Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [119]
Jalan, Erun, and Gyaidun raised their hands, and each of them was singing, a melodic chant in words Amira had never heard. The winter winds died, a few last snowflakes fell, and far overhead the gray ceiling of cloud split, and through it shone the noonday sun. A thick beam of light, almost like a great ladder joining earth to sky, fell upon the Isle of Witness, bathing everyone in its pure light.
The leader screamed. Not the cry of a powerful sorcerer or a defeated lord, this was the shriek of a beast in agony. He ran, blinded by his own suffering, but tripped over the rubble that littered the old courtyard around the Witness Tree. He fell only a few paces from Amira. His body twisted and bounced on the rocks like grease dropped on a hot rock. Fists and feet hammered the earth, and with each strike Amira could hear bones snapping.
Vyaidelon-for that's who he truly was now; he only wore Jalan's body-stood over the body and sang. The music was strong, but the melody sounded to Amira more like a dirge or even a sad lullaby than an incantation.
With a final cry that scraped like sharp nails inside her ears, the thing inside the leader lost its grip. The back arched, the body taking in a long breath, then relaxed. There, basking in the light of a sun that was beginning to fade back behind the clouds, Amira caught a fleeting glimpse of the young man he must once have been. A look of peace settled onto his face.
And he died.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Endless Wastes
They walked many miles after the great battle of Winterkeep, the Vil Adanrath, the exiles, and the war wizard carrying their dead over the snow-covered steppes. Tired as they were, many of them wounded, the Vil Adanrath would not burn their dead so close to Iket Sotha. In killing the Fist of Winter, a great evil had been banished from the world, but many foul things still lurked in the dark places of Winterkeep.
The survivors and their dead gathered in a valley filled with small trees and scraggly bushes. Those not wounded went far and wide, searching for enough wood to burn so many.
Far away as they were, Amira could still smell Yal Tengri on the back of the north wind. The scent filled her with mixed emotions. She had seen so much horror and sadness there on the shore of the Great Ice Sea, but she had also regained her son there-and witnessed what she could only describe as a wonder. A miracle. Whatever beings had worked through Jalan, Gyaidun, and Erun… she was glad she had seen them. She didn't understand them, but in her heart she knew they were… good. There was no other word for it. In a world filled with so much sadness, so much compromise, corruption, so much light mixing with darkness, she had seen what she could only describe as good incarnate.
Jalan and Erun both slept beside the fire. Watching them, the knowledge she'd gained in Hro'nyewachu was confirmed. Anyone could have seen the family resemblance. The same high cheekbones, the slight cant to their eyes-both of them even slept with one arm outside the blanket. Separated by generations they certainly were, Erun only half-human, their relation distant at best, but the blood of Arantar ran strong in both of them.
"Lady," said a voice behind her, and she turned.
Lendri and Gyaidun stood there. Mingan the wolf lingered not far away, and Durja perched on his master's shoulder. Both warriors still bore the wounds of battle-both in the haunted look in their eyes and the many cuts, scrapes, and bruises behind their bandages. Amira had done what she could for them, mixing potions for which she could find ingredients, but she was no cleric, and her knowledge of healing went little beyond dressing battle wounds.
"What is it?" she asked, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Erun and Jalan.
"We must prepare the belkagen," said Lendri. "For the fire. At sunset, the pyres must be lit."
"We?" she asked.
"The duty falls to us."
"But… but you're exiles and I'm an outlander. The Vil Adanrath-"
"The belkagen died fighting by our side," said Gyaidun. "The