Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [51]
"What is it? This burden? This thing you fear?"
The belkagen looked at him, and in the pale silver of starlight Lendri saw unshed tears welling in the old elf's eyes. "The one burden no warrior should ever bear."
Lendri scowled. He had no idea what the old belkagen was talking about. He did not doubt the belkagen's sincerity-or the depth of his fear-but he had no idea what the holy one feared. And he knew the belkagen would not tell him. The visions of Hro'nyewachu were sacred, its mysteries meant for the belkagenet alone. Warriors did not walk that road.
"Are you saying there is no hope?" asked Lendri. "Truly?"
The belkagen turned away and pointed northward. "Mingan returns looking for us. The pack has left us behind. We must hurry."
Lendri grabbed the belkagen's shoulder. "Answer me, holy one. Is there no hope? Do you know this?"
The belkagen gave him a sad smile, but behind it, lurking in the depths of the old elf's eyes, Lendri thought he saw a bit of the young mischievous warrior Kwarun. "Better to die a flame than live as ashes. Your words. You are wise beyond your years, Lendri, and you have reminded me of the path of wisdom. Thank you."
"Then there is hope still?"
"Hope is for those who seize it. Now, run with me."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Akhrasut Neth
Amira and Gyaidun made camp on the western base of the Mother's Bed in a small copse of trees through which a tiny stream flowed. Just up the rise, around a bend of the hill formed by a large arm of bare rock, the stream widened into a small pool. Yesterday, after setting up camp, Amira and Gyaidun had taken turns bathing. The water was cold-after the first teeth-clenching step into the pool, Amira had been surprised it didn't have a thin layer of ice on top-but more important, it was clean. She had scrubbed herself, washed her clothes, then spent most of the previous afternoon and evening wrapped in nothing but a thick elkhide while her clothes dried over the fire. Parts of them still felt damp, but she preferred that to the unwashed smell.
Gyaidun and Durja had left at first light, scouting the area. Amira had spent most of the day near the fire, alternately poring over her spellbook and watching the sky while she listened to the breeze rattle the branches. The wind had been out of the north all day, pushing high, thin clouds ever southward, and even Amira could smell the snow coming. A line of clouds smudging the northern horizon confirmed her fears.
Morning was turning to midday, the cool turning cold, when Gyaidun trudged back into camp. Durja was not with him, for once.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
"Very," Amira said. "But supplies are low. We should eat no more than once a day until we can get more."
"Not a problem."
Gyaidun stood next to their packs, which lay a few paces from the fire. Methodically, piece by piece, he began to undress, first his belt and harnesses that held his weapon and pouches, then his shirt. Amira had to suppress a gasp at the sight of his naked skin. His torso was warm brown skin over taut, lean muscles, but his chest and stomach were crossed with long scars, one mottled patch that was obviously an old burn, and several spots of puckered skin that she recognized as old puncture wounds. Arrows most likely. Over all was a twisting, turning maze of black, blue, and yellow-gold inks. Her eyes widened when he began to undo the drawstrings of his breeches.
"What are you doing?" she asked, averting her eyes.
"You said you were hungry," he said. "I'm getting dinner."
"You always cook naked?"
"You're cooking." She did not look up, but she could hear the smile on his face. "I'm getting dinner."
"Naked?"
She heard him chuckle and walk toward the horses. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and risked a quick glance up. Gyaidun wasn't