Frostfell

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 ru

"No!" came a shout below them, and in the back of his mind Jalan recognized the voice of the sorcerer who had taken him, who had dragged him across the Endless Wastes, tormenting him all the way. A smile crept across Jalan's face, for he heard something new in the voice: despair. A pale flutter overhead caught Jalan's eye, and he looked up. There, just at the limit of his reach, was a pale bud, fluttering in the gale. Even as he watched, the bud opened into a full blossom, white petals round a gold center. Grab it! said Vyaidelon's song inside him. He did.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Isle of Witness "Father!" The cry went out, echoing into realms beyond the paths of mortal men, and Vyaidelon answered. Arantar, his son, his only son born to him of a mortal woman, stood beneath the Witness Tree.

Weariness hung upon him, and the light in his eyes was dim. Five sorcerers, clad in the royal gray of Raumathar, surrounded him.

Vyaidelon could look beyond the scope of mortal eyes, and he saw the cold, hungry darknesses writhing within them, giving them great strength even as the darknesses consumed them. Vyaidelon merged with Arantar, combining their spirits and lending his strength to his son.

The five sorcerers howled in fury and struck, calling upon every spell they knew as they charged. Arantar and Vyaidelon, two beings sharing one body, struck back, pouring holy light and life into the never-ending hunger that filled the sorcerers. The five screamed, and four of them fell. The dark infusion, the thousands of tendrils of unlife burrowing into their souls, twisted and frayed. The leader, the one that had been Khasoreth, fell to his hands and knees upon the ice-slick steps and looked up at Arantar. The shadow lifted from Khasoreth's face, and his eyes cleared. "Master… please. Remember.

Remember… mercy." The words hit Arantar stronger than any of their spells had. They cut to his very heart, for they were ideals by which he had tried to live his entire life, as a servant to the people of the steppes, as a husband and father, and most of all as a man. In that moment of hesitation Khasoreth struck, sending a thick arm of darkness crashing into Arantar. The thing within Khasoreth shrieked in unholy delight, and Vyaidelon's song faltered. Arantar stumbled against the tree, and the thing that had been Khasoreth leaped, falling upon him with fist, tooth, and spell. Vyaidelon concentrated his strength to strike. No! said Arantar, calling to his father in the mind they shared. Mercy. He began to lift away, but the thing that had been Khasoreth struck, its great arm of darkness seizing Vyaidelon, grasping and tearing at him. Darkness warred with light, but this time Vyaidelon did not fight it. There would be another way. Another day when justice and mercy could meet as one. Do not fear, Vyaidelon told his son. You have planted the seed. It is not for you to see the flower bloom. Arantar breathed his last, a small smile upon his lips, and Vyaidelon fell. The five creatures of darkness seized him and battered at him, but their attempts were futile. Light was stronger, and Vyaidelon knew it even as he fell into the darkness. Vyaidelon sought the last bit of warmth, the last living thing upon the island-the Witness Tree-and fell into the pure essence of the tree.

The five sorcerers struck, but try as they might, they could not destroy the now-hallowed tree. Spell after spell and the darkest of magics broke upon it. Knowing that the murder of the tree was beyond them, the five sorcerers used their darkest spells and imprisoned Vyaidelon in the lifeblood of the tree. Through the long years, through the coldest winters and darkest nights, the deepest heart of the tree remained alive. Warmth and life still lived there, waiting.

Waiting for the true blood of Arantar to set free his celestial father.

Every bit of Gyaidun's body, both inside and out, pulsed with agony. Cracked bones, bruised muscles, skin cut and scraped-all of it clawed at his mind, trying to drag him down to unconsciousness. He fought it, willing his eyes to stay open, forcing his lungs to breathe, as he watched his life's blood pouring out of the gash in his hand. Damn my haste, he thought. Cut too quick. Too deep. Gyaidun heard Amira cry out, saw the blood from his and Jalan's hands soak into the roots of the tree-that thing at the bottom of the stairs cried out, "No!"-then the boy stood, stretched out his hand, and grabbed a pale blossom fluttering in the wind. A blossom? Gyaidun thought. Hro'nyewachu said nothing aboutJalan's hand blazed. It was as if a thousand suns had condensed into the boy's fist and exploded with all the light they'd ever held or would hold. And then, in the deepest recesses of Gyaidun's mind where he walked in dreams, Gyaidun heard music. It came as if from a great distance, but in the melody he felt warmth and light filling his soul, and in the corners of his mind that had known only darkness for years, something old and buried awoke: hope. Jalan looked down at Gyaidun, and the scared boy was gone. In his place stood a lord, a hero, and in that moment Gyaidun believed Amira's words, that the boy was of the line of Arantar himself. Jalan was smiling, and his eyes sparkled like sunlight through amber. A shard of blue light struck Jalan, and the boy stumbled. Gyaidun turned. Three of the dark sorcerers had come; the tallest led them, the magic of his spent spell still sparking minuscule lightning around his fist. Two of the other sorcerers struck, one sending a fu