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 running through the dark power at work. Beyond it all was the sweet singing he remembered from his childhood dreams-and it was growing stronger.

"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.

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 funnel of frost spiraling at the boy, the other loosing a barrage of blue-white light that seemed to devour all warmth from the air. With a wave of Jalan's hand, the air before him solidified into a concave golden shield, and the sorcerers' spells shattered against it. "Kneel, worm!" said the sorcerers' leader. "Submit, and I will make your death swift." Jalan laughed, and Gyaidun heard two voices-one young and full of life, the other old beyond the reckoning of human minds. "Your time has come," said Jalan. "Time to release them." The leader snarled and turned, motioning behind him. Up the stairs behind him came the two remaining sorcerers-one who shambled, almost on his hands and knees, and the other was Erun. He held Amira under her arm, the point of his sword resting against her neck. She struggled to walk, arching her back to keep the blade from piercing her skin. The leader turned back to Jalan. "Surrender and die quickly," he said, "or he will kill her slowly." Jalan glanced down at his mother. His smile faltered, for a moment seeming almost sad, then he said, "No, he will not." A look of triumph and utter joy filled Jalan's countenance. It looked as if the boy's skin were glowing, as if a power so great filled him that it was leaking out through his pores. Jalan extended both hands, palms open, to Erun and began to sing a music that was beyond words. Gyaidun gasped as he saw Erun's muscles tighten to thrust the sword, but then he sensed something ripple between Jalan and the sorcerer, and Erun trembled. He blinked and shook his head as if confused, then his muscles spasmed, his back arched, and a scream beyond sound was torn from him. Amira ripped herself away and stumbled down the stairs. The sorcerer's blade clattered to the stone. Jalan's song filled Gyaidun, awakening his senses beyond anything he'd ever experienced. He'd sometimes heard the belkagen speak of the heart's eye, the vision that the enlightened were granted on the dreamroad, and for the first time he understood it. He saw beyond fleshy reality to the deeper life within it, saw Erun's tortured and tormented body, his imprisoned soul; latched onto it like a parasite was a cold darkness, a thing of never-ending hunger and malice. But even as Gyaidun watched, the dark thing's grip weakened. Three of the other sorcerers shrieked in confusion and fear, and their leader screamed, "No! You dare not! You dare not!" And then the dark thing was gone, and Erun fell upon the stone steps. He did not move, but with his new sight, Gyaidun could see life there-weak, faint, and hurt, but there. The remaining sorcerers turned all their strength and spells upon Jalan. Even the weak one loosed spell after spell as he clawed his way up the final steps. Jalan blocked or turned most of their spells, but some few managed to break through, and Jalan fell back, frost and ice forming where the blue shards of light struck him. Walking backward to Gyaidun and continuing to try to block their barrage, his song changed. It did not lessen in power but broadened in scope, and even Gyaidun, who had never studied the ways of priests or sorcerers, recognized it for what it was: A call. A summons. The sorcerers doubled their efforts, fanning out to hit Jalan both in front and to the sides. Still smiling, Jalan shouted, "Wed chai'el!" and a great wall of flame roared from the stones of the island between him and his foes. So great was the heat that Gyaidun backed away. In that moment of respite, his enemies cut off, Jalan turned to Gyaidun and extended his hand. The gash where Gyaidun had cut the palm still bled freely.