Night settled fully over the valley of the Painted Dogs.
The great fires had burned lower, collapsing inward into beds of glowing coals. Most of the warriors had already drifted toward their shelters after the long day. Only a few remained awake near the embers, speaking in quiet voices while they passed a skin of drink between them. Their laughter had softened now, tired rather than triumphant.
Torren lay awake.
Beside him, Harrag's breathing had grown slow and steady. His father slept the way most mountain warriors did—deeply, as if the body shut itself down completely after battle. The rhythm of it filled the small shelter.
Torren stared upward into the darkness of the hide roof.
He was not tired.
Too many thoughts moved inside his head.
After a long silence, he spoke inwardly.
Da believed me.
The calm voice answered.
Yes.
Torren shifted slightly beneath the furs.
He did not laugh.
Correct.
Torren thought about that.
Harrag had not reacted the way he expected. There had been no anger, no disbelief, no mockery. Only caution.
He told me to hide it.
Logical instruction.
Torren frowned faintly.
Why do men fear it?
There was a pause.
Historically, individuals with skinchanging abilities were treated with both reverence and fear among First Men cultures.
Torren turned his head slightly toward the shelter opening.
Moonlight filtered through the gap in the hides, casting a pale line across the dirt floor.
But the Old Gods are real, he said.
Correct.
Torren waited.
Then why fear something the gods give?
The answer came quietly.
Human societies often fear power they cannot control.
Torren lay still for a moment.
Then he sighed softly.
Adults are strange.
The voice did not disagree.
Eventually Torren slipped quietly from the furs.
He moved carefully so he wouldn't wake Harrag and ducked through the low shelter opening. Cold night air wrapped around him immediately.
The camp was mostly quiet now.
A few embers still glowed in the central fire pit. Two warriors sat nearby speaking softly while one of them sharpened a knife against a stone. They barely glanced up as Torren passed.
Near the far side of the clearing, several of the newly captured women sat close together beside a smaller fire. One of the older women of the clan had given them blankets and a small pot of stew earlier.
They spoke softly among themselves.
In the Common Tongue.
Torren slowed.
He listened.
The words flowed faster than he could easily follow. He recognized only pieces here and there—the same scattered sounds he had picked up over the years from other captives.
Inside his mind, the voice spoke.
Opportunity for language acquisition.
Torren ignored the comment.
One of the women noticed him standing there.
She looked young—perhaps only a few years older than Harrag's younger sister might have been if she had lived. Her dark hair had come loose from its braid during the journey through the mountains, and dirt still streaked the sleeves of her dress.
She looked frightened.
But curious.
Torren approached slowly.
The other women fell silent as he came closer.
Torren tried to remember the words.
He pointed slightly.
"You… from… where?"
The woman blinked.
"What?"
Torren frowned.
He tried again.
"You… home… where?"
She hesitated, then answered cautiously.
"From a village near the river."
Torren understood only part of that.
"River," he repeated.
She nodded slowly.
"Yes. River."
Torren considered the word.
Then he pointed toward the valley floor.
"You live… house?"
The woman looked confused.
"Yes… house."
Torren gestured vaguely.
"Many house?"
She seemed to understand.
"Yes. Many."
Torren nodded.
Behind him the voice spoke quietly.
Continue simple vocabulary.
Torren tried another question.
"You… children?"
The woman stiffened slightly.
"Yes."
Torren tilted his head.
"Children… what do?"
She frowned.
"What?"
Torren struggled to form the thought.
"Children… play?"
The woman's expression shifted.
For the first time since her capture, a faint smile appeared on her face.
"Yes," she said softly. "They play."
Torren crouched slightly, curious now.
"What play?"
The woman hesitated.
She glanced at the other captives, then back at Torren.
"They run," she said slowly, as if speaking to someone younger than she was used to. "They throw stones… chase each other… climb trees."
Torren nodded thoughtfully.
Children in the mountains did many of the same things.
"Snow?" he asked.
She looked surprised.
"Yes."
Torren smiled faintly.
"Snow good."
The woman studied him carefully now.
Her eyes moved over his pale skin, his shaved head, and finally his red eyes.
"You are… their child?" she asked cautiously, nodding toward the warriors sleeping around the camp.
Torren shrugged.
"My clan."
She swallowed slightly.
"You're not afraid of us."
Torren did not fully understand that sentence.
"Afraid?"
She gestured weakly.
"Us."
Torren shook his head.
"No."
Inside his mind, the calm voice spoke.
Emotional tension decreasing.
Torren ignored it.
The woman watched him for another moment.
"You speak strangely," she said.
Torren nodded.
"You speak… fast."
That made one of the other women laugh softly.
The sound surprised everyone.
For a moment the fear in the small circle eased.
Torren looked at them curiously.
Then he asked another question.
"You… name?"
The woman hesitated.
Then she answered.
"Mara."
Torren repeated it quietly.
"Mara."
She nodded.
"What's yours?"
Torren straightened slightly.
"Torren."
Mara studied him again.
"You're very young."
Torren shrugged.
"Six."
Her eyes widened slightly.
"Six?"
Torren nodded.
Inside his mind, the voice commented softly.
Correct.
Torren ignored that as well.
The fire between them crackled gently, sending sparks up into the dark sky.
For a moment none of them spoke.
Then Torren rose slowly.
"You… sleep."
Mara looked confused.
"What?"
Torren gestured toward the blankets.
"Sleep."
She nodded slowly.
Torren turned and walked back toward the darker edge of the camp.
Behind him, the women watched the strange pale child disappear into the shadows between the shelters.
Inside his mind, the calm voice spoke again.
Language comprehension increasing.
Torren lay back down beside his sleeping father.
He closed his eyes.
But sleep did not come immediately.
Instead he found himself thinking about rivers.
And villages.
And children running through fields somewhere far below the mountains.