By late afternoon, the group reined in their horses and dismounted for a brief rest. Pulling out cold strips of roast venison, slabs of thick-rinded cheese, and servings of a pickled root the Rashemi called ordsk from their saddlebags, they ate a brief meal beneath the fading light of the day.

Amazingly, Borovazk continued to spin tales. Between great tearing bites of meat and long swigs of firewine, the ranger spoke of his wife and how, after he had stumbled home drunk late one night from a gathering of warriors, she had felled him with a single blow from an oak cudgel and dragged him out to a snowdrift where he had spent the night. When he had awakened bleary eyed and groggy late the next morning, the wounded man returned to an empty home only to discover that the cudgel had split beneath the force of his wife's blow.

"That's horrible," exclaimed Marissa.

The rest of the group, having finished their meal, sat comfortably on thick wool blankets. Roberc puffed indolently on his pipe, one hand stroking Cavan's fur.

"Is indeed horrible, little witch," the ranger agreed, with more than a hint of sadness in his voice. "That cudgel was one of Borovazk's favorites!"

Taen watched as the concern in Marissa's eyes changed to disbelief then merriment. The druid began to laugh, followed soon after by Borovazk's deep-chested chuckle. Taen found himself smiling at the outrageous ranger. Even Roberc's normally taciturn face held a wry grin.

After a few more moments, their Rashemi guide stood up.

"Come," he said, wiping venison grease from his beard with a swipe of a thick arm. "Is still a while before dark. We have many more leagues to travel, and I," he jabbed a meaty finger at his own chest, "have many more stories to tell."

Taen laughed, still caught up in the lighthearted moment.

"I bet you do," Taen said as they broke their makeshift camp. "You seem to talk more than any human I have ever met."

That brought another chuckle from the Rashemi ranger.

"Tell me, Borovazk," Taen continued, emboldened by his companion's reaction, "does your wife enjoy your stories as much as you seem to?"

The ranger stopped what he was doing and cast a puzzled look at him. "I not know," he said after a moment. "My Sasha is as deaf as the stones of the Icerim Mountains." He laughed then, a full-throated guffaw, and slapped the half-elf hard on the back before mounting his horse.

Taen pitched forward, stumbling from the force of the blow. It wasn't until he sat in the saddle of his own mount and the group started forward once again that he realized he couldn't tell whether Borovazk had been kidding or not.

By luck or some unasked-for blessing of the gods, the weather held over the next three days-crisp and clear, with only an occasional dusting of snow swirling and circling to the ground. In the face of such a gift, the group traversed a good deal of terrain. Taen found himself marveling at the steady, economical pace of their horses, crunching through drifts and ice with such surefooted grace. Lulled by the rolling rhythm of his mount and the now-gentle speech of the wind, he began to relax and look at the white-coated world around him, not as a thing to be endured, but as an experience to be savored. There was a beauty-a wisdom-in the broad sweep of plain and rock-strewn valleys of this wild land. Each step of his horse brought him deeper into that wildness, carried him to the heart of a mystery for which he had no name-only a sense of rock, ice, and unforgiving wind. In those moments, he thought that he could understand the pride and strength of the rough-tongued and insular Rashemi people. They were born from the very soil of wilderness, lived in harmony with its harsh rhythms, hewn and formed by its untamed forces the way rocks are shaped by the elements. They were heirs to wind-swept mountains, ice-curdled lakes, and the deep, enduring promise of the land.

Taen traveled onward with his companions. Borovazk must have sensed the half-elf's change in mood, else he, too, was caught in the grip of such reflections, for the Rashemi's stories and songs had eventually tapered off, allowing the wind-ruffled silence of the plains to replace his voice. The half-elf did not speak, dared not speak, against the vast silence of the landscape, and he knew that the others felt the same way.

Once or twice each day, Marissa would dismount and hand the reins of her horse to him. In moments, she would be running ahead of them in wolf shape, scouting their path or hunting in the fading light of day, only to return with a brace of hare, her own hunger sated.

They ate in silence.

Only Roberc seemed unaffected by their surroundings. Dozing in Cavan's saddle or drawing his blade across a whetstone, the halfling appeared to Taen as dour and as solemn as he always did. Early on the morning of their third day of silence, he drew his dun close to the halfling's war-dog and threw a questioning look down at the warrior. Roberc gazed up impassively and simply shrugged before leading Cavan into a loping run that put him well in front of the walking horses.

By afternoon of the next day, their fifteenth day out of Mulptan, the air grew noticeably warmer. Ice-covered snow gave way to wet-packed drifts, and a thin mist had begun to permeate the air. By the first fall of dusk, the horses had to slog through thick piles of slippery slush, and Borovazk eventually called an early halt to their travel.

The change in weather precipitated a change in mood as well. Taen felt free of the awe that had gripped him the past few days, as if the loosening of winter's grip had somehow loosened his tongue as well.

"Why is it getting so warm?" he asked their guide.

"Who cares," interjected Roberc as he helped his furred mount free of the leather barding that protected it. "It's just nice not to have your nose hairs freeze every time you take a breath."

"Indeed, little friends," Borovazk replied. "It will be much better for you now. We draw near to Immil Vale. Winter's heart cannot touch it. It is blessed by the gods-a gift to my people for their strength and bravery, eh?"

"How much further do we have to go?" Marissa asked.

The ranger smiled at her. "Ah, my little witch," he said with obvious affection. "You grow anxious. You not worry. Borovazk know a path that will take us into vale. Two days at most."

Taen awoke that morning feeling uneasy. Twice during the night he had been startled awake by a sound that he wasn't sure he had heard. He'd swept the area surrounding their camp during his turn at watch but had found nothing that would indicate his suspicions were well founded.

Still, the half-elf couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him from somewhere out on the plain. That feeling grew throughout the day as they headed west toward their destination. Taen stood in his saddle and cast his glance as far as he could-but saw nothing. Finally, he indicated his suspicions to Borovazk.

The ranger nodded. "I feel it too," the Rashemi answered. "We are being followed."

From then on, they all kept a careful watch. Taen noted that Cavan threw his thick muzzle into the air and sniffed suspiciously several times, while the horses seemed unusually skittish.

The tension mounted.

Sometime after midday, Marissa's white raven flew raucously to her outstretched arm. The druid nodded as the bird continued to caw and croon. Finally, she sent it back into the air with a flick of her arm.

"We are being followed," she confirmed their fears. "Rusella says that there are several landwalkers keeping their distance behind us."

Taen nodded at the news. At least he hadn't been imagining things. His heart began to beat rapidly. Whatever it was behind them, the fact that they were trailing them probably meant that they weren't friendly.