Frostfell

CHAPTER NINE

The Endless Wastes

Jalan woke to the feeling of warmth. It came as a shock, for he couldn't remember when he'd last been warm. Not sinceAlmorel. Yes, that had been it. At Almorel there had been fire, warm food, a bed.

.. No dreams had come to him since Almorel. Before that, during the days when the first raiders had dragged him through Rashemen and into the Endless Wastes, nightmares had plagued him. Every night he relived the horror of High Horn. The shouting of the guards… the screaming… his mother's maidservant pulled from the wardrobe and shrieking as the pale man, laughing, slit her throat… blood pooling on the stone floor… the pale men, their eyes wild, blood speckling their skin, beating him down and dragging him outside … The nightmare continued. Jalan had always been a vivid dreamer.

His earliest memories were of dreams, and one in particular. For as long as he could remember, he'd dreamed of music, warm and bright, flowing like a breeze that smelled of blossoms. Since that night at High Horn he had not had the dream. Since Almorel he had not dreamed at all. But as conscious thought drifted away and sleep claimed him in that small hollow in the middle of the Endless Wastes, the dream came to him. Light flooded his mind. Always there had been the almost-voices of the song, a choir that sang beyond words, but now, as Jalan basked in the yellow warmth, he heard a voice, clear and distinct, though seeming to come from far away. What language it spoke Jalan did not know, but he understood the meaning within the words. Be not afraid. A tremor of fear passed through Jalan. Not the unreasoning terror the pale barbarians gave him. Not the cold dread of their leader. This was the fear of the unknown, the new, the fear and exhilaration a baby feels taking his first steps, or a bird feels when it first realizes that its fall has caught the wind and the wind is lifting it. It was a fear mixed with joy. It was a feeling Jalan had never known. His thoughts reached out to the presence, seeking the music, and as he did he heard again the voice within the music. The words were strange, melodic and deep, but their meaning was clear. Be not afraid. Gathering his courage, the little bird teetering on the edge of the nest, Jalan called out. Who are you? His voice seemed small, a tiny tinkling bell lost amid thunder. The song swelled, and the voice answered, I am Vyaidelon. The name meant nothing to Jalan, though he felt strangely comforted by it. Vyaidelon, Jalan said, savoring the name. It felt right. Maybe even familiar. Listen, Jalan, the voice sang. I don't want to go back! Even through the music and light and warmth, Jalan remembered the pale northerners, their huge wolves, and the dark thing, the dark malice, that led them. Be not afraid, Jalan, sang the voice. Listen to me. Who are you? You are a closed bud, Jalan, waiting for the sun to shine. I am the root of the tree, buried far away in the cold earth. What? It was all gibberish to Jalan. A bud? A root? The joy he'd felt at finding clarity within the song for the first time melted away to confusion. I don't understand! he called. You will. Be not afraid. Come to the Witness Tree. It is our only hope.