Valorian

7

How many did we lose?” Aiden asked two nights later. He settled comfortably into his cushion and watched his brother. For once, Valorian was the one who was pacing angrily.

“More than we can afford,” Valorian said between clenched teeth. “Twelve mares and geldings; eight goats, including our last breeding male; and sixteen of the best wool sheep and their lambs.” He walked faster, but he could only go a few paces in the tent before he had to turn around.

Aiden whistled. The loss cut deeply into the family’s already meager resources. He took a sip of wine and waited for Valorian to cool down.

Aiden, Kierla, and Valorian were gathered in the tent in the cool spring evening. The caravan had arrived that afternoon at the high alpine meadow of Black Rock, so named for the single spire of black stone that rose like a spearhead out of the meadow grass. Aiden and the boys had been glad to see them and pleased to report that Hunnul and the brood mares were well. Many of the mares had already delivered their foals; two others, the Harachan mares, were due anytime. Unfortunately the good news had done little to abate Valorian’s sense of betrayal.

“It wouldn’t have bothered me so much,” Valorian continued, his voice sharp, “if he had asked in the beginning for help in gathering his tribute, or if he had protested to the tax collector. But he just sat there and let them steal our herds.”

“Didn’t he have enough of his own?”

“Yes, barely.”

Kierla took his arm and pulled him to a stop. “You’re wearing holes in the rugs,” she chided gently. “Perhaps you could look at this another way.”

He crossed his arms and lifted an eyebrow. “What way?”

“As helping the Clan. If the Tarns had taken only the town’s herds, would the people there have had enough left to hang on awhile longer?”

The clansman studied his wife for a long moment while the sense of her words became clear. His anger trickled away. “Probably not,” he finally agreed.

“Then you gave them some time. Yourself, too. We still have enough animals to rebuild our herds, and so do they. With the goddess’s grace, by next tax time we will not be here to pay it.”

Valorian suddenly let out a laugh. He sat down on the cushions beside Aiden, stretched out his weary legs, and gave his wife a grateful half—smile. “All right. I’ll quit stewing over spilt wine. You’re right, of course.” He reached for a bowl of nuts and thoughtfully cracked several. “We still have Hunnul and the brood mares,” he went on between bites. “And Linna had those long-haired goats of hers in a pen at camp. They weren’t taken. Isn’t one a male?”

Aiden nodded. “The black and white one.”

“We could cross—breed him to our remaining females. Could be an interesting mix.”

“I could get a few males from the lowlands,” Aiden suggested.

Valorian chopped his hand down. “No. I don’t want you anywhere near the towns, the Chadarians, or anyone that even looks like a Tarn. We must not do anything more to attract their attention. Fearral is right about one thing. If Tyrranis hears even a hint that we’re trying to leave, he’ll do anything in his power to stop us.” He subsided into his cushions and stared out the open tent flap.

The two men were quiet for a time, each busy with his own thoughts. Outside, they could hear the noises of the camp slowly settling down for the night: the voices of parents calling in their children, the sleepy yapping of dogs, the soft clop of the mounted guards as they rode around the camp’s perimeter, and far in the distance, from a windy point, the sad howling of a wolf.

Kierla shivered when she heard the wolf. She had never liked wolves since she was little and her cousin had told her that wolves were the children of the goddess Keath, who ate little girls as punishment for disobedience. She pushed her feeling away and decided that a pot of Mother Willa’s herb tea would help chase away the shivers. Carrying her glazed teapot and a small stone bowl, she slipped out of the tent.

Aiden finally broke the silence. “So what are we going to do now? Fearral has bought himself some time with our herds, but he still won’t budge until Tyrranis bums the camp down around him.”

When Valorian didn’t answer immediately, Aiden suggested, “We could leave on our own.”

“No!” Valorian said, his tone implacable. “I will not leave a single clansperson behind to face the Tarns. We will all go.” He watched Kierla come back in with her pot of water and a hot coal from the fire outside. She fetched her copper brazier and the box of tea.

“But how are you going to drag Fearral out of his hall?” Aiden asked, growing exasperated at his brother’s lack of an instant answer.

“Well. . .” Valorian began, his eyes still on Kierla. She was on her knees bent over her brazier, trying to light the dead coals with the live ember from outside. She had forgotten to bring some tinder and wasn’t having much success.

An idea popped into his mind. “Kierla,” he said, “stand back from the brazier.”

She looked at him curiously, then shrugged and moved away. She and Aiden watched as Valorian’s eyes closed. He lifted his hand in a small gesture, and suddenly a tiny bright flame leaped over the dead coals.

Kierla gasped, a sound between surprise and laughter. “How do you do that?”

“I don’t know exactly.” He came over to look at the little fire, almost as surprised as she was. In the realm of the dead, things had been so strange and different, a magical power hadn’t seemed so unbelievable. But here in his normal life, it was mind-boggling. He still wasn’t really sure what to do with it. He carefully set Kierla’s teapot on the grate and shrugged. “Lady Amara didn’t explain much of anything when she sent me back,” he said.

All of a sudden, Aiden clapped his hands. “That’s it!” he shouted, bouncing to his feet. “That’s what the power is for! Valorian, it’s so simple. You are to lead our people out of Chadar, not Fearral.” Kierla’s eyes widened. Her hand went instinctively to her belly, where the seed for the continuation of the family continued to grow. “Of course! Why else would Amara send you back with this magic?”

Valorian shook his head at their excitement. “I’ve thought of that,” he said quietly. “But I don’t think that’s the reason. Fearral is our rightful chieftain. It’s his duty to lead the Clan, not mine. My duty is to help him all I can in that effort.”

Aiden threw his arms up and cried, “Oh, for Surgart’s sake! That old relic isn’t going to lead anyone anywhere. He wants his little town and his little hall, and the rest of us can either join him or die by the roadside. He doesn’t care, but you do! Challenge him, Valorian. You become chieftain and gather the Clan yourself!”

A brief image of Sergius’s smoking body flitted through Valorian’s memory, making him wince. “No,” he said forcefully. “I made my vow of fealty to Lord Fearral, and I will not go back on my word. The Clan would never follow me anywhere if I killed the chieftain in a duel for my own benefit.” He went back to his cushion and sat down cross-legged. “If we can’t get Fearral to move the Clan, maybe we can get the Clan to move Fearral. After the last foal is born and we celebrate the Birthright, we’ll go see Gylden. Then Karez. We’ll talk to everyone.”

Kierla said, “That might work. Lord Fearral could hardly say no if the entire Clan was packed and ready to leave.”

“Maybe,” Aiden stated. “And maybe the Clan will drag its heels as much as Fearral, or maybe Fearral will sit on his rock and forbid anyone to leave. Then what?”

Valorian dropped onto his back and glared up at the tent roof. “I don’t know, Aiden! All we can do is try. We’ll leave Fearral to the gods. Maybe they can change his mind.”

The young man threw his blue woolen cloak over his shoulders, preparing to go. “Think about what I said, Valorian. Amara chose you to be her champion. Not Fearral.” With a wink to Kierla, he strode out of the tent, his cloak swirling behind him.

Valorian watched the tent flap swing down behind his brother. For the rest of the evening, he drank some of Kierla’s tea and thought about Aiden’s words.

Early the next morning, when the meadow was still clothed in a cold veil of mist and the sun had not yet risen over the mountains, Valorian went to find Hunnul. Aiden’s words were still on his mind, and he wanted to leave the bustling distractions of the camp for a little while to think. He found the black stallion grazing protectively near the small group of brood mares not far from the camp. After a wave to the guard, he put his fingers to his lips and whistled.

Hunnul was in a fine fettle that morning. The stallion threw his head up with a snort and came galloping to his master, bucking and bouncing, full of good spirits.

Valorian laughed at his antics. He was pleased to see that Hunnul had recovered completely from their journey. The days of slow travel, fresh grass, and rest had worked wonders on the horse. For the first time since his arrival at Black Rock, Valorian closely examined the jagged lightning burn on Hunnul’s shoulder. He was glad to see the wound had already healed.

There was only one thing that puzzled him. Hair was growing back on the skin, and it was coming in white. Usually hair didn’t reappear on a new brand or burn, yet this hair was not only growing in thick and soft, but it was also a different color.

Valorian stood back to appraise the results. When the whole bum had grown over, he decided the mark would be quite striking against Hunnul’s black body. It looked exactly like a lightning bolt.

“The Mother Goddess has put her mark on him,” a quiet voice said behind him.

Smiling, Valorian turned to greet his grandmother, Mother’ Willa, who was walking toward him through the long grass.

She held a basket in her hand, and the hem of her skirt was wet with dew. She was a thin, wiry, small woman whose strength and energy belied her age. She served as the family’s midwife for the women and animals alike, and she had helped deliver every child and most of the adults in the family. The clanspeople adored her. They knew she held a special place in Amara’s grace, for no other woman had lived as long or brought so much life to a successful beginning. When she spoke of the Mother of All, her people listened.

Valorian listened now, glad for her wise words. “Is that what you think? This is not just a lightning bum?”

“Of course not! This horse rendered you and Amara a great service. The goddess left that mark as a sign of her favor.” The old woman gently slapped Hunnul’s neck when he tried to snatch for her basket of herbs and wildflowers. She held it out of his reach. “I have spent too long this morning gathering these for my medicines. You do not need to eat my labors, even if you are the beloved of Amara.” She looked up at her grandson, her wrinkled face beaming. “Amara has blessed you, too, I see. Kierla will deliver a child by winter.”

“Did she tell you?” Valorian asked in surprise.

“She didn’t have to. It’s written all over her face.”

Valorian rocked on his heels. He was constantly astonished by the intuition of this tiny woman.

Mother Willa suddenly took his hand into hers and looked earnestly into his face. “My dearest child, you have seemed troubled since you came back to us. That is written all over your face.”

He nodded once, but didn’t say anything. She was right, of course. Ever since he had returned to life, he had felt as if he were galloping through a wall of mist. His journey from the realm of the dead had subtly changed his self-perspective and left him with an incredible power he didn’t know what to do with. None of his old dreams and goals were steady or defined anymore.

“Then let me tell you something,” she said forcefully. “I have seen much in my life that has saddened me; I have seen our people defeated and crushed under the Tarn’s heel. I have seen them reduced to living in ragged tents, with poor stock and no food. But never once did I believe that the gods had abandoned us. Now I am certain they are weaving our destiny. The Clan will live! They have sent you to us. You will lead us to our freedom.”

He ground his heel deep into the grass. “I have already had a similar discussion with Aiden. I will not displace Fearral. ”

“I did not say you had to. There are other ways to lead. The gods gave you a great mission to test your skills, and you passed, so they sent you back with signs for us to believe. You can unite this Clan with those signs, Valorian.” She stabbed a finger at Hunnul. “That mark, your wife’s pregnancy, the tale of your journey, and greatest of all, your power. Use those to convince the people that your dream to leave Chadar is the will of the gods.”

He snorted. “How do you know it is? They didn’t exactly carve it in stone.”

“Because they chose you. You are the one in this Clan with the belief in a new land. If Amara had wanted us to build towns, she would have sent for Fearral!”

“Aiden said much the same thing,” Valorian replied with a dry laugh.

“Huh. That boy shows some sense sometimes.” She let go of his hand, her bright eyes twinkling. “Well, I’ve had my say. I’ve wanted to tell you that since we left Stonehelm, but there never seemed to be a moment.”

“Things have been confused lately,” he agreed.

“Well, don’t look for them to get better any time soon,” she chuckled. “By the way, I think Tala will deliver her foal tonight.”

Valorian smiled in admiration. She was always right about those things. Tala hadn’t looked different to him that morning, but if Mother Willa said the mare would go into labor that night, it would happen.

She patted Hunnul and walked back toward camp, leaving Valorian alone with his horse and his thoughts. The clansman sprang to Hunnul’s bare back. They trotted past the black pillar of rock in the meadow, then went up a high backed ridge just as the sun broke over the wall of mountains. Valorian stopped Hunnul so he could look down at the camp of his family nestled into the sheltering edge of a copse of trees. He studied the poor, ragged camp for a long while.

Although he would never admit it aloud, Valorian had to confess to himself that he was uncertain about his desire to take the Clan to a new land. How could they survive the trip? They had few animals left, their tents and gear were old and worn, and the people were ground down by misery. How could they survive a long, hard journey over the mountains to a land they knew nothing about, where they would have to start all over again? And most important, could they escape from General Tyrranis?

Drawing a deep breath, Valorian turned Hunnul and headed east, deeper into the mountains. Perhaps Fearral was right, he pondered. Perhaps Clan survival depended upon adapting to fit the changes, not running away from them. was there some way to adjust to the demands heaped upon them and still flourish? The Clan had been trying to do that for eighty years without much success.

Valorian looked up at the great snowcapped mountain range that filled his vision. These mountains were a good example of the problems the Clan had had adjusting. Although his people had lived in the shadows of the Darkhorns for three generations, their tales and traditions, their dreams their religious ceremonies, and their habits still reflected the old life on flat grasslands. These mountains were strangers—hard, merciless, unknown entities that dominated Clan life but were not a beloved part of it. The range had belonged to some other race of ancient people who worshiped the peaks as gods and vanished, leaving behind only a few ruins and some legends. The nomadic Clan belonged to the open grasslands, where horses could run with the wind, stock could graze, and tents didn’t have to be erected on stone. If there was a chance to find a more suitable home, why shouldn’t they take it?

Valorian felt as if his mind was running in circles. He went back to his thoughts about adapting. Could the Clan adapt to its present situation, given a little more time? It was possible, he reasoned. If the Tarnish provincial governor were anyone but General Tyrranis. If they could get more livestock. If Fearral paid more attention to long—lasting solutions.

If the gods were willing. . . . That was a lot of “ifs,” and too few of them were likely to change.

That left the gods. What did the deities want for their people? The Mother of All hadn’t bothered to explain, but gods rarely did. They simply gave mortals the tools and let them find their own way. Could Mother Willa be right, then? He would expect Aiden to jump in and suggest that his brother lead the Clan out of Chadar, but Mother Willa was close to Amara. She wouldn’t say anything that she felt contradicted the goddess’s will. Perhaps this power to wield magic was his tool to take the Clan to the Ramtharin Plains.

The more he considered it, the more uses he could see for magic. He had been reluctant to think about it until now because Sergius’s death had horrified him. He had seen all too clearly how destructive and powerful magic could be. But if he taught himself to use his power properly, there wouldn’t be any more murders. He could use the magic to give his people heart. If they chose to follow him, they would not only be taking a physical journey, but also a spiritual journey as well, out of defeat and bitterness to a new hope. They would need all the help they could get.

“Is this what you want of me?” Valorian asked quietly to the arch of blue sky. He hoped for a sign or some sort of answer, yet the heavens remained unchanged and the mountains were still.

Maybe it was a good thing that he did not receive an answer, Valorian decided. The last time he asked something of the gods, he got struck by lightning. This time, he would just have to have faith that his journey to Ealgoden and back hadn’t been just a whim of the gods and that bringing the Clan to the Ramtharin Plains was the right thing to do.

He came back to himself with a start to find Hunnul had stopped and was grazing contentedly on a patch of last year’s sun-dried grass. Valorian swung his leg over and slid to the ground. He was surprised to see that they were high in the mountains, just above the tree line on the flank of one of the tallest peaks. Hunnul had apparently climbed that far with little effort or guidance. The stallion was feeling very good, Valorian thought.

Patting his horse, the clansman looked around. Although stubborn patches of snow still hid in the shadows, most of the ground in that area was bare, and the rocks glistened with moisture. The thin air was warm with sunlight despite a cool, fitful wind that blew from the north. Valorian grinned, stretched his arms, and left Hunnul cropping grass. He walked up the slope toward a small plateau where he could have an excellent view of the range. He had never been to this particular place before, and it looked like a good spot to continue his thoughts.

As Soon as he reached the edge of the plateau, he realized he wasn’t the first man to come this way. There at the opposite edge, overlooking a sheer cliff, was the ruin of an ancient temple. It was really nothing more than a foundation of stones skillfully laid into a ceremonial platform about waist-high and ten paces wide, with a large, flat stone in the Center to represent an altar. Valorian had seen similar ruins on another peak to the south. The old platforms were all that remained of a race of people who had been there before the Clan, the Tarns, and the Chadarians. They had lived and died in the hearts of the mountains they had worshiped while the clanspeople were still learning to ride. Valorian knew little about them other than a few old tales passed on from the Chadarians.

Curious, he walked over to the platform. It was still in good condition in spite of its age and the harsh weather, so he clambered up to the top and stared out over the edge of the mountain. From the platform’s vantage point, he could see the summit of the mountain he stood on and the peaks of two other mountains. Together the three summits formed a triangle with its points to the east, west, and south. Valorian wondered if there had been any significance to that placement in the minds of the platform builders. He felt a stab of sorrow for their disappearance and a deep respect for the remains of their culture.

And yet they bad left something behind. The ceremonial platforms might not be significant in the course of men’s lives, but they were reminders to all that saw them that their builders had lived and cared enough to worship their gods. Could the clanspeople say as much? If they dwindled and died, would anything of their creation be worth remembering?

Valorian didn’t think so. Not at this time. Too much of their culture had been destroyed or lost; too much was impermanent. The village at Stonehelm would rot in a few years if abandoned, and too many of the best Harachan horses had passed into the hands of others. No, if the remnants of the Clan faded, no one outside of the Bloodiron Hills would notice.

The realization made Valorian bitter. His people deserved better than an ignominious extinction. They should have a chance to live and renew their culture in any realm they chose. Amara was the goddess of life. She would certainly understand that!

Raising his hand to shoulder level, he fired a blue bolt of magical energy into the mountain air and watched as it seared toward the cool blue sky and finally fizzled out. A bright, hot feeling of excitement, exultation, and even nervousness jolted through him, and its heat burned away the last of his doubts.

“If I’m going to learn to use my power,” Valorian suddenly shouted to the peaks, “this is as good a day as any to begin!”

From the top of the ancient platform, Valorian hurled more blue blasts of energy harmlessly into the air. He experimented throughout the remainder of the morning and the afternoon with the power, trying different intensities and speeds. He practiced his aim on the stone face of the peak and pushed himself to learn the limits of his strength while the sensations of magic’s power coursed through his body and became more and more familiar. By dusk, he was exhausted and elated by his success. Without a word to anyone, he returned to camp, sat up late with Mother Willa, and helped her deliver a beautiful Harachan filly.

The next day he came back to the platform and worked on other skills. Keeping in mind the lesson he had learned in the cavern of Gormoth, he focused his mind on the magic and practiced making his spells as exact and concise as possible. He tried making protective shields of various sizes and thicknesses, spheres of light that glowed in different colors, and fires that could light a candle or incinerate a tree. He also learned what could happen if he let his concentration slip and the gathered magic go awry.

He was sitting in a small dome-shaped protective shield when a large golden eagle came gliding on the warm updrafts between the mountain peaks. Enthralled by the sight of the rare and sacred bird and by the beauty of the sun shining on its feathers, Valorian’s mind began to wander.

The next thing he knew, the shield’s red energy had ruptured, and the uncontrolled magic was swirling around him into a vicious red whirlwind that trapped him in the center of its fury.

The clansman staggered to his feet. His ears ached in the shriek of the whirling energy, and his skin tingled as if covered with ants. Desperately he pressed his hands to his ears. He had to do something to disperse the tornado, for he could feel it feeding on the magic around it and building to an explosive level. Yet it was hard to think or act in the maelstrom.

With a great effort, he gathered his thoughts into a single purpose and forced his will into the center of the magical vortex. Bit by bit, he slowed the frenzied whirl of broken magic and spread it apart until it dispersed into a mist on the afternoon wind. When it was gone, he sank down on the stone and wiped his sweating forehead in relief and chagrin. “That will teach me to be complacent,” he said aloud to the stones.

Valorian didn’t make that mistake again. Over the next few days, while his family hunted for food, cared for the livestock, and waited for the Birthright, he went to the mountain to practice his magic. He let his imagination help him and tried whatever came to mind. He learned many things about the natural power, including its limitations. He found that he could not create life or something out of nothing. He could alter forms or images, move objects, and shape the magic into the deadly blue blasts and protective shields, but he couldn’t conjure something out of thin air or give life to something inanimate. He also discovered that he had to be very careful not to overextend his power. If he became too weak to command the magic exactly as he willed, it could turn on him and destroy him. He realized from his mistake with the shield that if he hadn’t had the strength to bring the magic back under control, he would have died in the release of unspent energy.

Late one evening, ten days after he had begun his self training, he rode home to Kierla. With a mischievous grin, he borrowed one of her wooden bowls, and before her mystified eyes, he filled it full of small rocks. He covered the rocks with a scrap of cloth, closed his eyes, and murmured something to himself. After a moment, he whisked off the cloth and presented the bowl to Kierla. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes popped. The bowl was full of her favorite black grapes.

“I’ve worked an afternoon on that spell,” he said, his pride shining on his face. “What do you think?”

She tasted one. “It’s delicious!” she gasped. “Can you do that again?”

He nodded.

“Into anything?”

“Anything I can visualize.”

Her wide-mouthed smile burst open like a flower. “We won’t ever have to worry about starving now!” she cried. She grabbed the bowl of grapes and raced off to share them with the rest of the family.

Pleased at her reaction, Valorian followed and spent the rest of the evening transforming mounds of rocks into all the grapes the family could eat.

The family’s pride and awe in Valorian doubled after that night. Unfortunately, so did their demands on his time. Nearly everyone besieged him with requests for his magic until he wore himself into exhaustion trying to help.

Finally Kierla gathered the family members and made them promise to save their requests for emergencies. Valorian, for his part, explained exactly what he could and could not do and described the consequences if he let his power get out of control. His talent was still limited, he told them, and he didn’t want to overextend himself.

He looked around at the circle of faces, at the children, at the old people, at his and Kierla’s aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, in-laws, and friends—at all the people who were dear to him—and he made them the promise he had been thinking about since the murder of Sergius.

“I vow to you,” he said loudly so everyone could plainly hear, “that I will never use my power against the people of this Clan, nor will I use the killing blasts against our enemies.”

A murmur of surprise arose, and Valorian held up his hand for quiet.

“I believe this ability to wield magic was given to me for a good purpose. I will not abuse it! It is not for wanton destruction and murder.”

“What about self-defense?” Aiden called out.

Drawing his sword, Valorian hefted it so they could all see the blackened blade. “If I cannot defend myself against mere Tarns, I am not worthy of Amara’s trust.”

His relatives cheered, and after that evening, their requests for his magic virtually stopped. Valorian was a man of his word, and no one wanted to incur his wrath.

Several nights later the entire camp was awakened by Mother Willa’s joyful cry. The last foal had been born alive and well, and now the family could get ready for the Birthright celebration. For two days, the men and women hunted and gathered food for the feast and made the necessary preparations for the religious ceremonies.

The Birthright was an important celebration in the’ lives of the clanspeople. It was their gift of gratitude to the goddess Amara for all her blessings, and a supplication to her for the continued fertility and well—being of the animals and people for the coming year. Hoping to take advantage of Amara’s attention, most betrothed couples were joined during the Birthright, and pregnant women were blessed.

The ceremony itself occurred at dawn beside a running stream. Water was a symbol of fertility and the never ending flow of life, and it played a major role in the rites. Men, women, and children gathered at first light to the beat of a solitary drum, then proceeded with chanting and songs to the bank of a nearby creek. There the priestess of Amara began her ritual of prayers to the goddess as the sun slowly lifted from behind the mountains.

When the great orb crested the peaks and sent its light pouring onto the meadow, the clanspeople cheered wildly. They made their offerings of milk and flowers and honey into the water, which they believed the stream would carry to the goddess. Next an unblemished lamb was brought forth. Amid the prayers of the people, the priestess drowned the lamb and slit its throat to let its life’s blood flow on the waters. Its small body would .be roasted and the sacred flesh given to the newly wedded couples to ensure the success of their marriage beds.

When the rites of thanksgiving were over, two betrothed couples came forth to be joined. Valorian watched with pleasure as Aiden and Linna took their vows. He wished Adala could have been there to see the joy on their faces. He thought his mother would have liked Linna. Linna was a strong woman who would stand up to Aiden’s willful charm, and he obviously adored her.

Mother Willa stepped forward after the joining to call the names of the pregnant women to come forward to be blessed. Five women left the onlookers and came to kneel before the priestess. When Kierla went proudly to join the others, her face was radiant with joy. She didn’t see the stunned looks on the faces of her people or the eyes that swiveled from her to her husband.

“Praise to Amara!” an aunt cried, and the shout was taken up by everyone.

By the time the day’s religious celebrations were over, the afternoon was well advanced and the clanspeople were ready to eat. The food was brought forth in great abundance to represent the bounty the people hoped for in the year to come. They feasted and danced late into the night to the music of pipes and drums, until even the strongest young men and women were happily exhausted.

The celebration of birth was now over. Summer was working its way into the mountains with its hot days and short nights, and the season of nurturing was about to begin. The sleepy clanspeople rose at dawn, gathered their herds, and broke camp. In the cycle of life they had followed for generations on the lowlands, they would spend the summer visiting other families and moving their herds from pasture to pasture to fatten them for the winter to come.

Valorian watched from Hunnul’s back as the carts and horses began to leave Black Rock to take the trail to the west. He was planning to visit the camp of his friend Gylden, who had long been receptive to the idea of abandoning Chadar. If all went well this summer, they would never again need to seek this high pasture. Valorian took a last look around at the meadow that had served them well, then he kneed Hunnul into a trot and, without a backward glance, left Black Rock behind.