Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [57]
Right now, like it or not, these mad folk of the Wastes and their odd ways were her best hope. Maybe her only hope. They had their own motives, their own hunt, but they were still the only friends she had. Could they protect her and Jalan if she did manage to rescue him? Would they even try? Did she have the right to ask them to do so?
Mad or not, fool's hope or final hope, this oracle was at least that: hope. If there was any way to deal with Jalan's captors once and for all…
"I'll do it," said Amira.
"Good," said the belkagen. He did not sound relieved or happy. On the contrary, his tone was grave. Solemn. "You should go at midnight, when darkness and light stand in balance, but there are things we must do to prepare. I will help you."
"Two things first," she said.
"Yes?"
"Several times now I've heard you call Gyaidun yaste-something."
"Yastehanye."
"Yes. What is that?"
The belkagen glanced at Gyaidun, and the flicker of a grin crossed the old elf's face. Gyaidun's scowl deepened.
"Yastehanye means 'honored exile.' It is a term that many of the Vil Adanrath call our friend Gyaidun-though never in Haerul's hearing. It is a title of sorts. One of honor and respect. Renown. In his anger, Gyaidun called me Kwarun- the name my mother gave me. Very disrespectful to the belkagen. By calling him yastehanye, I was… reminding him of his place-and mine."
"Honored exile, eh? Why?"
The grin faded and died and the belkagen grew solemn again. "A long tale that is. And not mine to tell, Lady. Suffice to say that Gyaidun's exile was both just and tragic. Although the Vil Adanrath honor the omah nin's judgment of exile, still they respect the deeds that earned it."
Amira looked to Gyaidun, whose scowl had not faded. "Sounds like an intriguing tale. Will you tell me?"
"No," said Gyaidun.
Amira had to suppress a snicker. Odd as these folk were, still no one could pout like a man. They learned it as boys and never outgrew it-in the East or West.
"You said two things," said the belkagen. "What is the other?"
"Yastehanye must take a bath. He smells like dead horse."
Gyaidun glared at her and stood. "Your stomach growls for dead horse… Lady."
He gave her a mock bow, and before she could reply he stomped away, headed for the pool. Although Amira couldn't see it under the dried horse blood, she felt sure he was blushing.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Akhrasut Neth
After washing in the pool, Gyaidun returned, dressed without saying a word to either of them, gathered his weapons, and proceeded to leave again. But he stopped and turned.
"You are really going to do this?"
He was looking to the belkagen, but the old elf did not answer, instead looking to Amira.
"Yes," she said.
Gyaidun stood there, tense with anger and… something else. Uncertainty? Amira wondered.
"Why?" he asked. "Why… honored Belkagen?"
"Why what, yastehanye?" said the elf.
"I called you Belkagen."
"Your words. Not your heart."
The big man and the old elf stared at one another, neither gaze wavering or blinking. The anger was still there, Amira knew, but the heat was gone. In a way, this was worse, this cold tension that Amira sensed was born of hurt and loss from both of them. There was a slight curl to Gyaidun's lip that spoke to Amira of derision. The perfect calm of the belkagen's face, so obviously a tight mask, had an air of deep disappointment.
"Why what?" the belkagen said softly.
"Why help this"-he shot Amira an apologetic glance- "outlander seek Hro'nyewachu? For twelve years I have walked every horizon, sniffed every trail, and followed every track to find Erun. Not once did