He surfaced with a splitting headache, a thin beam of sunlight lancing through the roof directly into his eye provoking a painful yelp. Next to him the girl shifted in her sleep, one of her boots leaving a bruise on his shin. The man wasn’t in the shelter and a strong, distinctly appetising aroma was wafting through the entrance. Vaelin decided he would rather be outside.
He found the man cooking oat cakes over his campfire on an iron skillet, the smell provoking an excruciating surge of hunger. Free of the mask of ice his features were lean though deeply lined. The rage that had clouded his eyes in the storm was gone, replaced with a bright friendliness Vaelin found disconcerting. He put the man’s age in the mid-thirties but it was difficult to tell for sure, there was a depth to the face, a gravity in his stare that spoke of a wide breadth of experience. Vaelin kept his distance, worried he would grab at the cakes if he got too close.
“Went back for our gear,” the man said nodding at the two snow dusted packs nearby. “We had to drop them last night a few miles back. Too much weight.” He took the cakes off the heat and offered the skillet to Vaelin.
Vaelin, mouth flooded with drool, shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Order boy, eh?”
Vaelin nodded, dumb with longing.
“Why else would a boy be living out here?” He shook his head sadly. “Still, if you weren’t, Sella and I would be lying under the snow.” He got up, approaching to offer his hand. “My thanks, young sir.”
Vaelin took the hand, feeling the hard callous that covered the palm. A warrior? Looking the man over Vaelin doubted it. The Masters all had a certain way of moving and talking that marked them out. This man was different. He had the strength but not the look.
“Erlin Ilnis,” the man introduced himself.
“Vaelin Al Sorna.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “The name of the Battle Lord’s family.”
“Yes, I’ve heard.”
Erlin Ilnis nodded and let the subject drop. “How many days to go?”
“Four. If I don’t starve before then.”
“Then accept my apologies for intruding on your Test. I hope it won’t spoil your chances of passing.”
“As long as you don’t help me it shouldn’t matter.”
The man squatted down to eat his breakfast, cutting the cakes into portions with a thin bladed knife and lifting them to his mouth. Unable to bear it any longer Vaelin rushed off to collect his stash of hare meat from the tree hole. He had to dig through a thick covering of snow but was soon back at the camp with his prize.
“Haven’t seen a storm like that for many a year,” Erlin commented softly as Vaelin began roasting his meat. “Used to think it an omen when the weather turned bad. Always seemed like a war or a plague would follow soon after. Now I just think it means the weather turned bad.”
Vaelin felt compelled to talk, it took his mind off the endless growl of his stomach. “Plague? The Red Hand you mean. You couldn’t be old enough to have seen it.”
The man gave a faint smile. “I am… widely travelled. Plague comes to many lands, in many forms.”
“How many?” Vaelin pressed. “How many lands have you seen?”
Erlin stroked his stubble grey chin as he pondered the question. “I honestly couldn’t say. I’ve seen the glories of the Alpiran Empire and the ruins of the Leandren temples. I’ve walked the dark paths of the great northern forest and trod the endless steppes where the Eorhil Sil hunt the great elk. I’ve seen cities and islands and mountains aplenty. But always, without fail, everywhere I go, I find myself in a storm.”
“You are not from the Realm?” Vaelin was puzzled. The man’s accent was odd, possessed of vowels that jarred on the ear, but still clearly Asraelin.
“Oh, I was born here. There’s a village a few miles south of Varinshold, so small it doesn’t even have a name. You’ll find my kin there.”
“Why did you leave? Why travel to so many places?”
The man shrugged. “I had a lot of time on my hands and I couldn’t think of anything else to do.”
“Why were you so angry?”
Erlin turned to him sharply. “What?”
“I heard you. I thought it was a voice on the wind, one of the Departed. You were angry, I could hear it. It’s how I found you.”
Erlin’s face took on an expression of deep, almost frightening sadness. Such was the depth of his sorrow that Vaelin wondered again if he hadn’t rescued a mad man.
“When a man faces death he says many foolish things,” Erlin said. “When they make you a full Brother I’m sure you’ll hear dying men say the most ridiculous nonsense.”
The girl emerged from the shelter, blinking dazedly in the sunlight, a shawl clutched about her shoulders. Seeing her clearly for the first time Vaelin found it hard not to stare. Her face was a flawless pale oval framed by light auburn curls. She was older than him by a couple of years and an inch or two taller. He realised he hadn’t even seen a girl for a long time and felt uncomfortably out of his depth.
“Sella,” Erlin greeted her. “More cakes in my pack if you’re hungry.”
She smiled tightly, casting a wary glance at Vaelin.