The storms have been there from the start

The snow, the ice, is from the heart.

A book sat on the dusty table, its gilded binding gleaming dully in the steady, unchanging glow of the library.

Ferrian stood a few feet away, arm outstretched, bandaged hand held forth, silver eyes focused intently on the small tome in front of him.

He stood that way for several minutes.

Silence filled the library around him. The book-lined walls watched him, waiting.

Nothing happened.

The book did not move.

Even the dust did not stir.

Finally, letting his breath out in a huff of frustration, Ferrian let his arm slump to his side.

It's hopeless, he thought in dismay. This is never going to work!

He had spent the past few hours studying magic, or at least, the type of magic that had been taught at the SOMS. Much of it had been of surprisingly little use to him, focusing on building up magical energy gradually, learning to harness it a little at a time.

Ferrian didn't need to know how to acquire magic; he already possessed it.

His problem was that he had way too much of it.

He had, however, memorised some techniques for controlling it, but so far none of them had worked.

Perhaps, he thought, it was just a matter of practice.

Or perhaps he was doing something wrong.

Sighing again, Ferrian paced around the pillared room in annoyance. In fact, he knew what he was doing wrong. He needed to summon his magic if he wanted any of the spells to work.

But if he summoned the Winter in here, it would rip apart the library and turn all of the books into chunks of ice.

It surprised him that the Winter hadn't followed him into Grath Ardan already. But this place existed in a different reality: perhaps the Winter didn't work in here at all?

Slumping with his back against a pillar, Ferrian stared morosely at the rows of dusty, useless books surrounding him. He had thought that he could figure this out on his own, learn how to control the Winter by himself. But now he realised that it was too difficult a task, too overwhelming, and the information in Grath Ardan too tedious to wade through.

He needed help.

Closing his eyes, he wished sadly that Lord Requar had not stabbed himself. He was sure that the sorcerer would have been able to teach him something.

But Requar was gone, and even if he did still live, was in no condition to help Ferrian with anything.

But he thought he knew someone who could.

He just didn't want to ask.

Opening his eyes, he stared around himself hopelessly. It didn't seem as though he had a choice. In resignation, he sat cross-legged on the floor, closed his eyes again, and concentrated.

Whiteness enveloped him, cool and serene.

It was so peaceful and familiar that for a long moment he could not remember why he had abandoned this place. But his concentration spell slowly brought his thoughts back into focus, allowed him to remain lucid.

The crystal sat nearby on its silver-grey pedestal, glimmering and beautiful.

But there was no song.

Ferrian listened carefully, but there was no sound to be heard in the pale emptiness.

Walking over to the pedestal, he sat down beside it.

Dragon? he said tentatively.

There was no response.

I'm sorry for ignoring you. I was… I am… afraid of you. I don't like it when you take over my body without my knowledge.

Silence.

The white void had an aching, desolate quality to it. A flicker of worry stirred within him. Was she gone?

No, he reasoned. She could not be gone. It was her magic, or her will, that was keeping him bound to this half-alive state. If she had left, surely he would fall completely dead.

The Dragon must still be here, somewhere.

I don't know what you're doing in my mind or what you want from me, he went on. I know that you stopped me from perishing because you wanted to save yourself, but I didn't ask to carry you around, let alone manipulate me! I don't know what I'm supposed to do, now!

Again, he waited, but received no reply.

Ferrian sighed in despair.

Above him, the diamond scintillated, throwing rainbow shards into the whiteness.

The crystal that Arzath had shattered, releasing the Winter and the Dragon, and lodging both of them inside him.

Ferrian did not bother to ruminate on why this had happened to him, in particular. He had spent his entire life asking that question, and he didn't suppose there was an answer. He just wanted to move on.

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He regretted that he had had to die to do so…

No.

The voice was melodious and echoing. Surprised and relieved, Ferrian turned to see a great silver eye open in the white space to his left.

I have done nothing, the Dragon said.

Ferrian stood up. The eye was intimidating. He could see his reflection in it, though was surprised to see that he looked as he had before he had died.

You… you turned me into a walking corpse, he accused the Dragon.

I gathered your magic back to you, she replied. Your life force, I could not recover. I feared, as you do. I did not wish my existence to be extinguished. As you did not want yours to end.

I would have gladly died in the snow! Ferrian retorted angrily.

No, the Dragon said. You would not.

Ferrian found himself glaring at the eye, despite himself. But he could not argue the truth with a creature that shared his own mind. He looked away, instead.

You made me use the Sword of Healing, he muttered, determined to prove his point.

I did not, the Dragon repeated.

Ferrian felt irritated. I have no memory of what happened! he told her. Flint and Arzath told me that I walked in and picked up the Sword and tried to use it on Lord Requar!

You did not wish him to die, the Dragon replied.

But I know nothing about the Swords! Ferrian went on, exasperated. How could I have used it? And why?

My knowledge is yours.

Ferrian looked back at the eye. Are you saying, he said, that you knew all along the Sword of Healing could cure trigon?

Yes.

Ferrian stared at her in astonishment. Why didn't you say something??

The great silver eye regarded him, its black pupil shifting. You, the voice replied sadly, did not ask.

Ferrian was aghast, but realised she spoke the truth. An ancient being occupied his mind, and it had never occurred to him to ask her questions.

He stared into the whiteness, feeling devastated. I have to go back to the castle, he whispered.

Yes.

Are they dead? The sorcerers?

The Dragon hesitated. They may be, she answered vaguely. They may be not.

Well, Ferrian thought, she's a Dragon, not a God. He supposed she wasn't omniscient.

He shook his head. He didn't feel able to help anyone unless he could first learn how to manage the Winter.

I need to know how to control the magic, Ferrian told the Dragon, turning back desperately to face the silver eye. Please. The Winter has been keeping its distance. Tell me how you are doing it…

I have done nothing, she repeated.

Ferrian and the eye stared at each other. But, he said, confused. You must have…

The snow falls gently. The storms lay quiet, because you wish it to be so.

Ferrian blinked at her. Then he shook his head in denial. No! I can't be controlling it! The Winter destroyed whole towns! And the royal entourage! It killed people! I never wanted that!

You drew the Winter to you, the Dragon explained patiently. You embraced it. You gloried in its power. It brought you happiness.

The great eye looked suddenly sorrowful. I merely flew along with you. Your joy was my joy.

A coldness spread through Ferrian that he hadn't experienced for a long time. H-how long, he stammered, have I been able to control it?

The eye blinked, slowly, and Ferrian knew what she was going to say. He found himself drowning in his own reflection.

Always, the Dragon said, her voice soft and musical and sad.

Ferrian found that he could no longer stand, and sat abruptly on the floor. B-but, he said, staring in disbelief at the pale nothingness beneath him, I've been running from it my whole life…

You ran, the Dragon said gently, because you were afraid. You felt that you were different from other Humans. Even as a child, they treated you with suspicion. You were rejected by your own kind.

Your sadness and fear called the Winter to you. It was designed to protect and preserve. That is its purpose.

I… I don't need a guardian, Ferrian said, brushing away a tear that spilled suddenly from his eye. I don't need powerful magic to freeze anyone who doesn't like me…

But that, the Dragon replied, her voice heavy with melancholy, is what you wished. Is it not?

Ferrian's mind drifted back through his past, and a memory of the gypsies appeared: the week they had been stuck at Merinriver Break, unable to proceed because the bridge was ruined. The children didn't want to play with him. They had avoided him, run away between the caravans, made fun of his eyes when they thought he couldn't hear them…

And then, the Winter had come.

Ferrian shook his head fiercely, clutching it with his hands.

Above him, the Dragon began to materialise, gleaming, pearlescent scales spreading outwards from her eye, huge horns curving around him like gigantic spiralling icicles, vast feathery wings tracing themselves out of the white mist.

Slowly, the Dragon lowered her head and placed it on the ground before him, both eyes watching him like mirrored pools. They seemed to leak, silvery trails running over her huge snout, and Ferrian realised with a wrench of his heart that she was crying.

I, too, was afraid, the Dragon told him. Once, the deep ice and chill breath of the wind sustained me, but I grew old, and the world changed, and the winters in the mountains were no longer cold enough.

The Humans of a small village worshipped me. They sought the services of a sorcerer to ensure that I did not perish. The sorcerer created a spell for me, a beautiful song, and set it in a crystal within my cave, that I may be surrounded by eternal Winter, and protected.

But the passing of time claimed me, regardless.

I did not want to go. I wished a part of me to linger in the world, so I hid myself within the diamond, and watched my body crumble away.

Death saddens me, she continued, great eyes closing. The extinguishing of life is something that I cannot bear. The bright glow that exists for but a moment, then is gone…

I found peace within the snow and never-changing coldness of the dark mountain stones, where nothing grows and there was no life to burden me with grief.

But then my crystal was stolen, and broken. Now I reside within you, Ferrian. I feel all that you feel: your joy, your sorrow, your pain, your fear. I observe the tragedy of life from your eyes.

The huge silver eyes slowly opened. I can only observe. Your will is your own. The Winter is yours to command. I am but a memory who does not wish to die.

Ferrian's face felt wet with tears. But we're both dead, now, he said despondently.

The Dragon regarded him. There exists one who can restore the spark, she said. You must return to him. You must ensure that he is not destroyed by the evil you call trigon.

But, Ferrian said, swallowing, what if it's too late?

The Dragon lifted her head, turning away, gradually fading back into the mist.

Then, she said, voice drifting away with her ghost into the pale glow, much will be lost, and neither you nor I will ever again be whole.

Opening his eyes, Ferrian stood up and walked across the illuminated floor tiles and around the pillars, until he stood once again a few feet from the table in the centre of the room, with its single book.

Reaching over his shoulder, he withdrew the Sword of Frost from its sheath.

For a moment, he stared down at it. His reflection had returned to its bloodless, hollow-eyed form, but his silver eyes still held life, and a new determination burned there.

Setting the Sword point downward on the floor with a soft chink, he gripped it tightly with one hand and stretched the other out, towards the book.

Then he summoned the Winter.

It came in a cold, burning rush through his body. Concentrating hard, he did not allow it to burst free but instead willed it downwards, into his Sword.

Wind picked up and swirled around the room, quickly gathering into a gale, moaning like a tortured soul and pulling books off their shelves. The sound of flapping paper filled his ears. The Sword glowed and leaked shimmering silver mist, and frost spread outwards across the floor, clouding the silvertine tiles.

Ferrian ignored all of it, staring intently at the book.

He didn't care if he ripped the whole of Grath Ardan apart.

He WOULD move that book...

It leapt off the table almost before he had finished the thought.

It was so sudden that Ferrian momentarily lost concentration. The Winter roared, and he felt the magic surge, ice filling the room…

Panicking, he struggled to regain control, to banish it, but it was too strong…

In desperation, he released the Sword.

The Winter died away at once as the blade clattered to the floor, and Ferrian found himself standing in the middle of a frozen room.

A few papers drifted to the ground.

Ferrian blinked in shock.

And then realised that he was holding the book.

It was a solid chunk of ice in his hand.

I did it, he thought in astonishment, as victory surged through him.

I can control the Winter!