The storm hit the following day, a gale-driven blizzard swallowing the sun and turning the world into a howling white morass. The air became so thick with snow every breath drew jagged ice into Vaelin’s throat and the wind seemed to cut through his furs as if they were no more than paper. He soon found himself fully occupied with holding fast to Scar’s reins as the horse stumbled through the piling drifts, head lowered and eyes tight against the wind, his mane frozen and stiff on his neck.
He turned as a shout reached him through the storm, catching a glimpse of two small figures, no more than the vaguest shadows in the ceaseless white. It seemed as if one of the figures raised something and the shadows instantly resolved into full clarity; Wise Bear holding his bone-staff aloft, his other hand clasped tight to Cara’s as she knelt at his side, her face bleached and drawn from the cold but also set in a determined frown. The snow seemed to swirl around them, leaving them in a bubble of calm air, growing larger as they shared their power. The bubble expanded steadily, the calm air sweeping over Vaelin and Scar, the horse huffing a relieved sigh as the wind abated. Vaelin cast around until he found Dahrena, huddled against her pony’s flank.
“And I thought the Black Wind the harshest in this world,” she said, forcing a smile as he hurried to her side, lifting her clear of the snow that had collected around her and the pony.
Vaelin surveyed the company, finding them all now nearly enveloped in the bubble, the blizzard still raging beyond its confines. Orven’s guardsmen were the last to receive its shelter, many stumbling to their knees in shock as they struggled free of the storm’s fury. He saw Alturk moving amongst the Sentar, dealing out cuffs and harsh rebukes as they stood staring in wonder and fear, forcing them back into motion. Vaelin went to Wise Bear and Cara, the shaman still holding her hand whilst she stood in serene indifference, her gaze distant, face free of any sign of fatigue. “How long can you do this?” he asked.
“As long as there is power to share,” the shaman replied, pointing his staff at the other Gifted. “Hope storm ends first.”
It took another day and a night for the storm to fade, the Gifted taking turns to share their strength with Cara. She was kept in the centre of the group, now tightly bunched to stay within the limits of the bubble she had crafted, moving east at a slow but steady pace. Whilst Cara showed no sign of weariness the sharing took an evident toll on the others, Marken sinking to his knees when his two-hour shift was done, wiping a trickle of blood from his beard before stumbling on as Vaelin hauled him up, providing a shoulder to lean on until he recovered sufficiently to walk unaided. Dahrena and Kiral were even more drained, rendered unable to walk and sagging pale and listless on the backs of their ponies. For some reason Lorkan proved the most durable of the Gifted, lasting a full three hours at Cara’s side and only consenting to release her hand at Wise Bear’s harsh insistence.
The storm ended as quickly as it had begun, the wind dying and the last flurries of snow falling to reveal a bright midday sun. Cara swayed a little when Wise Bear released her hand but otherwise seemed unharmed by her exertions, though her initial triumph at the feat dimmed at the sight of her companions. “I . . . didn’t know I had taken so much,” she offered to a pale-faced Lorkan.
He just smiled and shook his head. “Take all you want.”
She shifted a little in discomfort at the directness of his gaze and turned to Wise Bear. “We should be cautious. There will be a price. There always is.”
He nodded and thrust his staff through the snow to touch the ice beneath, angling his head as if straining to hear a distant sound. He stood unmoving for some time then straightened and turned to Vaelin with an urgent light in his eyes. “Need move fast,” he said. “Much fast.”
• • •
They covered another six miles by nightfall but Wise Bear permitted no rest, hounding them on with impatient wafts of his bone-staff and tirades in his own language, unintelligible clicks and grunts that nevertheless conveyed the clear message that to linger meant death. Although cold enough to freeze misted breath, the air was calm now, barely touched by a breeze, the sky clear and bright with stars and the occasional flurry of Grishak’s Breath. The atmosphere took on such a depth of silence that, when it came, the sound was enough to make Vaelin lift his hands to his already covered ears.
