In a blur of snow, Magister Trench slapped his thigh. “A kind thought, General,” he declared, “especially for those of us who cannot tell west from indigestion.” His jibe was directed at Lambent. “And well done, Magister Whimper. I will be grateful for whatever you can do.”

“And while you talk,” snarled Magister Lambent, “we are forced to wait again. Will you keep us here, General?” His use of Klamath’s title did not express respect. “I need shelter and a stove, not more words.”

With a shrug that shed weight from his shoulders, the General turned his horse to the west and led his company onward.

The snowfall was as heavy and blinding as before. It gave no sign that it would ever weaken. But it was less daunting. It could be interrupted. Klamath’s companions had surprises in them. Even the weather acknowledged their power, if only for moments.

He intended to find a better use for them.

For the rest of the journey, the riders were comforted by short intervals of clear air and better light. Those pauses came irregularly: each drought-wielder needed a different amount of time to recover. But they came by turns as General Klamath had requested. Although their benefits were fleeting, they gave everyone something to look forward to.

During the fourth of these gaps, Magister Pillion brought his mare floundering to Klamath’s side. “May I ride with you, General?” he asked meekly.

As the sorcery of drought faltered, and snow began to fall again, Klamath replied, “Of course, Magister.” He had questions to ask. “I will be glad of your presence. Without a companion, I feel alone in the world.”

“As do I,” said Pillion. “And I need to speak.” He hesitated for a moment. “But this snow blankets sound. I do not know if you will hear me.”

The General swallowed a snort of amusement. “I hear you. An entire army could pass us, and I might not know it. Distant sounds do not carry. But a rider beside me I can hear.”

“Then let me speak.”

“Of course, Magister,” repeated Klamath. He wanted the small man to feel at ease. “We all need something to occupy our minds while we ride.”

“Thank you, General.” The small man sounded sincerely grateful. “You know I have a wife and children,” he said, then stopped himself. After a moment, he confessed, “I do not know where to begin.”

“Take your time.” Klamath knew that the Magister had a family. He had learned as much as he could about every sorcerer available for the war, Bellegerin and Amikan. “We cannot hurry in these conditions.”

Pillion tried again. “Then do you know that I called Elgart my friend? He considered me his friend. Before we lost him.”