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.

Hro'nyewachu The belkagen's concern had long since deepened to worry, and his worry was becoming true fear. Lady Amira had been gone for too long.

It had been near midnight when she'd entered the pool, and in his heart that knew the turning of the seasons and the paths of the stars like a husband knows the curves of his wife's body, the belkagen knew dawn was not far away. Amira had been gone too long. He stood at the water's edge, leaning upon his staff, its green light reflecting off the water. After Amira had gone, the ripples left in her wake had caught the staff's light and painted the cavern in dancing light and shadow, but it had long since returned to a calm broken only by the minuscule plipping of water droplets falling from the ceiling. Now, save for one spot several paces out where the light of his staff floated like a tiny green moon, the water was black as slate. The belkagen stood waiting, his eyes open but no longer really watching.

Alone in the darkness, the words he had spoken to Lady Amira came back to him"Hro'nyewachu has a mother's heart. You have a mother's need.

Your hearts will beat the same song, I think. I could brave Hro'nyewachu again, and if you refuse, I will go." He had said it, had he not? I could brave Hro'nyewachu again… I will go… I will go … I will go… brave Hro'nyewachu again… His words came to him again and again, almost as if they were the echoes of the water drip-drip-dripping into the pool before him. Should he go after her? In his heart, he knew there was nothing he could do for her. He'd told her that, as well, and he knew it to be true. But neither could he just walk away. Not without knowing. Even if he couldn't help her, perhaps there was something he could learn to help them, some new vision thatHe heard a splash. Not of something falling into the water.

Nothing that hard. But he heard something breaking the surface of the water out beyond the reach of his light. "Lady Amira?" he called.

Nothing. Just the steady plip-plip of water droplets hitting the pool.

But as he watched, the small globe of light reflecting on the surface rippled. Something had disturbed the water farther out. He listened, his ears straining, but there was nothing more. The belkagen raised his staff and spoke an incantation. The flames flickering along its tip roared to new life, a green beacon in the darkness. There!

Something was floating in the water. It wasn't moving. The belkagen tore at the ties of his cloak and left it piled on the shore. It would soak in the water and weigh him down. His clothes would as well, but he didn't want to take the time to remove them. Staff held high, he charged into the water. The shape floated several paces away, the waves caused by his passage pushed it farther out. He could make out no distinct features, but even in the dim light he could see long, dark hair and fair skin. He cursed and pushed his legs harder. The water was splashing up his chest and over his shoulders when he drew close enough to reach out and grab the figure. His fingers closed around wet hair and he pulled. It was Amira, floating facedown in the water. The belkagen got a better grip on her forearm, then dragged her back to shore. He threw her down and turned her over. Her skin was pale, cold to the touch, and her lips were blue. Long, wet tendrils of her hair spread over her bare breasts, and the belkagen saw that her chest did not move. She wasn't breathing. "No!" He threw his staff aside and knelt beside her. Closing his eyes, he sent his senses through her body, washing over and through her skin, down into muscle, blood, and bone. There! Life still flickered within her, faint and growing weaker with each passing moment, but it was still there. She is not dead. The belkagen started and looked up. A great she-wolf, fur gray as clouds laden with spring rain, stood before the entrance, staring down at him with eyes the color of moonlight. "Hro'nyewachu!" said the belkagen. The she-wolf walked toward him, and with each step her form blurred and swirled, and motes of light and darkness danced before the belkagen's eyes. When she stopped a few paces away, a tall, lithe woman stood over him. Whatever color her skin was, it was hidden beneath a dark, slick wetness that by the smell the belkagen knew to be blood, though not from any creature that walked in this world. Her hair was made up in scores of tight braids that hung to her waist, and bits of bone, feathers, and spring flowers peeked out from among them.