The week following the face-to-face between Ulrick and the storm was eventful and windy. The first frosts were still expected, but I could feel their threat, I could feel the snow lurking in ambush somewhere north, on the other side of the mountains. I often thought of the scene I had witnessed: the screams of the Val, tiny in front of the immense swollen horizon, and the deafening echoes of lightning. As the days passed and the warrior still did not pay the price for his blasphemies, memories that I had discarded during Narsi's mourning came back to me: my own experience with the nine gods of Rajja and, before that, with the brownian spirits, all those prayers that had remained unanswered, and the knee of Ulrick, who had lived and walked while he had denied all that and more.

Somewhere else in me, under the wear and tear of the blows, the world was twisting, like a dying snake, but in that confused place where the gods and the spirits sat, a new order was taking over. I stubbornly fed my unbelief, insulting my old superstitions, and it remained liberating despite the bruises and rage. If I could insult a god, then what did I have to fear from a man? The fear of offending something that I did not understand, that I did not see, and that could crush me like an insect flew away as I grew bolder in my objections. Behind this increasingly tenuous veil was the promise of a world very different from the one that had seen me grow up. A world less frightening, less uncertain and where, above all, I could imagine the dreams and the Seïd as something that could be faced, in the same way that the Val had faced lightning.

As we approached the middle of the Sowing moon, our food supplies were diminishing so dangerously that Ulrick had to ration us. We were eating only two meals a day, but fortunately, as the weather was fairly clement, the wind quickly dried our clothes during the increasingly frequent thinnings, and when it fell, the rain had given way to a small drizzle, cold but bearable. After more than three weeks of exhausting work, we finally saw the end of the project and were able to start assembling.

The holes that Ulrick had drilled in the felled birch trees were filled by thick pegs that allowed us to firmly join the trunks together. We erected the larger planks in this way, so that they would serve as both a floor and a foundation at the very base of the cliff, where the gravel was easier to level. We hurried to pile up the equipment from the Val, which was beginning to suffer from humidity, and temporarily covered it with the canvas.

I remember thinking it was a very surprising sight to see this kind of large raft stranded in the middle of the mountains, like a wreck abandoned by its boatman. A few days later, when we had assembled the walls and the roof in the same way, the whole thing had taken the form of a large box, slightly elevated at the back, from where the roof sloped down to the front of the building. There was no door, only a tiny opening, through which the Val could barely squeeze. We could close it from the inside by means of a light hatch, reinforced with a thick leather lining that Ulrick had brought from Woody.

The canvas left our supplies to protect the roof while we hurriedly set off on the finishing touches. The nights were getting longer and colder, and Ulrick feared that the humidity would make us sick. Along with our belongings, we migrated under the unfinished structure. On the first evening, I almost forgot my resentment towards the Val, so happy was I to finally sleep in a dry place, despite the draught and the discomfort of the uneven planks on my back.

As the trunks dried, the frame cracked plainly, but I was far too exhausted to worry about the murmur of the wood. In my sleep, I sometimes dreamed of Robin and Brindy, and the squeaky boats that had changed our lives. I would also see the indistinct faces that had populated the Brown wharf in my early childhood, the old fishermen and traders, and the rough ship owner from Franlake who would give me a coin to watch over his merchandise. Sometimes I woke up without understanding, to the sound of flowing water, then my bruises hurt me, I remembered the stream, I remembered the Val and the wind-swept heights of Culon, and regret and loss took hold of me for a short moment, before I pushed them away so I wouldn't have to face them.

The last stages of the construction, during which Ulrick built, pebble by pebble, a chimney on the east wall of the cabin and used my bark tiles to seal the roof, were the most ungrateful for me. The worst was not the transportation of the stones from the gully, nor the dull stacking of my bark piles at the foot of the cabin.

Nor were these exhausting excursions on the western flank, from where we came back loaded with large slabs of humus cut from the ground, which we then had to spread out on the roof to stick the bark on. The worst was the quagmire. At the end of the plateau, a little upstream from where the waterfalls plunged into the woods, Ulrick had made me dig a hole in the bank of the stream, where the gray earth betrayed the presence of a bit of clay.

I spent my days in this quagmire, going back and forth in the forest to dump dead leaves and twigs, which I then mixed with the cold clay, knee-deep in the sticky mud. Then, bent in two, with the help of the pot and a small jute bag now emptied of its oats, I had to carry the thick mixture back to the cliff, almost half a mile away. Ulrick plastered the whole thing on the stones of the chimney and in the gaps of the planks, and I had to start the chore again immediately.

My only comfort, while frozen and soaked I kneaded my work at the bottom of the hole, was Pike, the great lusanian gelding. He grazed close to me for hours on end and blew his warm breath into the back of my neck when he sometimes bent down to chew my hair. At the end of the year on the wild plateau, I came to consider Pike as my only friend in the world. I was surprised, at first, at the freedom that Ulrick left his horses, but in the end they hardly moved away. They preferred the grass of the plateau to the moss of the surrounding forest, and since we had to remove the canvas from the roof to place the bark, the Val had used it to make a makeshift awning for the horses. When it rained, they spent most of their days there, staring at us incomprehendingly while we, stupid humans, were busy under the rain. I had expressed to the Val my concern about the pack of wolves hanging around, but Ulrick laughed out loud, and I realized that he was probably right about that. I pitied in advance the poor old wolf who would try to plant his fangs in Berda.

Days passed and I began to detach myself little by little from the construction, bent in half on the pot and the dripping bag, repeating to myself again and again that this would be the last trip I would make between the stream and the cliff. Every time I looked up at the cabin, I saw no progress, so I stopped looking. All that remained were my hands dried out by the water and clay, my clothes soaked and muddy, the bruises and the evil that was pulling at my guts, a mix of anger, fear and hunger. Then, on a cloudy early afternoon, when I was no longer expecting anything, while the exhaustion and cold monotony of the quagmire haunted my thoughts as much as the evening blows, Ulrick flatly announced that I had just brought him my last load. Without a word, smeared with clay from head to toe, I went back to my bed, where I fell asleep immediately.

I was awakened by a delicious smell. I got up, slowly, to find that I was naked under my blanket. Ulrick had undressed me without even breaking my rest, and that immediately displeased me.

The Val was leaning near the fireplace, in which our first indoor fire was crackling. I realized that I wasn't cold, which hadn't happened for nearly a moon. The warrior was stirring something in the pot, something that smelled really good. I carefully got up, wrapped in my wool blanket, to go and enjoy the warmth, even if it meant having to share the same space as the warrior. Ulrick turned to me, while handing me the smoking contents of the large wooden spoon. "Careful, it's hot," he said kindly. I repressed my desire to throw everything in his face, to give in to the gurgling of my stomach. It was a broth of wild herbs, an aniseed and iodized taste at the same time, and I swallowed without paying attention to the burn, so good it was. "I went to wash your clothes by the waterfall," said Ulrick, turning his attention to the fire. "I came across a good crayfish spot." I passed my tongue over my teeth so I wouldn't lose a drop. "I've never eaten crayfish before," I whispered. The Val smiled a little, but didn't answer anything. I waited silently until Ulrick served me a steaming bowl with our last piece of bread.

While we were eating and I discovered that I loved crayfish, the Val was talking, swallowing between his sentences large lamps of broth. "Tomorrow, I'll go hunting," he said. "I'll teach you that too, Sletling. These woods are teeming with game. You can barely walk ten steps without coming across something to eat. And there will be lurs too." He grimaced before finishing his bowl. "We're going to be able to focus on your training from now on. But tomorrow, while I'm hunting, I want you to go get some wood," he concluded in a firm voice, as he refilled his bowl. I gave him my consent, too tired to protest.

Ulrick patted his distended stomach and extended his legs. "Fekk, a roof and a meal is good," he said. I expressed my mental agreement, my gaze lost in the flames. I was still thinking about Brown-Horn and the Ronna farm.

Had it been cooler in the widow's barn? The Val burped while, with the tips of my fingers, I was skinning the last crayfish. "You have a house somewhere with the Vals?" I suddenly asked. Ulrick shook his head. "The Vals live together. We build longhouses, which belong to no one. It doesn't matter where a man sleeps," he replied in a weary voice. "But for the vaïdogans it's different. We live outside." Ulrick hesitated, his eyes in the distance. "There was a place once in Riteshell," he said, and then his voice gradually faded and his eyes became sadder.

As the discussion seemed to postpone the blows and, unexpectedly, I saw that, instead of my fists, my words could touch the Val, I decided to insist more. "And a wife, do you have a wife?" I asked in a flat tone. Ulrick looked up at me, displaying an amused and bitter mimicry at the same time. "You wouldn't understand, I think. We don't get married where I live. Women don't belong to anyone. If two Vals want to be together, then they are together, and when they don't want to be together, then they are not together. I was with a woman after the wars of king Ab," he breathed deeply. "We had a son. His name was Gabor. He was five years old, then my horse killed him, and his mother didn't want me anymore. So I went back to fight again." I widened my eyes.

"Berda killed your son?" I said with amazement. Ulrick shook his head and unfolded his legs. "No," he said. "It was another horse. But I kept it, until it was too old." I watched Ulrick, stunned. "You kept the horse?" The Val nodded and stretched. "It was a war horse," he said softly. "He was only doing what I had taught him to do. He was a good charger. As good as Berda, maybe even better."

I swore in a low voice. "I would have killed the horse," I said darkly. Ulrick frowned, without raising his voice. "Then you would have been stupid, Sletling. It wouldn't have brought my son back, and that charger has saved my life more times than I can remember." I stared at the Val, my rage spurred by his remark. "All the more reason," I whispered in the spicy tone of challenge.

Ulrick spat into the fire, and his eyes sparkled. "If it weren't for the master of that horse, you'd be swinging from a rope, Sletling. Don't forget that," he replied coldly. I didn't answer, sitting on the uneven floor of the cabin, but I didn't look away from the Val either. I was looking for trouble, and I wanted him to know it. "Come on," he ended up saying slowly.

"Stand up." I got up on my feet right away, bubbling with rage and fear, and silently followed him outside. The wind cruelly bit my naked flesh, and the stones were hard under my heels. I shivered waiting for the signal, a chance to rush into the gaps I had seen earlier, before finishing the work. Ulrick was standing in front of me with his hands on his hips. "Go for it," he said. "Try to hit me."

I took a step forward, my foot stretched out on a wet pebble. "Your son was weak," I said venomously. The impassive Val crossed his arms. "He died because of you," I continued, going around his side. "And you didn't even have the balls to kill the horse." Ulrick pivoted so as not to lose sight of me. I didn't know what I was doing, not really. I vaguely considered that the Val could give in to his wrath and kill me, and at the same time, somewhere along the way, I didn't care. I wanted to hurt him. I don't know where things stood that night. I was rested, and Ulrick was not. Maybe my words had touched him more than he let on, or maybe the hour of training I had every day was starting to pay off. Either way, I feinted to the left, and Ulrick was a little slower. I went through the kick he tried to give me and my leg hit him on his lame knee. The Val staggered, and I shouted my victory.

Then Ulrick kicked my legs and split my lip before I fell back down. My back hit the stones. The warrior stared at me darkly while massaging his knee. I twisted myself on the pebbles, trying to catch my breath. I was angry, "This is not fair," I shouted furiously, and my voice echoed off the deformed rock in the gully. "I won! I touched you." I staggered and straightened up. Blood was dripping from my jaw.

"I won!" I shouted again. "You had no right to hit me, you dirty bastard!" The Val took a step forward. "I'm still standing," he said darkly. "And there's no justice here. There's a man standing who can still fight, and a Sletling who's bleeding and can't." I began to cry, naked and trembling in the dark. My bruised back was throbbing. The Val spat in the gravel. "You'd better remember what I tell you," he said in a louder voice. "I told you the other day about the Padekke. It was for a good reason. You thought we'd stop, if you managed to touch me. I saw it. That was your belief. The truth is, you didn't know. This blood is the result of your error in judgment."

I took my head in my hands, hiccuping, and crouched down, naked and desperate. "But you said...," I began to whimper, turning to him with a begging face. The Val shook his head. "I said nothing," he replied harshly. "You believed, and you didn't see your mistake." He paused for a moment, before resuming, while bending over me. "But it was a good try," he said. "You used what you could against me. You struck where you saw weakness. But this lesson is not a measure of your ability to hit me. Nor even to defeat me. Go to sleep, Sletling. We'll start again tomorrow." I didn't move, I didn't move for a long time, crouched on the cold rubble, lost in the wet grooves that my tears traced on the smooth stones.

Ulrick finally moved away from me, to join the horses that had not yet been treated. When I finally left for the cabin, I was dragging behind me a despair deeper than anything I had ever known. And fury too. The fury consumed me like fire destroys a thatched roof. I was angry and, in the heart of the fire, I was staggering on my own borders. Yet I did not fall. Once again I managed to cling to hate, and deep down in the depths of the abyss, something hungry made my impatient jaws rattle. If I went through that gullet, I knew that it would be too late for me - that there would be no more me, by the way - no more Fyss, only that rabid beast I could already see.

Not yet, I repeated to myself. Not yet. But I also felt that I was slipping, that I was slipping and that my grip was getting weaker and weaker. I wrapped myself under my blanket, covering my swollen lip, with a red taste on my tongue. I swore that one day Ulrick would pay for that blood. Then I cried some more, and fell asleep.