the Khassidi

Smoke. Scent intruded her darkness, then a thought: Fire. Someone was burning pinewood. Amira recognized the fragrance. It reminded her of winter hearthfires in the Hiloar estates. Home, childhood, winter feasts, laughter cackling like… Flames-a small fire but very close.

She could hear it, but more importantly, she could feel it. She was warm, which surprised her. It was some time before she thought to open her eyes. Both of them. The skin on the right side still felt too large, but she could open her eye all the way. She lay beside a small campfire. She was naked but wrapped feet to chin in some sort of animal hides. On the other side of the fire, wrapped much as she was, lay an elf. Tattoos twisted like vines over his ivory-pale skin.

Recognition hit her. Then remembrance. Running through the woods.

Pursuit. "Keep going! Make for the water." "Mother, no! I-" "Go! Lose them in the water. I'll find you." "You promise?" Pain… fire… cold. "Silo'at!" Amira let out a small cry and reached for her stomach. She'd felt Walloch's blade pierce her, felt her muscles resist a moment before the sharp steel broke through, kept moving, slicing, then-"Silo'at!" — and cold such as she'd never known, a cold that burned. "Jalan!" She tried to sit up, and the world swam around her. Amira heard light footsteps and when her vision cleared, an old man was crouching next to her. Only he wasn't old at all-or even a man. His face was pale like the elf beside her, and his skin was also broken by tattoos twining over his cheeks and round his eyes, but among the black inks were vines of green and even thin streaks of blue. But unlike the other elf, this one had strange, red symbols on each cheek and over each eye. To Amira, they almost looked like runes, but they were like none she had ever seen. His hair was white as snow; he wore it unbound and wild save for two long braids that dangled before his sharp ears. Not a single wrinkle or crease marred his features. His nose and chin were sharp, and his eyes… they seemed lit by both joy and sadness, and also something else. Something… wild. "Who?" said the elf, speaking Common. "Jalan." Amira tried to swallow. Her throat felt raw. "My son." The elf looked away, but not before Amira saw the look on his face. Regret? No. Resignation. "What?

Where is my son?" Amira tried to sit up, but shadows flooded her vision and she almost passed out again. She lay back down. "I remember. I woke. The big one said that-Lendri, was it? — had gone for my son. Where is he?" "Try not to move," said the elf. "My craft has done much to heal your wounds, but you are still very weak." Amira thrust a hand out from the blankets and grabbed the elf's cloak. It was thick, heavy, made from some animal hide. Her arm felt hollow, her grip feeble, but the elf did not pull away. "Where-?" her throat caught. So dry. She tried again. "My… son?" "A moment." The elf stood and walked away. He returned a moment later with a wooden bowl cradled in both hands. "Drink this. I will tell you what I know." He lifted her head with one hand and brought the bowl to her lips with the other. The water was oddly warm and brackish. She winced but swallowed. "The waters of the Lake of Mists are warm," said the elf.

"Many of the streams that feed it come down from the Firepeaks, and there are hot springs everywhere. I have never known the lake to freeze, even in the harshest winter." "Where is my son?" The elf placed the bowl beside her and settled himself down. "I am the belkagen. What your folk might call a priest, a shaman." Amira lay back down and fixed him with the glare that had sent many pages and servants running from her as a child. "I don't care. Where is my son?"

"Gyaidun and Lendri were the ones who came to your aid last night.

After the slaver fled, they brought you here, to my island. You would have surely died had they not. Lendri went back out to find your son."

Amira studied the belkagen. Shaman or no, these three could easily be slavers themselves. What had the big one told Walloch last night?

"Slavers… the caravan trails are thick with them this time of year." Amira had been embroiled in the courtly intrigue of Cormyr before she could count. She hated it, but she could play with the best of them, and she read no deception or malice in the shaman's face.

"Lendri-" the belkagen motioned to the elf who still lay sleeping behind him. "He found your son, but on the way back something attacked them. Gyaidun went to their aid, but by the time he arrived, your son was gone and Lendri nearly dead." "Attacked? By who?" "Gyaidun first thought it was Walloch, come back. The woods where Gyaidun found Lendri were coated in frost. But Lendri said it was… he said he thought some of them were Frost Folk, but there was… something else.

Something foul and cold." Dread, kept at bay these many days, filled Amira's stomach. Oh, no, she prayed. Not again. We were so close! The belkagen was watching her, his eyes piercing. Under his gaze, Amira felt like a rabbit under the scrutiny of a hungry wolf. "Where is this … Gyaidun?" she asked. "The big one?" The corner of the belkagen's mouth lifted in a smile, but his eyes remained sharp. "Yes, Gyaidun the big one. I'm afraid my friend has gone and done something foolish." "He's gone for Jalan?" Hope flickered in Amira-she'd seen the man fight last night; he could've given a Purple Dragon Knight a challenge and then some-but her sense knew it was a feeble hope. No matter how formidable the big man was, the fool had no idea what he was up against. "No," said the belkagen. "He and Lendri are rathla, what the Tuigan call anda. Blood brothers. When he found Lendri near dead, a steel rage filled him. I've only seen him like that a few times. After bringing Lendri to me, he went after Walloch." "But you said it was Frost Folk and… something else." "So Lendri said. But Gyaidun suspected that the slaver was after you two for a reason, and that reason came looking for you and almost killed Lendri." The belkagen shook his head. "I could almost pity Walloch when Gyaidun finds him."

After leaving Lendri with the belkagen, Gyaidun gave serious consideration to picking up the trail of whoever had attacked Lendri and taken the boy. But he knew he'd be outnumbered at least five to one, and they had nearly killed Lendri. Furious as he was, Gyaidun was no fool. But his blood was up, and he could not just sit by the campfire and wait. He'd picked up the slaver's trail easily enough.

That many men and dogs had torn up the woods chasing the woman and her boy. Gyaidun kept a steady pace but didn't hurry. Lendri's people had a saying: Besthunit nenle. "Hurry slowly"-go fast, but not so fast that you miss your prey. The slaver had a loud bark, but he had the bite to back it up, and Gyaidun didn't want to rush into an ambush.

Dawn's first light was burning in the east. Gyaidun had left the forest proper behind and was now walking through the beginnings of open steppe, though there were still frequent copses and islands of brush. He knew he was getting close. He could smell horses, dogs, goats, and all the things that came out of them. The smell of cooked food hit his nostrils, though it was old. Apparently none of the slavers were early risers. The stench of the midden pit struck him so hard that he knew they hadn't taken the time to dig it deep enough or bury what was in it. But something else tickled his senses, more taste than smell. Moisture. That was nothing unusual around the Lake of Mists, where half the lake seemed to escape as a cloud every day. But this had a flavor, sharp and hard. He knew it, but it took him a moment to place it, for it was far too early in the year: snow.

Gyaidun stopped long enough to string his bow and nock an arrow. He crept in nice and slow, going low to the ground from cover to cover.

There was no need. He crested the small rise above a jagged hollow that a stream had cut through the hills. Gyaidun looked down into the remains of the slaver's camp, every bit covered in a thick blanket of snow. Not even the soft, wet snow that could sometimes fall in the autumn. This was a fine, hard snow. It sent up little clouds as he walked and muffled all sound. Nothing in the camp moved, and he knew that the dozens of snowy mounds scattered throughout the camp were bodies.

"Where are my clothes?" After eating some dried venison and drinking a great deal of water, Amira finally managed to sit up without fainting. She hunched near the fire, the blankets wrapped round her shoulders. The belkagen was tending to Lendri, who was still sleeping. He didn't look up as he answered, "You were covered with blood when you came in. Most of it yours. I had to cut the shirt off, frozen as it was. Everything else I washed." He motioned to the far side of the fire. There, spread out over a branch, were Amira's pants, smallclothes, and what was left of her cloak. "I will find you something to replace your shirt later." "Find it now." Amira stood.

The world wobbled for a moment, but it did not spin, and a deep breath set all to rights. "I'm going after my son." Amira knew the day was wearing on, though she had yet to see the sun. After the night wind had stopped, the fog off the lake rose thick, and she could not see more than a few dozen paces in any direction. The belkagen finished replacing the poultice on Lendri's wound, then looked up. "And how do you plan to do that?" "Leaving here is a good start." "You won't walk a mile before you fall over." "Watch me." "My craft mended the worst of your hurts, but you are not yet healed. Your body must do the rest.

You need food and sleep." Amira started toward her clothes-small, shuffling steps. A slight tremble began in her knees on the second step, and by the fourth she had to stop before her legs gave out beneath her. She stopped to gather her strength before she dared reach down for the clothes. The belkagen's eyebrows raised, and she glared at him. "You find this amusing?" "No, Lady." "What then?" "It is a cruel thing you are doing," said the belkagen. He walked over and held her breeches out for her. She gripped the blankets round her with one hand and reached for her clothes with the other. She snatched the breeches and clenched them in a tight fist, hoping it would hide her hand's trembling. "They're still wet." "The mists." The belkagen shrugged. "Put them back on the branch, and I will stoke the fire."

Amira stood her ground. "What did you mean, a cruel thing?" "You are so eager to rush off so that your son can watch you die." If Amira had possessed the strength to slap him, she would have. "I suppose it is a mercy of sorts that you'll never make it to him. If you did, in your condition, with no supplies, not even your spellbook, you'd accomplish little more than giving your son the chance to watch his captors kill you." Amira's knees trembled again, and this time she had to sit. "How … did you know I'm a…?" "Wizard?" The belkagen crouched and threw more wood on the fire. "Yes." "I am surprised you don't recognize one of your own." The belkagen smiled, but there was no humor in it. A shudder passed down Amira's spine. "I recognized you," he said. "But you said you were a shaman, a priest." "I am the belkagen. There is no word in your tongue. I am a shaman, a priest, and perhaps what some of the western peoples might call a druid. But I have also studied the arcane arts." "So you are a wizard?" "I am the belkagen." Amira looked off into the mists. "I hate the Wastes."

"Wastes?" The belkagen chuckled. "There is more life in one league of 'the Wastes' than in one of your stone castles." Amira smirked, then said, "Could you hand me my smallclothes, please?" "I thought western women did not like men touching their smallclothes." "Just hand them to me." He did. "You're still going, then?" "Jalan is my son. I'll find him or die trying." "It will be the dying, I think, unless you heed me." "You mentioned something about a shirt." The belkagen frowned. "Are all western women so discourteous?" Amira took a deep breath. She'd dealt with worse growing up amid the courtly intrigue of Cormyr, but she had no time for this. "I thank you for your help, Belkagen. If I can ever repay your hospitality, I will. On my honor and the honor of House Hiloar. Now, if you could find me a shirt and give me some food to set me on my way, I will be doubly in your debt.

But I am going after my son." "Of course you are. But if you will finish healing, you might have some small chance-" Through the mist came the sound of splashing. Someone was coming through the lake and moving fast. The belkagen went stone-still, listened, then relaxed. "I thought you said we were on an island," said Amira. "Arzhan Island," said the belkagen. "I often winter here, but we're only a few dozen paces from the north shore, and the water is no more than waist deep."

The splashing stopped, Amira heard footsteps approaching, and moments later a large figure materialized out of the mist. It was the man who had come to her rescue last night. Gyaidun, was it? She got her first good look at him. He stood tall, and his leather-and-hide clothes obviously covered thick muscle. Tattoos twined down his bare arms, much like those on the one called Lendri, but strangest of all were the scars on his face. He had three long slashes down each cheek, and one slash bisecting them. No battle wounds, certainly. They were too precise. His unstrung bow rode on his back, but Amira's heart leaped when she saw what he carried in one hand: her staff and spellbook. The man spared Amira a glance, gave the sleeping elf a longer look, concern creasing his brow, then looked to the belkagen. "Dead," he said. "They were all dead. Every last one of them. Captives, horses, dogs. Even that slaving whoreson Walloch. Frozen solid."