- excerpt -

It was well after dark when Lorian and Silvan left home. They took with them a pony named Veta and Elek, Lorian's sheepdog, although if anyone had asked Silvan, he would have said the dog was his. Before the old forest swallowed them, they stopped on the hill above the village and looked back one last time at the only place they had ever known. What thoughts they had, they did not share with one another.

They followed the well-traveled path all night, watching the northern sky ahead being illuminated by silent flashes of light. Halfway through the night, it began to drizzle and the path turned muddy. At first light, they found the marker from which the trek to the foothills of the high peaks began. They turned onto the faint trail and followed it deep into the forest, along a rounded ridge, down into a valley choked with pines and firs, then up steep slopes covered with thickets. Brushing against the wet shrubbery soaked them to the bone. By evening, the rain had changed to sleet and a stern wind began to blow from the west. Each time Lorian stopped to get his bearings, Silvan would fall asleep, leaning against the pony. Even Elek whose spirit never sank looked downhearted.

At first Lorian thought he imagined it, but then he was convinced he saw lights in the valley. It was snowing hard and the wind was driving its daggers deep under their cloaks. They had to seek shelter and the lights called with promises of warmth and a dry place to lie down.

They left the path on the wooded ridge and descended, slipping and sliding on the thin layer of snow covering the steep slope. It took them longer than they thought to reach the valley below, but, in the end, they reached a frozen road. When they approached the first house in the dark, a dog began barking and Elek answered with a ferocious deep snarl. The door opened and a warm glow beckoned through the heavy blinding snow.

"Who goes there?" the voice of an old man came from the porch.

"We are not from these parts, but we are good folk and need shelter for the night," Lorian answered over the wind.

"How many are you?"

"Me and my brother. We also have a pony and a dog. I am willing to pay ...."

The old man came down the steps of the porch and opened the gate. Raising an oil lamp above his head, he looked at them and asked, “Where are you from?”

"From Silverfir,” answered Lorian.

"I’ve heard of it. I have a cousin living there. His name is Gruia."

"Gruia Anton? I know him. My name is Lorian Comosicus and this is my brother, Silvan."

"My name is Ioan Anton and I know of your clan. Come in. We don't have much to offer, but on a night like this, it is good to sit by a welcoming fire and have a roof over your head."

Inside the room, the fire burned low. Ioan puffed the embers into a blaze and then threw some more pinewood on it. A woman was sitting on a stool by the fire and her face reminded Lorian of his mother.

"This is my daughter, Maria. Her man is dead. Where are you headed?"

"We were going to see one of our sheep flocks up in the high mountains," Lorian lied, "We had to turn around because of the storm."

"And you did the right thing," said Ioan. "It came early this year, but it was a very hot summer."

Yawning, Silvan looked at the steaming pot of water hanging above the fire and his belly growled.

"We already had our supper," Maria said softly, "But if you like I can give you some buttermilk."

Silvan nodded gratefully and grabbed the food bag. As soon as he began eating, Elek joined him, looking intently at the bag.

When Maria returned with a pitcher, Lorian took it from her hands and said, “We walked all day and need rest. We will be leaving before daylight.”

"Son, this storm might last a week. You might not be able to leave in the morning."

"Yet we must."

Before he went to sleep, Lorian went outside to check the weather. He looked at the sky and saw it was clear and full of stars. The air was much colder and a winter fog was creeping up the valley.