The silence in the Wolf’s Jaw was so total that Tomas could hear the soft, clicking sound of rime crystals falling from the hard speckled rock cliffs onto the snow.
Kael walked forward from the sledge, his boots dragging in the powder. He stopped ten paces from the gray-haired sergeant, his ash staff planted deep in the drift. For ten seconds, neither man spoke. They simply stared across the fifteen years of silence that had separated their lives.
“You’ve gotten gray in the beard, Jarek,” Kael said at last, his voice raspy as ungreased iron.
Sergeant Jarek Thorne lowered his gaze to the snow, his throat working convulsively. “They told us the valley fell to the rebels, Kael. Brant’s courier said the whole province was burned to the river line.”
“The valley didn’t burn,” Kael answered. He stepped up onto the rock shelf and laying his heavy mitten on his cousin’s shoulder. “The valley was drinking wine and paying taxes. Aunt Martha died five winters back, Jarek. But she died knowing you didn’t run. She kept your muster belt over the fireplace until the day they took her to the churchyard.”
Jarek turned his face away for a moment, his breath coming in ragged, steaming gasps. Then he looked at Tomas.
