“What did he look like?” Caenis asked eagerly. “Was he six feet tall like they say.”

Vaelin shrugged. “He was tall. Couldn’t say how tall. And he had funny red marks on his neck, like he’d been burnt.”

“When he was seven he was struck down by the Red Hand,” Caenis told him, dropping into his storyteller voice. “For ten days he suffered the agonies and blood sweats that would have killed a grown man before his fever broke and he grew strong again. Even the Red Hand, which had brought death to every family in the land, couldn’t take Janus. Even as a child his spirit was too strong to break.”

Vaelin surmised that Caenis would know many stories about his father, his time in the Order having taught him the true extent of the Battle Lord’s fame, but never asked to hear any. To Caenis Vaelin’s father was a legend, a hero that stood at the King’s side throughout the Wars of Unification. To Vaelin he was a rider disappearing into the fog two years ago.

“What are his children called?” Vaelin asked. For some reason his parents had never told him much about the court.

“The King’s son and heir to the throne is Prince Malcius, said to be a studious and dutiful young man. His daughter is Princess Lyrna who many think will grow to outshine even her mother’s beauty.”

Sometimes Vaelin was disturbed by the light that shone in Caenis’s eyes when he talked about the King and his family. It was the only time his thoughtful frown disappeared, as if he wasn’t thinking at all. He had seen similar expressions on people’s faces when they offered thanks to the Departed, as if their normal self had stepped out for a moment leaving only the Faith behind.

As winter deepened and snow covered the land preparation began for the Test of the Wild. Their treks with Master Hutril became longer, his lessons more detailed and urgent, he made them run through the snow until they ached and handed out severe punishments for laxness and inattention. But they knew the importance of learning all they could. By now they had been in the Order long enough for the older boys to favour them with the occasional word of advice, normally consisting of a lurid warning of future dangers, the Test of the Wild featuring large among them: They thought he had disappeared for good but they found his body the next year, frozen to a tree… He tried to eat fire berries and spewed his liver up… Wandered into a wild cat's den and came out carrying his guts in his arms… The stories were no doubt exaggerated but concealed an essential truth: boys died in every Test of the Wild.

When the time came they were taken out in small groups over the course of a month to lessen the chance they might meet up and help each other through the ordeal. This was a trial each boy had to face alone. There was a short barge trip upriver then a long cart journey over a featureless, snow covered road winding into the lightly forested hill country beyond the Urlish. At intervals of five miles Master Hutril would stop the cart and take one of the boys into the trees, returning some time later to take up the reins again. When Vaelin’s turn came he was led along a small stream running into a sheltered gully.

“You have your flint?” Master Hutril asked.

“Yes master.”

“Twine, fresh bowstring, extra blanket?”

“Yes master.”

Hutril nodded, pausing, his breath steaming in the chilled air. “The Aspect has given me a message for you,” he said after a moment. Vaelin found it odd that Hutril was avoiding his gaze. “He says, as you are likely to be hunted whenever you leave the shelter of the House, you may return with me and be given a pass on this test.”

Vaelin was speechless. The shock of the Aspect’s offer coupled with the fact that this was the first time any of the Masters had referred to his ordeal in the forest left him dumfounded. The Tests were not just arbitrary torments dreamt up over the years by sadistic Masters. They were part of the Order, set down by its founder four hundred years ago and never changed since. They were more than a legacy, they were an article of the Faith. He couldn’t help feeling that to avoid a test and still continue in the Order would be more than just dishonest, not to say disrespectful to his friends, it would be blasphemy. Pondering further, another thought came to him: What if this is another test? What if the Aspect wants to see if I will avoid an ordeal my brothers cannot? But as he looked into Master Hutril’s guarded gaze he saw something that told him the offer was genuine: shame. Hutril thought the offer an insult.

“I fear to contradict the opinion of the Aspect, master,” he said. “But I think it unlikely an assassin would brave these hills in winter.”

Hutril nodded again, a soft sigh of relief escaping him, a rare, very slight smile on his lips. “Do not range far, listen to the voice of the hills, follow only the freshest tracks.” With that he shouldered his bow and began his long trek back to the cart.

Vaelin watched him go, feeling very hungry despite the hearty breakfast they had all eaten that morning. He was glad he had taken the opportunity to steal some bread from the kitchen before they left.

In accordance with Hutril’s lessons Vaelin began building a shelter immediately, finding a useful nook between two large rocks to serve as walls, he set about gathering wood for a roof. There were some fallen branches about that he could use but soon had to resort to cutting extra covering from the surrounding trees. He walled off one side by piling up snow, rolling it into thick blocks as he had been taught. His work complete he rewarded himself with a bread roll, forcing himself not to bolt it, despite his hunger, taking small bites and chewing thoroughly before swallowing.

Next he had to light a fire, arranging some small rocks in a circle next to the shelter’s entrance, clearing the snow from the centre and filling it with twigs and small branches he had prepared by stripping away the snow damp bark to reveal the dry timber beneath. A few sparks from his flint and soon he was warming his hands above a respectably lively fire. Food, shelter and heat, Master Hutril always told them. That’s what keeps a man alive. Everything else is luxury.

His first night in the shelter was restless, beset by howling winds and biting cold against which the blanket he had draped over the entrance was scant protection. He resolved to fashion a more sturdy covering the next day and passed the hours trying to hear voices in the winds. It was said that the winds would carry into the Beyond and the Departed used them to send messages back to the Faithful, some of whom would stand for hours on hillsides straining for words of wisdom or comfort from lost loved ones. Vaelin had never heard a voice on the wind and wondered who it would be if he did. His mother perhaps, although she hadn’t come to him again since his first night in the Order. Mikehl maybe, or the assassins, spitting their hatred into the wind. But tonight there were no voices to hear and he drifted into a fitful, chilled slumber.

The next day saw him gathering thin branches to weave into a door for his shelter. The work was long and tricky, leaving his already numb fingers aching from the effort. He spent the rest of the day on the hunt, arrow notched into his bowstring as he scanned the snow for tracks. He fancied there had been a deer through the gully in the night but the tracks were too faint to follow successfully. He did find fresh goat tracks but they led to a steep rise he had little hope of climbing before nightfall. In the end he had to content himself with bringing down a couple of crows that had mistakenly perched too close to his shelter and setting a few snares for any unwary rabbits that felt the need to venture into the snow.