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.

“This is Vaelin Al Sorna,” Erlin told her. “A novice brother of the Sixth Order. We owe him our thanks.”

She hid it well but Vaelin saw her tense when Erlin mentioned the Order. She turned to Vaelin and moved her hands in a series of intricate, fluid movements, an empty smile fixed on her face. Mute, he realised.

“She said we are fortunate to find such a brave soul in the midst of the wilderness,” Erlin related.

In fact she had said: Tell him I said thank you and let’s go. Vaelin decided it would be better if he kept his knowledge of sign language to himself. “You’re welcome,” he said. She inclined her head and moved to the packs.

Vaelin began to eat, shovelling the food down with dirty fingers and not caring that Master Hutril would have been appalled at such a spectacle. Erlin and Sella conversed in sign language whilst he ate. The shapes they made were practised and formed with a fluency which shamed his own clumsy attempts to mimic Master Smentil. But despite the fluency of their communication Vaelin marked the sharp, nervous movements of her hands and the more restrained, calming shapes made by Erlin.

Does he know who we are? she asked him.

No, Erlin replied. He is a child. Brave and clever, but a child. They are taught to fight. The Order tells them nothing of other faiths.

She cast a brief, guarded glance in Vaelin’s direction. He grinned back, licking grease from his fingers.

Will he kill us if he knows? she asked Erlin.

He saved us, don’t forget. Erlin paused and Vaelin got the impression he was trying not to look at him. And he’s different, his hands said. Other Brothers of the Sixth Order are not like him.

Different how?

There is more in him, more feeling. Can’t you sense it?

She shook her head. I sense only danger. It’s all I’ve felt for days. She paused for a moment, a frown creasing her smooth brow. He has the Battle Lord’s name.

Yes. I think this is his son. I heard he gave him to the Order after his wife died.

Her movements became frantic, insistent. We have to leave now!

Erlin forced a smile in Vaelin’s direction. Calm down or you’ll make him suspicious.

Vaelin got up and went to the stream to wash the grease from his hands. Fugitives, he thought. But from what? And what was this talk of other faiths? Not for the first time he wished one of the Masters were here to guide him. Sollis or Hutril would know what to do. He wondered if he should try to hold them here somehow. Overpower them and tie them up. He wasn’t sure he could do it. The girl didn’t present a problem but Erlin was a grown man, and strong. And Vaelin suspected he knew how to fight even if he wasn’t a warrior by trade. All he could do was keep watching their conversation to learn more.