The wind picked up as they ascended. It pierced Arn's furs and sent cold needles into his very being. Arn shivered and pulled his coat tighter.

"I thought you said the charm would keep me warm!"

"It should - but you have to resupply it with Esarel!" his father had to yell to overcome the howling gusts.

Arn growled. His boots were covered with snow, so was the rest of him. In fact, snow peppered his face for the past hour. His irritation reached a tipping point, and Arn felt the familiar flame within himself. He ushered it into the travel charm, and it obeyed immediately. The flame - for that is what he took to calling it - swept through him and flowed into the charm.

He felt warmth emanate from his core, more intense than the first time he'd tried it. Arn didn't feel his Esarel flow into the charm, just the flame. Heat emanated from him. The temperature of the air around him rose and melted the snow before it reached his face. He felt completely at ease; the irritation from moments ago was gone without a trace.

"Are you ok back there?" his father yelled.

"Fine, I'm fine," Arn mumbled, still bewildered by the results of his action.

"What did you say?"

"I'm fine!" he yelled against the wind.

It was two hours before the wind died down. Thanks to the trick with the charm, Arn no longer felt cold and was free even from the peppering snow. When he saw the tiny path that led away from the main road, he let out a sigh of relief. They finally reached the camp - with a fire and food, he thought.

Thankfully he had no dreams that night, though the sounds of animals kept waking him up. There were no ravens, but other birds, distant wolf howls, and Elar'Saga knows what else continued throughout the night. He was surprised to learn that Old Lady seemed to be doing just fine, not in the least bothered by any of it. The mule lazily plucked at the sparse grass below the snow and farted occasionally.

They were soon back on the road, which sloped upwards, ever higher as they went. The wind pressed its assault, but it had little power over Arn now. Whatever he did yesterday kept the charm fully charged still, and the snowflakes continued to melt before it reached him.

The view behind them was breathtaking. The entire Yisaor Foothills stretched out far into the distance, with the mountains on one side and planes as far as the eye could see on the other. The day was clear, and he squinted, looking south, trying to spot Nysaros just ahead of the Saro woods.

"You might see it at night if it's a clear one when the fires of the clan houses glow brightly in the darkness," his father said.

Arn still tried his best, though he only managed to see vague shadows where he thought Nysaros should be. The Old Fort was visible again, dark against the snow, no more than a speck.

"Come, the road is long still," his father said, then chuckled.

"What?"

"They call this road the Seamway, after the seams of pants, since we're climbing the legs."

"That can't be real..."

"Oh, it is real, but be my guest and ask someone at Ar'Thorsan," his father replied.

"Ar'Thorsan?"

"The Southern Outpost. Ar'Thorsan is its proper name - you'll see soon enough."

The views, chill wind, and banter kept Arn's thoughts at bay, and he managed to maintain good spirits all through the day, even as the muscles in his legs ached from exhaustion. His father nearly had them skip lunch, but at last, Arn had convinced him that it was necessary.

They used one of the camp-sites off the road, to which the small trails led, and made quick lunch.

"You were right," Atrel admitted after a sip of hot spicey tea.

"I'm always right!" Arn said, and his father chuckled at that, mumbling something. Was it 'kids'? Arn couldn't be sure. The wind still gusted loudly.

"Remember the poem from earlier?" his father asked as they began packing up.

"Which poem? The Old Fort?"

"No, no, not that one. The short poem about a pack and belt,"

"I - Uhm, not sure what poem that is."

"Alright, if you insist, I will teach you."

To Arn's chagrin, his father recited the poem - which he now remembered hearing at the first camp they set by the Mountainview bridge. When finished, his father looked back at Arn, a mischievous smile on his face.

"Now your turn."

"Oh, bloody bear claws," Arn whispered, "no, thank you."

"I'm afraid we must, Arn. Some people will think less of you if you don't know at least a couple of short poems."

"Some people will think less of me if I do know a couple of short poems!"

"Arn, I am your father, and I know best."

"But dad!" Arn protested, though twenty minutes later, his resistance was ground down by his father's relentless persistence. He repeated the lines as they went and was only let off the hook after singing the entire poem perfectly three times.

After that ordeal, it was back to lessons about botany and herbology, and he wasn't entirely sure which was worse.

Just as the sun set behind the western mountains, he saw the top of a grey stone tower and a great fire burned atop the turret. It rose above the pointy treetops, not as tall as the eastern tower of the Old Fort though still quite impressive.

The Seamway wound about, rising even steeper as they approached, bending and climbing towards the tower. Old Lady didn't seem to mind the terrain, but Arn was at the end of his stamina. He panted heavily and started slowing down. Finally, they came to a large flat field beyond which the mountain pass lay between the Zekasar Ridge to the west and Grandfather's Peaks to the east.

The Seamway led to a great stone structure, low, wide, and large as a great hall. At one end was the tower Arn saw earlier, and nearby were the stables. A small gathering of people was just at the front of the building, and one of their mules was lead to the stable.

"Come on, Old Lady must go to the stables," his father said.

"We're not bringing her to the pass?"

"Elar'Saga forbid, she won't make it. We'll take one of the Yaelen Luel with us to the pass," upon seeing Arn's bewildered look, he explained, "they are horses from the northern province of Vule Sunal. You'll find no animal better suited for the treacherous mountain pass with cold winds, snow, and narrow passages. The Yaelen Luel are said to have a spark of the Northern Wind Spirit in them."

Before Arn could respond, his father added, "this might be another story to ask your great uncle Sead."

More and more questions, Arn thought. Seems that each talk with his father brings about more things he doesn't know, and he hadn't even broached the important questions.

At this point, Arn began to reconsider his decision to keep the secrets to himself. Perhaps his father would tell him something useful. No, Arn told himself, not before we reached the Capital.

While the outside of the Ar'Thorsan reminded him of the great hall, the inside was nothing like it. They entered an expansive room where several people lined up before a clerk, who had the same features as the other receptionists at Nysaros, Kalarhan, and even the Old Fort. Arn stared at the man. This can't be real, he thought.

"Come, we're in this line," his father beckoned and led Arn to a different counter with a woman behind it.

Once she verified his father's token and gave Arn a long glance, she nodded and directed them to one of the hallways at the back.

"Departures are an hour past sunrise. If you miss it, you'll need to wait until the next morning. Here's your room key," she said.

Unlike the Dancing Dragon inn, this room was nearly empty and less than half the size. Two rickety beds stood on either side, and a small window barely let in light through the opaque glass. His father dragged their items toward one of the walls and sat on one of the beds. He chuckled upon seeing Arn's expression but said nothing. Arn walked to the other bed, took off his coat and sat as well. He looked at the bare walls and sighed.

"It's just for a night," Atrel said.

"Yeah,"

"You'll think better of this room tomorrow, believe me."

"I don't know. Sleeping outside under the stars is not easy, but it has its charm."

"You haven't spent a night in the Ahotharo Pass."

"Ahotharo Pass? Is that another story for Sead?"

"Oh yes indeed. I am far too exhausted to tell you that one," a moment later, Atrel said, "sar ahoth aaro dar kah."

"Say what?" Arn furrowed his brows, "did the cold scramble your brains?"

Arn's father laughed but then put on a serious face, "you can't talk like that to your father," he said. But Arn saw the hidden smile.

"It means 'the ill fated pass' in the old tongue, a bit of a mouthful, so it was shortened to Ahotharo over the years," Atrel added, then looked at the opaque window. "Sead will be only too happy to tell you more."

"I should keep a list," Arn said and chuckled, "at this rate, I'll need to spend a week full of storytelling with him."

"I could think of worse ways to spend a week," his father said. "I am exhausted. Let us sleep now. Tomorrow is an early morning."