Torren sat very still on the cold stone ridge, the wind pulling at the fur cloak around his shoulders while the mountains stretched endlessly into the darkness around him. For several long heartbeats he said nothing, his red eyes searching the empty rocks and black sky as if the owner of the voice might suddenly step out from behind a boulder.
But the ridge was empty.
The Painted Dogs' fires burned far below in the valley, small and distant.
Slowly, uneasily, Torren swallowed.
Did… did someone speak? he thought.
No answer came immediately. The wind continued to rush across the ridge, whistling through the cracks in the stone. For a moment he almost convinced himself he had imagined it.
But the voice returned, just as calm as before.
Yes.
Torren's fingers tightened around the handle of the small axe at his belt.
His heart began to pound harder.
He remembered stories the older warriors told around the fire—stories of spirits in the mountains, of ghosts that wandered the cliffs, of demons that whispered to foolish men before leading them off the edge of a ravine.
Torren looked down at the black drop beneath the ridge.
Are you… a demon?
The question came out inside his thoughts almost like a whisper.
There was a pause.
Then the voice answered.
No.
Torren frowned slightly.
The answer had come too quickly, too calmly.
He shifted on the rock and glanced around the dark slopes again, half expecting to see glowing eyes watching him from the trees.
Nothing.
The mountains were empty.
His breathing slowed a little, though the unease in his chest remained.
Then what are you?
The voice did not hesitate.
I am something created to guide you.
Torren did not fully understand the words, but he understood enough to know the voice was speaking directly to him.
Only him.
He hesitated for a moment before asking another question.
Why are you in my head?
The wind pushed harder across the ridge, rattling small stones down the slope.
Because you need guidance, the voice replied.
Torren frowned deeper.
That answer only made the situation stranger.
For a long moment he simply stared out across the mountains, thinking the way children think—jumping from one idea to another without quite knowing why.
Finally another question slipped into his mind.
Do you know my father?
The answer came instantly.
Yes.
Torren blinked.
Harrag of the Painted Dogs, the voice continued. Warrior. Forty-two winters survived. Thirty confirmed kills in raids along the High Road.
Torren's eyes widened slightly.
He had never heard anyone count kills like that before.
How do you know that?
The voice remained steady.
Because I have access to information.
Torren didn't know what that meant.
But the voice knew things.
Things about his father.
The boy's gaze slowly drifted eastward again, toward the thin pale line cutting through the mountains far below.
The High Road.
Travelers still moved along it even now, tiny shapes crawling between the cliffs.
Torren watched them quietly for a moment before another thought formed.
Do you know the road?
Yes.
The voice answered without hesitation.
The High Road is the most important path through these mountains.
Torren tilted his head slightly.
Why?
The answer came calmly.
Because whoever controls that road controls the flow of people, food, weapons, and wealth through the Vale.
Torren stared at the distant road again.
He had never thought about it that way.
To him it had always just been a place where travelers walked and where Painted Dogs sometimes went hunting.
But now the thought sat in his mind like a small burning coal.
The wind swept across the ridge again.
Torren hugged his knees tighter and looked up at the dark sky above the mountains.
He still didn't know what the voice was.
But one thing was certain.
He wasn't going to tell anyone about it.
Not the Tree Speaker.
Not his mother.
Not even his father.
Because if the voice really was some kind of spirit… or demon…
He wasn't sure what they would do to him.
And somewhere deep in his mind, the calm voice continued watching.