He could remember dozens of these storms when he was a tiny child, when he’d huddled beside the smoking, struggling fire on the hearth in the middle of the room, while the roof leaked in a dozen places and more rain dripped down through the smoke hole in the middle of the roof. The shutters would rattle with the force of the wind, and his mother would hold him close as she carefully fed the fire with the driest bits of wood to keep it alive. He didn’t remember the ones when he was in the temple, though; that sturdy wooden structure never left him with the fear that at any moment the roof would blow away. But the ones when he was older, helping out at the inn—yes. He’d be in the stable, helping to calm the horses, struggling to get doors closed, running all over with buckets to catch leaks. Or he’d be out in it, tying things down, bringing them in, and never mind the lightning striking near—too near!—and the cold rain soaking him through. The Academy was down in the valley, in a place that didn’t get storms like that, but once he was out with the cavalry—oh, he lived through plenty more of them. Most of the time, out in the open. You hoped for a chance to get your tents up first, and you’d wrap every blanket you had around your shoulders and watch the rain stream down off the edges of the canvas and know it would be a cold supper again. Being caught without shelter, though, was worse. The best you could do was get down in a valley, try and find the scrubbiest, lowest stand of trees, and get under them. You’d get off your horse, because with the lighting and thunder, even a trained cavalry horse could bolt. You’d use the canvas of your tent as a raincape, and hope it kept the worst of it off you, standing with your head down, one hand holding your horse’s bridle up near his nose, the other holding the canvas just under your chin, shivering, both you and the horse.

Oh, this was better, much better, like so much of his life since he’d come to Valdemar. And yet, it was not enough, and he was not certain if the problem was within himself or Valdemar.

He was glad enough that there was no one here. It allowed him to be left alone with his thoughts. He was rarely truly alone for very long.

“I understand you’ve lost your first fight,” said someone at his elbow.

The voice was female—familiar, but he couldn’t put a name to it immediately, for the words startled him so much.

“Eh?” was all he could manage, as he swiveled to see who it was that had interrupted his solitude.