The big man reached for his waterskin and, watching her, took a long drink. She could see him working all this out in his mind. She let him and didn't rush it.

"And now?" he said.

"As I said, it was a small hope. A foolish one perhaps, but I knew that no common bandits would head due north this time of year. And we've followed them north all day."

"And I don't suppose it hurt to separate these three strangers that you weren't sure you could trust yet?"

Amira said nothing.

"Well played," said Gyaidun. "But I told you already I don't care if you trust me or not. I'm going after your son whether you like it or not. You are here because I let you come."

"Because you let me come?" She gripped her staff and balled her other hand into a fist. "What makes you think you could stop me?"

"What makes you think I'd want to?" Gyaidun smiled. "But you need me to track your son's… abductors."

"Not if your belkagen was right and they're taking him to Winterkeep."

"You think you can find Winterkeep?"

"I studied maps of the Wastes before leaving Cor-"

"Maps?" Gyaidun laughed. "Did your maps tell you how you will find water when our skins run out? Or food? Did your maps tell you which tribes might help us should we run into them and which will surely try to kill us? Or which plants will keep the sting of the gaudutu from rotting away your skin? Did your maps tell you that in midwinter these lands grow so cold that the pines up north sometimes freeze and their sap explodes? Did your precious maps tell you of the whispering of the stars?"

"I told you," said Amira. "I'll find my son. I am in your debt for your help. But I'll find him with or without you."

"As you say." Gyaidun bowed. She couldn't tell if he was mocking her or saluting her.

"But…"

"But what?"

"If your belkagen was right, if they are taking Jalan to Winterkeep…"

"Yes?"

"If I can take the time to rest and study, I might be able to take us there with a spell. We could get ahead of his captors. Not all the way to Winterkeep. Not with one spell. It's too far. But we could get ahead of them and set a trap."

"The two of us? Alone?" Gyaidun shook his head. "We should wait for Lendri at Akhrasut Neth and see if he comes with aid. Then… then I like your plan." Amira smiled. "Gyaidun?" "Yes?" "What is 'the whispering of the stars?' " Gyaidun seemed surprised at her question.

"A term among the Vil Adanrath. In deep winter, on the coldest days your breath freezes so quickly that it becomes a fine snow-like little stars-right before your eyes. Listen and you can hear it fall to your feet. Like a whisper. 'The whispering of the stars.'" Amira shuddered, lowered her staff, and wrapped the blanket back around her. She licked her lips and said, "You… do you think my plan will work?"

"Perhaps." Gyaidun shrugged and threw some more dried dung on the fire. "As long as we find them before the first snow."

Darkness on the open steppe. A haze, high but thick, shrouded the sky, and only the waxing moon and the few brightest stars managed to shine through, their milky glow pale and diffuse. Wind came from the north, and it held the scent of winter. The pack trailed the elk for miles. Normally they did not hunt at night, but with the lean winter months coming, every moment not sleeping or caring for the young was spent on the hunt. The wolves had taken three young bulls from a herd numbering well over a hundred. They'd feasted in the dark and would sleep tomorrow. The young-only off their mothers' milk for a few months-were just finishing when a howl wafted over the pack from the west. A moment later, another joined it from the south. The scouts.

Every hunter in camp stood still, ears held erect. Several surrounded the young. The pack did not have long to wait before the scouts ran in, joining them. They spoke in the language of wolves-posture and movement and the flicking of the ears speaking just as much as the yips, whines, and occasional growls. The leader listened, a deep growl building in his throat even before his scouts had finished. His mate barked, her head held high, looking at the low hills to the south. The short grasses were a black shadow under the iron-gray sky, but something flashed over them-two pale forms moving down the slope at a full run. Most of the pack circled the young, who had sensed the tension among the group and stopped working at the slick bones of the elk carcasses. The leader led his hunters toward the intruders, his pack forming out behind him, moving silent as ghosts in the grass.

Just shy of the base of the slope, the newcomers stopped. Both were wolves, one a mottled gray and the larger one the color of starlight on new snow. The smaller threw his head back to the sky and let out a long, plaintive howl. Forsaking silence for swiftness, the pack leader put on a sudden burst of speed. The newcomers did not retreat, though the larger of the two tensed, his muzzle low to the ground and his fangs bared. The pack leader stopped in front of them, his hunters surrounding the intruders. He did not return the big one's threat. He could smell the southern soils on the newcomers. They had come far.

They would be tired. Easy prey. The largest of the newcomers shimmered in the dim moonlight. Shadows rippled over his fur, stretching and distorting, then disappearing. Where the pale wolf had been, there now stood a pale elf, naked upon the grass, his frost-colored hair falling over his shoulders. Lines and swirls, black in the dimness, covered his body, and three scars bisected by a fourth covered each cheek. His palms held open, Lendri looked at the pack leader and said,

"Greetings, Brother."

The Endless Wastes Jalan woke to the feeling of warmth. It came as a shock, for he couldn't remember when he'd last been warm. Not sinceAlmorel. Yes, that had been it. At Almorel there had been fire, warm food, a bed.

.. No dreams had come to him since Almorel. Before that, during the days when the first raiders had dragged him through Rashemen and into the Endless Wastes, nightmares had plagued him. Every night he relived the horror of High Horn. The shouting of the guards… the screaming… his mother's maidservant pulled from the wardrobe and shrieking as the pale man, laughing, slit her throat… blood pooling on the stone floor… the pale men, their eyes wild, blood speckling their skin, beating him down and dragging him outside … The nightmare continued. Jalan had always been a vivid dreamer.

His earliest memories were of dreams, and one in particular. For as long as he could remember, he'd dreamed of music, warm and bright, flowing like a breeze that smelled of blossoms. Since that night at High Horn he had not had the dream. Since Almorel he had not dreamed at all. But as conscious thought drifted away and sleep claimed him in that small hollow in the middle of the Endless Wastes, the dream came to him. Light flooded his mind. Always there had been the almost-voices of the song, a choir that sang beyond words, but now, as Jalan basked in the yellow warmth, he heard a voice, clear and distinct, though seeming to come from far away. What language it spoke Jalan did not know, but he understood the meaning within the words. Be not afraid. A tremor of fear passed through Jalan. Not the unreasoning terror the pale barbarians gave him. Not the cold dread of their leader. This was the fear of the unknown, the new, the fear and exhilaration a baby feels taking his first steps, or a bird feels when it first realizes that its fall has caught the wind and the wind is lifting it. It was a fear mixed with joy. It was a feeling Jalan had never known. His thoughts reached out to the presence, seeking the music, and as he did he heard again the voice within the music. The words were strange, melodic and deep, but their meaning was clear. Be not afraid. Gathering his courage, the little bird teetering on the edge of the nest, Jalan called out. Who are you? His voice seemed small, a tiny tinkling bell lost amid thunder. The song swelled, and the voice answered, I am Vyaidelon. The name meant nothing to Jalan, though he felt strangely comforted by it. Vyaidelon, Jalan said, savoring the name. It felt right. Maybe even familiar. Listen, Jalan, the voice sang. I don't want to go back! Even through the music and light and warmth, Jalan remembered the pale northerners, their huge wolves, and the dark thing, the dark malice, that led them. Be not afraid, Jalan, sang the voice. Listen to me. Who are you? You are a closed bud, Jalan, waiting for the sun to shine. I am the root of the tree, buried far away in the cold earth. What? It was all gibberish to Jalan. A bud? A root? The joy he'd felt at finding clarity within the song for the first time melted away to confusion. I don't understand! he called. You will. Be not afraid. Come to the Witness Tree. It is our only hope.