His face was in shadow, but Jalan heard the fear in his voice. "Skirt the lake till you come to the stream, then make for the island. Run, boy! Run!"

Arzhan Island, the Lake of Mists in the lands of the Khassidi When Gyaidun entered the camp, the belkagen was sitting close to the fire and sipping from a wooden bowl, his gaze fixed on the woman who still slept beside him. The belkagen had removed her mud- and blood-soaked clothes and wrapped her in elkhides. He had cleaned and dressed her wounds-the blow to her head had bled profusely, and her right eye was swollen shut. Durja, Gyaidun's raven, was nowhere to be seen. Most likely he'd found a nice spot in one of the trees to sleep.

It had been a busy evening. The belkagen didn't look up as Gyaidun crouched beside him and placed the rolled hide on the ground. Gyaidun was scratched and covered in dirt up to his elbows, with grime under his fingernails from digging for roots. He untied the leather cord binding the hare hide and spread it before the belkagen, revealing an assortment of herbs, roots, chechek stems, and a thick bundle of moss.

"How is she?" The belkagen swallowed and placed his cup before the fire. "The wizard's spell froze her wounds. In trying to kill her, he kept her alive long enough for you to get her here. If she survives the night, she will live, I think. The plants you found will help her." "I found everything you asked for," said Gyaidun. "Well done. If you would be so good as to boil some water, I will do the rest."

Gyaidun took the iron cauldron from the belkagen's small bundle of supplies and went down to the lake. The north wind that had started during the confrontation with the slaver still had not abated, and it whispered cold at Gyaidun's back as he filled the cauldron. He returned to camp, set the tripod over the fire, hung the cauldron, and stirred the fire. "Is there anything else I-?" A howl cut him off. It was part call and part cry of defiance, primal and savage. Twice it wafted from the darkness northward, then once again, mixed with anger and pain. "Lendri!" said Gyaidun. "Go to him!" said the belkagen. "I cannot leave the girl." Gyaidun grabbed his club-a black iron rod with woven leather for a handle, thicker on the far end, and nearly the length of his arm-and bounded off. He splashed through the lake-the island was only a few dozen paces offshore and the water never reached higher than mid-thigh-and was running full-speed by the time he entered the woods. The howling had stopped, but the direction from which it had come was fixed in his mind. The chill wind had blown the mists southward, and the moon, thin as it was, rode high in the sky.

Gyaidun's blood-bond with Lendri had bestowed upon him many talents and skills that other humans did not possess, and his keen eyes caught even the meager moon and starlight. His long strides ate up the distance, and he made no attempt at stealth, breaking through bushes and shattering low tree branches as he ran. A mile or so from the lake he heard another howl. Different from the first call, this was obviously the call of a wolf. Gyaidun knew it well-Mingan's call for help. He followed the signal, weaving through the trees and leaping small streams, the lake always off to his left. He'd followed the howling for almost a mile before finding the wolf. The wolf stood on a boulder in a small clearing, the Lake of Mists sparkling in the moonlight only a few hundred paces away. "Mingan," whispered Gyaidun.

"Alet, Mingan!" The wolf ran to Gyaidun, a pale shadow in the moonlight. Gyaidun crouched and let the wolf lick his hands and face in greeting. A dark wetness covered Mingan from his snout almost to his ears, and Gyaidun smelled blood. "Lendri," said Gyaidun. "Where is Lendri, Mingan?" At the mention of their friend's name, the wolf's ears twitched and he whined. "Lendri," said Gyaidun. "Wutheh Lendri."

The wolf bounded off and Gyaidun followed, away from the lake and slightly westward. They crested the small rise, descended the next hollow, and Gyaidun smelled it-a crisp scent that nipped at his nostrils. It took him a moment to realize what it was: frost. The leaves on which he and Mingan trod crackled and broke, brittle where they had been sodden and soft only a few paces behind. Gyaidun followed the wolf to a spot where the trees grew close together. Thick brush covered the roots of the trees, and every branch was rimmed in a pale skin of ice. Mingan plunged into the brush, leaving a small cloudburst of snow in his wake. Gyaidun followed, pushing his way through the clinging branches. The roots of the trees spread out in a large bowl. Lendri lay on a bed of leaves, huddled in a fetal position, his wolf standing over him. Little of his pale skin showed, for he was painted in blood. The stench of it filled Gyaidun's head as he knelt beside his friend. "Lendri!" Gyaidun felt him. The elf's flesh was cold, but only from exposure to the surrounding frost. He was still alive. Gyaidun tried to pull his friend's arms back, but Lendri's muscles were locked tight. The elf groaned and stirred. "No," he whispered. "Bleed… again." "I need to get a look at your wounds." Lendri swallowed and pulled his hands back. He'd been holding a fistful of leaves and mud to his side. It was now a sodden mess of blood. "They… had swords," said Lendri. "One stabbed me. Deep." "I need to get you back to the belkagen," said Gyaidun. He began scooping up fistfuls of the largest leaves he could find. He'd fill the wound with mud, then overlay it with leaves to help keep the elf from bleeding to death on the way back to the island. It might cause the wound to fester, but if he didn't get Lendri to the belkagen soon, the elf would be dead from blood loss anyway. The belkagen could deal with infection if he could first heal whatever was cut inside him, if Gyaidun could get him there in time, if moving him didn't kill him, if, if, if… The mud and leaves were cold, numbing Gyaidun's hands.

He remembered the slaver's sword and how frost had burst from it at his command. "They… took the boy," said Lendri. "I tried. Too many … of them." "You have to try to stay awake, Lendri," said Gyaidun.

"I can carry you, but you'll need to hold this to your wound. I'll deal with the slaver later. Get the boy back and bash that slaver bastard's head in. Damn me for not following him when I had the chance!" "Not the slaver," said Lendri. He winced and sucked in a sharp breath as Gyaidun scraped the old mud off and applied a fresh coat. "Siksin Neneweth. Five of them. And… something else.

Something foul and… cold. Ah, I'm… so cold."

Arzhan Island, the Lake of Mists in the lands of the Khassidi Smoke. Scent intruded her darkness, then a thought: Fire. Someone was burning pinewood. Amira recognized the fragrance. It reminded her of winter hearthfires in the Hiloar estates. Home, childhood, winter feasts, laughter cackling like… Flames-a small fire but very close.

She could hear it, but more importantly, she could feel it. She was warm, which surprised her. It was some time before she thought to open her eyes. Both of them. The skin on the right side still felt too large, but she could open her eye all the way. She lay beside a small campfire. She was naked but wrapped feet to chin in some sort of animal hides. On the other side of the fire, wrapped much as she was, lay an elf. Tattoos twisted like vines over his ivory-pale skin.

Recognition hit her. Then remembrance. Running through the woods.

Pursuit. "Keep going! Make for the water." "Mother, no! I-" "Go! Lose them in the water. I'll find you." "You promise?" Pain… fire… cold. "Silo'at!" Amira let out a small cry and reached for her stomach. She'd felt Walloch's blade pierce her, felt her muscles resist a moment before the sharp steel broke through, kept moving, slicing, then-"Silo'at!"-and cold such as she'd never known, a cold that burned. "Jalan!" She tried to sit up, and the world swam around her. Amira heard light footsteps and when her vision cleared, an old man was crouching next to her. Only he wasn't old at all-or even a man. His face was pale like the elf beside her, and his skin was also broken by tattoos twining over his cheeks and round his eyes, but among the black inks were vines of green and even thin streaks of blue. But unlike the other elf, this one had strange, red symbols on each cheek and over each eye. To Amira, they almost looked like runes, but they were like none she had ever seen. His hair was white as snow; he wore it unbound and wild save for two long braids that dangled before his sharp ears. Not a single wrinkle or crease marred his features. His nose and chin were sharp, and his eyes… they seemed lit by both joy and sadness, and also something else. Something… wild. "Who?" said the elf, speaking Common. "Jalan." Amira tried to swallow. Her throat felt raw. "My son." The elf looked away, but not before Amira saw the look on his face. Regret? No. Resignation. "What?