Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [78]
Not long now, said the oracle. The burden shall be yours not much longer.
"That will be both pain and relief."
As are all things worth having.
"Holy One," said the belkagen, and he looked down upon Amira. "Why…? Is she…?"
She lives.
"You did this to her."
Do you care for her so much? The oracle leaned forward slightly and sniffed. Have you given your heart to her?
"You know I haven't."
The oracle's eyes flashed. I do know it. I could smell a lie on you-and I do not. Your truth pleases me. You know my jealousy.
"Is that why you did this to her?"
No.
"Then why?"
She was impertinent. Arrogant. Still, she has a hunter's heart. Teach her some humility, and she might be great one day.
"What is wrong with her, Holy One?"
The oracle did not answer, and the belkagen looked up. Her form had shrunk somewhat, her features softened into the young maiden that a young Kwarun had first met so many years ago. A small smile played across her lips, but around her eyes was sadness.
I wanted a moment alone with you, she said, before your final road. We shall not meet again. You should have come to me more often during your time in this world.
"Our last coupling nearly killed me, Holy One."
You did not seem to mind at the time.
Kwarun blushed at the memory and found himself chuckling.
I have a gift for the girl, said the oracle, and she held up the staff.
"It will help her save her son?"
No, said the oracle as she knelt and placed the gold-red staff in Amira's limp hand. But it will sharpen the bite she gives her enemies. Saving her son. … that task is for another.
"Another, Holy One?" said the belkagen. "Who?"
Amira's hand closed around the staff, she took a deep breath, and the oracle was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Endless Wastes
Jalan discovered something he had not known since Walloch's slavers captured him and his mother. Hope. That and just a sliver of pride. They swelled in him, giving warmth to a heart that had known only cold for many days.
He still wasn't sure how he had done it, but he knew one thing for certain: He had hurt that bastard. Hurt him bad. That thing in the ash-gray cloak had threatened to gouge out his eye, and he had taken the thing's own dagger and made it blaze like the sun. The shriek the cloaked leader had uttered had been surprise, yes, but also pain and fear-and that more than anything… felt good. Give that bastard a taste of his own toxin and see how he likes it, Jalan thought.
Trussed like the huntsman's catch on the back of the huge wolf as he was, cramped and sore, his skin raw from the ropes' chafing, still Jalan had to fight to keep his eyes open as the wolves ran over the steppe. He'd awakened as they'd left camp, still dazed from the cloaked leader striking him, his ribs still aching from where the barbarian had kicked him. All that after the long rest should have chased sleep far away, but still Jalan had to fight it.
His mind felt thick and foggy. Had his captors given him something, some foul concoction poured down his throat while he was unconscious? He couldn't remember.
Maybe something worse. Maybe the cloaked leader had done something to his mind. He shivered at the thought, but for once the idea of that monster hurting him didn't make him afraid. It made him angry, and he knew he had something inside him that could hurt that monster.
Jalan realized that miles had passed. The air felt frigid and thick. And when had it started snowing? Already the wolves ran through a thick blanket of snow. And still it kept falling and falling from the sky-huge, wet flakes that steamed as they melted off the wolf's pelt in front of him.
True wakefulness returned before dawn, and Jalan passed the time trying to dredge up whatever power had caused that dagger to shine.