how.” He raised his eyes to the sky. “In this dream I saw a storm of unusual fury bury the hills again as if it were the middle of winter. It will be our funeral storm. We’ll wait for it and ride it into death like a mountain pony together, hand in hand.” He returned his attention to the younger man. “By that time, you’ll have reached the pass; it will be open, and you’ll be safe.”
“Pass?”
“The Feral Pass that leads south to the High Hills and the Terilee River.”
Trey blinked. “The Goshon do not travel south, Shaman,” he reminded him gently.
“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs,” Vulshin snapped. “You’ll travel south if I tell you to.” His gaze drew inward again. “South to the river and farther still to a place of stone and timber where music and sunlight stream in equal magnificence, and where creatures of such magic and poetry as would take your breath away run freely over lush, green meadows; far away in the young kingdom of Valdemar.”
Trey mouthed the unfamiliar word with a frown. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“As I said, it’s a young kingdom, and you’re an even younger man.”
“What clan holds its territory?”
“No clan. It lies far beyond their reach, but you will have to travel past clan lands to get there. Stay by the river, heed your dreams, and you’ll pass through safely.”
Trey shook his head stubbornly. “But what kind of life could we make in such a place even if we could get there safely?” he demanded. “What do we have to offer? Poetry and music have no need for trapping and hunting.”
Vulshin’s eyes narrowed. “The land and the people will be strange and foreign to you, that’s true, but a sharp eye and a courageous arm are always welcome if they’re offered honestly. It’s their way. Besides, I dreamed you there.” He closed his eyes. “Last night I saw you standing by bright water wearing a coat dyed the deepest blue of a summer evening sky.” He opened his eyes again without noticing how pale Trey had suddenly become. “So you’re going,” he continued. “Don’t argue with me, or I’ll give you a good smack. When I . . .”
“Shaman?”
The two men turned to see Bayne gesturing to them, and Trey suddenly realized how quiet it had become. The old man nodded sadly. “It’s time,” he said. “Help me up.”
Trey hesitated. “You don’t think . . . ?”
“No, Treyill,” Vulshin said firmly but not unkindly. “And neither do you. Their voices are no more. Come, make your first good-bye. It’s what must be done and you know it.”
With a reluctant frown, Trey helped him stand, then together, the two men made their way across the vale toward the now silent tent.
The next morning, after Dierna and her stillborn child had been wrapped in hides and buried under as many rocks as the three young men could pry from the still-frozen ground, Trey set Bayne to breaking camp. Vulshin and Shersi sat, huddled together before the fire pit without speaking and to Trey’s eyes it looked as if they’d already begun their final trek, pausing only to wait until death could catch up with them.
Mouth set in a grim line, he began to wrap the season’s goshon pelts in oilcloth. They would use them to barter their way south to Vulshin’s dream kingdom of Valdemar. Whatever the old shaman believed, they were still trappers, that’s what they did and that’s all they had to offer a new life, regardless of their eyes or their arms. Beside him, Kellisin hovered about uncertainly until he sent him to help Bayne load Dierna’s pony with their extra supplies. He could find no words to comfort him when he had none to comfort himself. Turning away from the injured look in the younger man’s eyes, Trey picked up another pelt with deliberate care.
By the time the sun had reached its zenith, they were ready. Trey made one last attempt to convince Vulshin and Shersi to come with them, but the two older Goshon were adamant.
“It’s our right as elders to choose whether we break camp or remain behind,” Shersi said, her once strong voice weak and breathy. “It’s the way of our people. You know that.”
“Then choose to break camp with us.”
“Treyill,” Vulshin said sternly. “Come, it is time to make your second good-bye. Do it respectfully.”
Trey would have continued the argument afterward, but finally, Bayne drew him away, setting his reins into his hand. His last sight of the vale was that of the hawk circling high overhead, sending its mournful cry into the wind. For good or ill, the last of the Goshon Clan were passing from its world.
The three kinsmen made their way in somber silence for the better part of a week, alternately walking and riding, following what paths were open, and heading roughly south. When they reached the Feral Pass, a thin, mushy path winding its way through a narrow canyon of high, jagged rocks, they rode cautiously, keeping a close eye on the walls of ice and snow that stretched high above their heads. When they finally emerged on the other side, they glanced back to find the sky above the mountain peaks had turned an ominous dark, slate gray.
“Vulshin’s storm,” Trey said heavily.
Bayne nodded. “We have to quicken our pace.”
They made the shelter of a rocky tor just as the storm hit. Huddled behind their ponies, they waited it out and when they finally struggled free the next morning, the pass behind them glittered with impassible snow. Trey narrowed his eyes against the glare.
“Well, that’s it, then,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “There’s no going back now.”
Kellisin glanced over at him. “And Vulshin and Shersi?” he asked quietly.
“Gone. We should never have left them.” Taking hold of his pony’s halter, Trey made his way back to the barely discernable path without looking back.
Bayne shook his head. “We had to respect their wishes,” he said to Kellisin, catching him by the shoulder and pulling him into a rough hug to take the sting away from his brother’s words. “Life is seasonal, and everyone breaks camp for the ride into death eventually, little cousin.”
“I know that,” Kellisin said, his brows drawn down into a tight vee. “Dierna and the baby was hard for us all, but Vulshin and Shersi were old. Trey . . .” He shook his head helplessly. “It wasn’t his choice to make.”
“Trey’s a shaman,” Bayne explained. “They take responsibility for everything; so it’s up to us to remind him not to. But in the meantime . . .” He caught hold of his own pony’s halter, “we have to find a clear patch of fodder and some dry wood for a fire. Unless you want a cold breakfast?”
Kellisin smiled ruefully. “No.”
“All right, then. Let’s catch up to our ray of sunshine, shall we, before he falls off a cliff? Maybe some of your warm rabbit stew will lighten his mood.”
Kellisin nodded and together, they followed Trey down the path.
That night Trey dreamed. He saw Vulshin standing in the midst of a winter storm so violent it blinded him. One hand shielding his eyes, the other stretched out before him, Trey reached out for the old man but, just as their fingertips touched, Vulshin vanished under a sudden avalanche of snow. Trey sprang forward and, falling to his knees, worked frantically to dig his old teacher free, but every time he thought he might have reached him, another deluge of snow buried him again. He cried out in frustration and awoke to find Bayne holding him tightly, rocking him back and forth as their parents had done when he’d been a boy. In the moonlight he looked so much like their father that Trey gaped at him, then the other man pulled back, and Trey was back on the cold ground south of the Feral Pass once again.
The next night he dreamed again, only this time it was Shersi who disappeared under a cascade of falling snow, then Dierna and her baby, then Aivar, then Vulshin again, night after night. He began to avoid sleeping altogether, sitting wrapped in his blanket, staring up at the moon for hours until exhaustion drove him to a few hours of broken rest. He became gray and gaunt, drawing farther and farther into himself and neither Bayne nor Kellisin could bring him out of it.
Finally, as the mountains gave over to rolling hills and valleys, Bayne joined him, sitting staring up and the starcast sky before fixing his brother with a serious expression.
“You have to stop this, Trey,” he said. “We’ll be in foreign lands in a day or two and we’ll need your insight.”
Knees drawn up to his chest, Trey shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You have to. You’re our shaman. We need you.” Bayne frowned. “This isn’t like you, brother. What is it?”
Scrubbing at the growth of beard along his cheeks, Trey took a deep breath. “Do you remember the nightmares I used to have as a boy?” he asked after a long moment.
When Bayne nodded, he continued.
