I curled up in the snow. I heard voices again, and half sat up, thinking rescue had come. I tried to call out, but ice cracked my lips and made them bleed, and my voice was lost in the wind. I saw Teraj again, not smiling this time, but bent over by his bed, anguished, crying out in prayer. I heard my name often, and wanted to call to him, but could not. In the dull daylight came snow and wind again, shadowed ghostly forms, and music and voices. I wanted them to go away so I could sleep. Weariness weighed on me, heavily.

“Stand up, woman,” said a voice, and I lifted my head. Snow and sleet drove hard into my face, and I dashed my hands across my eyes, clearing them. I thought I saw a man, tall and firelit in the grey, walking towards me. “Stand up, woman,” he said again.

I struggled to my feet, fell, and stood again. The man was still there, half hidden by the storm. Incredibly, he wore no cloak in all that cold, and his robes were thin and woven fine. His hair was free of sleet, and shining in the firelight. He came closer, and I saw that he was smiling. I thought he was Amasai, and spoke that man’s name, and tried to run forward. But the wind and deep snow prevented me, so I stood, shaking with cold, and looked at him.

It was not Amasai. It was a man I had never seen before. And he did not carry a torch, yet I could have sworn it was firelight on him. The storm abated, and in the calm, I examined his face. Powerful it was, strong and compassionate, and not unlike Amasai’s. This man, too, was beautiful. Yet it was not his face that arrested me, made me stand straight and tall, unmindful of tiredness or pain; it was the joy that came from him. It was so great, I could have sworn the air was filled with his laughter; yet there was only the wind. He looked on me with so much gladness, so much love; it was as if he had known me all my life, and all that time had longed for this moment, this meeting place with me, and seeing me gave him the greatest pleasure. There were six or seven paces between us, yet I felt totally encompassed by his delight in me. I felt elated, embraced.

“Are you Quelled, lord?” I asked, shivering. “You have scars on your forehead, though different from my brand.”

“There are no Quelled,” he said. Still he smiled; still that jubilation came from him, that amazing joy. His eyes never left my face.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” I asked, smiling, mystified.