Amira asked. "Boats? Anything?" Turha shook her head. "Nothing. In summer, one must swim. In winter, we walk the ice. Now…" Two other Vil Adanrath, one coated in blood, were coming toward them, three wolves at their heels. The bloody one had a bow. "You!" Amira shouted.

She pointed to the figures on the island. "Can you hit them from here?" The elf looked at the target. "Not in this wind. Even if I could, my arrows would not stop th-" "Damn you all!" Amira shouted.

"Does no one have anything useful to say?" Desperate, Amira peeled her gloves off with her teeth, dropped them, and began to work at the knot of her cloak. "Lady," said Turha, "what are you-?" Tears were filling Amira's eyes. "If I take off most of these damned clothes and the boots, maybe I can make it." "The cold will kill you," said Turha.

"Even the Vil Adanrath would not attempt this." "I'm not one of the damned Vil Ad-" A great commotion behind them cut her off. Elves shouting and wolves growling. Amira turned, fearing that more Frost Folk or winter wolves had found them. Three elves, their wolves milling about, were trying to restrain a huge figure, covered head to heels in thick, dark blood so that his eyes shone bright from his feral visage. The elves were armed, and their shouts and enraged faces showed their fury, but they did not attack the figure. They seemed to be trying to restrain him and were cursing him in their native tongue.

But they were unable to slow him. Amira's hammering heart skipped a beat and she held her breath, for as the figure drew close she recognized him. It was Gyaidun, his shirt hanging off him in tatters, his pants ripped, his hair unbound and sticky with blood, his iron club in one hand and his knife bare in the other, both thick with gore. From the scratches and cuts lining his torso, Amira knew that at least some of the blood was his. He stopped before her, panting, and the stench hit her-the salty tang of blood, the acidic bite of darker heart's blood, and wafting through it all the scent of spring blossoms. The smell caused a memory to hit her like a club:

Hro'nyewachu. No other odor matched it-the stench of death and the fragrance of new life. Amira blinked. "Gyaidun? How…? What hap-?"

Turha looked as if she were ready to stab Gyaidun with her spear, and three of the surrounding elves grabbed at his arms and tried to drag him away, one of them shouting, "Hrayek! You have no place here!"

"Stop!" Amira shouted. "Let him be! Gyaidun how did you get h-?" "He is hrayek!" said Turha. "He cannot be in our presence!" Amira glared at the lady omah. "Then leave, damn you." Turha turned to the Vil Adanrath warriors and said, "Get him out of here. Drag him if you must." But Gyaidun held them off with his knife and club. "No time!" he said. "That bastard out there has some sort of link with Jalan. He knows everything you've planned." This renewed Amira's panic, and she finally managed to tear loose the knot of her cloak and throw it to the ground. "What are you doing?" Gyaidun said. "I have to get out there!" "Swimming? You'll never make it. The cold will kill you."

"What choice do I have?" "Your magic," he said. "It brought you here last night. Use it to get us out there." "Us? But Erun-" "I know how to stop this!" he said. "But I have to get out there before it's too late." The words of the oracle came back to her. She hadn't heard them, had been lost in some dark dream forced on her by the oracle.

But the belkagen had asked the oracle, face to face, if the staff she'd given would save Jalan, and she had replied, No. That task is for another. Hope and despair tore at her heart. "Amira!" Gyaidun said. "Get us out there. Now!" "I can't!" she shrieked. "Don't you think I've tried? Something is blocking the magic. Some counterspell-"

"Can you get us above it-out of range?" asked Gyaidun. "In the water?

But… the cold. You said-" "Not the water!" He pointed to the sky above the distant island. "The air!" "The fall will kill us!" "You're a wizard, aren't you?"

The Isle of Witness Lendri was still down. Not dead, but in such agony he could scarcely move. The belkagen looked up to the pinnacle where the five sorcerers stood beneath the Witness Tree. The old elf's hands trembled, and his knees felt weak. The burden he had carried down the long years, the knowledge no living being should ever have, had come to him at last. Here it was. The fear hit him as it always did when he recalled the vision of Hro'nyewachu, but this time he did not let it weaken him. The fulfillment of his vision, the consummation of his mission, was here. The final reward. But as he'd told Hro'nyewachu, it could come only through pain. "As are all things worth having," he said, remembering her words. "So be it." The belkagen raised his staff, knowing the futility of what he was about to do. But instead of letting it weaken him, he accepted the knowledge and embraced it.

Knowing the ending-or at least part of it-was oddly liberating.

"Jalan!" he shouted. "Hold on to something!" The five sorcerers looked down upon him, and two of them began to weave their hands in their own summoning, but the belkagen was quicker. He raised his staff and said,

"U werekh kye wu!" The galeforce wind at his back switched directions and hit him from the left with a force beyond any hurricane. Waves broke against the side of the island, and the great mist tossed upward froze to ice and shot across the island like millions of tiny arrows.

The wind caught in the cloaks and robes of the five sorcerers and they tumbled off the pinnacle. Four splashed into the water while Erun clung to the rocks like a barnacle. The wind died off, then resumed its normal course. The belkagen spared a glance upward to make sure Jalan was unharmed. The boy clung to the twisted roots of the Witness Tree and looked down on him with wide eyes. Sweeping his staff down toward the water, the belkagen said, "Kaharenharik ket!" Five bolts of lightning cracked the sky and hit the water. For the belkagen, all sound ceased and the world went white. His hair stood on end and flickers of blue electric light danced around his outstretched arms.

Sound returned to the world as a great clap of thunder rattled the sky and shook the rocks beneath his feet. The belkagen blinked, and when his eyes opened he saw Erun scrambling up the rocks like a spider, but upon reaching a small outcropping he jumped into the wind, which caught in his robes, causing them to billow like a great bat. He flew into the air and landed on the stone stairway halfway between the belkagen and Jalan. A great cracking hit the belkagen's ears, and his first thought was that the rock had been split by the lightning, but then he saw the ice. The very waters of Yal Tengri were freezing in a column at the base of the island, and riding atop it were the other four sorcerers. The robes and cloaks were sodden, and the belkagen could see bits of flesh hanging off the hands of the nearest, but they otherwise seemed unharmed. The column of ice twisted and turned at the command of one of the sorcerers until it reached the side of the island. The four sorcerers stepped off the ice. One of them, the one whose flesh hung off the bones of his right hand, shambled as if weighed down by sickness or great age. It was to him that Erun pointed. "Take Gerghul to the boy," he said. "I will deal with this meddler." "No!" said the tallest of the four, and the belkagen cowered at the sound of his voice. This one had no cloak and cowl like the others, but his robes were of the same ash-gray color, and it was as if the heart of winter had taken form inside those robes. The voice sounded of the darkest, emptiest places the belkagen had ever imagined. "I will deal with this one. You will see to Gerghul before it is too late." "Jalan!" shouted the belkagen, ashamed at the quiver he heard in his voice. "Run, boy! Run!" But Erun was too swift-far beyond any natural ability-and he shot up the steps. Jalan made it no more than two steps before he was caught. The other three took their time, two helping their weaker companion ascend the hill. The tallest came at the belkagen, not hurrying but keeping a slow, deliberate pace, his corpse-pale hands weaving the motions of a spell. The belkagen could feel a sudden brittleness taking the air, and a coldness began to grow in his heart, as if a small hole had opened in him and was swallowing all the warmth and life in his body. He clutched at his chest and fell to his knees. His staff clattered on the ground beside him. The sorcerer grabbed the belkagen under the jaw and lifted him until the old elf was staring into the impenetrable darkness of the cowl. Somewhere he could hear a boy screaming. "My children have spoken of you," said the sorcerer. "In the north, they fear you, you and your mongrels. I am unimpressed." The grip tightened, and the belkagen felt a tooth snap loose. Blood filled his mouth, but it held no warmth. The coldness inside him seemed to have filled his entire chest, and he could no longer move his limbs. A snarling silver shadow hit the sorcerer, and the belkagen fell. He dropped in a heap and struggled to breathe. Each breath sent lances of pain through his head, but with it came warmth. The belkagen looked up. The sorcerer was on the ground, his mass of robes tangled round a snarling, biting silver-white form. Lendri! The sorcerer hit the smaller elf, and Lendri went flying. But he hit the ground running, and the belkagen saw that the elf's eyes had turned gold, his teeth grown long and sharp, prominent in his elongated, beastlike jaw. He shrieked-a sound that was half battle-cry, half beast, and all fury-and charged, his knife in one hand. Hot courage building in his heart, the belkagen scrambled for his staff.