By the time they reached the Mountainview bridge, the sun was already halfway below the horizon. The bridge itself was a sturdy stone structure, wide enough for at least two carriages to pass freely. Claws of ivy gripped its grey stone, and superficial cracks ran down into the ground. It stretched over a narrow part of the river, no more than fifty feet across. The road widened into a circular flat area just ahead of the bridge, and several smaller paths led off towards distant campsites.

Arn's father led them to one of the shabbier paths - no more than a trail, really. It took them along the riverbank and away from the bridge. They soon passed a small pine grove and walked out into a clearing. This section of the campsite was tucked away from the rest - no sound reached them, and only the tiny dancing shapes of the fire were visible in the distance.

"Thank Elar'Saga," his father exclaimed, "come on," he said and walked over towards several thick and short logs arranged in a semi-circle. He put down his pack and sat atop one of them.

The sun's red disk peaked through distant clouds on its way down to the mountains. Purple light spilled upon the snow and cast long, twisting shadows. A breeze blew pleasantly upon him and carried the fresh scent of evergreens and the distant notes of campfires.

"You ok?"

Arn snapped out of his reverie, "Uhm yes, I just," he said and glanced about.

His father chuckled. Arn removed his own backpack and sat down on one of the logs. It felt cold despite the layers of furs that he wore.

"Think you can manage to light the fire?" his father waved at the abandoned coals and half-burnt wood that lay before them.

"Yes," Arn said, then fetched the fire starter from his pack. It was a foot-long stick about the thickness of a thumb with several blue gems embedded within it. Ancient writing covered a portion of it, though Arn couldn't read it. He held the device in his hands and suddenly realized that he no longer had the Tjoreal. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his stomach turned. Would it even work without the Tjoreal? Did anyone ever try? He thought of the time at the cell when he tried to reach the candle. Esarel behaved very much like it did when used with a Tjoreal, just far less potent, especially at a distance. In fact, it almost entirely faded after a few feet.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath - focus, he thought. Arn pointed the fire starter at the coal before him, then moved it closer so that it touched the coal. He directed Esarel into the device and felt resistance as the energy flowed from him and into the stick. He tried to bend the Esarel and shape it to match the fire starter, but it refused his will.

"Everything alright over there? I am not smelling any fire," his father teased.

A tiny spark of anger flashed in his belly, and Arn was surprised as the energy he channelled into the fire starter sucked the spark into itself. He then felt the energy shift - slowly and unwillingly, but it shifted nevertheless. It was no longer the crisp and stable flavour Arn was so familiar with. Instead, it was agitated, warm, and it vibrated. He felt heat on the skin of his hand and opened his eyes - he didn't notice closing them. The coals glowed bright orange, and thin wisps of smoke rose into the night sky.

It worked! Arn thought and smiled. Relief washed over him - if he could make the fire starter work without the Tjoreal, there may be hope yet, he would get by until he learned to create one.

"Finally!" his father said, then turned around, and a hint of surprise appeared on his face. "Didn't you say you'd never used it before," he asked Arn.

"Did I mess something up?"

"No, no, on the contrary," his father said and came close to the firepit. "It's quite good for the first time. You may have hope yet, my boy."

"Thanks," Arn replied, uncertain how much of his father's words were a compliment and how much were a jab.

"I'll deal with the cooking tonight, but tomorrow will be your turn."

"Aren't we going to be at the Old Fort tomorrow night?"

"Ah, yes indeed. The night after that, then," his father said.

They soon had a pot of stew going on the hot coals and a couple of bowls prepared for when it was done. The long walk and rigorous pace awakened quite an appetite in Arn, and he could hardly wait for the meal.

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His father began mumbling something barely audible, but then his voice grew loud enough to make out words. Arn's eyes widened, and he hissed at his father - but Atrel waved him off and carried on with his tune.

"Travel light but carry a pack

You never know when you'll need a good snack!

Fasten your coat, tighten your belt

You'll find on the road the hand you're dealt

Follow the wind and hear its call

And you shan't go wrong on your lengthy stroll."

His father was singing! Arn looked around, but the other campsites were too far for any sound to have reached them. That must have been why his father liked this place. He turned to Atrel, wide-eyed.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, don't woladleIt's just a quick song people sing during travels," his father replied.

"But, but," Arn protested and waved his arms, "but they could hear, it's forbidden." Then, in a quieter voice, "what if -"

"What if nothing, calm down in Elar'Saga's name."

"Shh!" Arn hissed again, "he's the one you're disobeying."

"No, he isn't, Arn. Now quiet down, and let me give you some stew."

Before Arn could protest, his father brought a large ladle of hot stew towards him, and he had to hold up the plate.

"Now eat and listen. I said eat." Arn frowned but obeyed his father.

"Elar'Sagaa never said anything about singing. The Inspectorate did, though. But, it isn't one of their big rules, shall we say. Outside of Osha'aland, no one in Nedreal really adheres to it. On second thought, perhaps some of Heartland are keen enough to obey it too. But that's it. Vule Sunal? They sing in every tavern."

Arn couldn't believe his ears. His father was the last person he expected to flaunt the Inspectorate's rules this way. He looked around them again - the other camps really were quite far, and he couldn't hear anything, never mind make out actual words.

"They're out of earshot," his father exclaimed.

"If I'd known your reaction, I'd have thought twice," he said, and the mirth drained from his face.

Arn felt a pang of guilt. But it wasn't his fault. He grew up with these rules all his life - no one disobeyed the Inspectorate, for they enforced Elar'Saga's will. Perhaps singing was an exception, he thought. Rana's words flashed in his mind, and he pushed them away.

"It was a good - what do you call it, a song?" Arn said. "I'm sorry, I was caught off guard. If you say it's not a big deal..." he trailed off.

"It's from an old friend of mine," his father said and poked the coals with a stick - a regular one at that. "I should have guessed you'd react like this. We should have brought you out years ago."

Arn watched the fire as they ate. The stew was delicious, and eating it in the forest at night, by the bonfire, had only enhanced the flavour.

"So about that tale of the Black Warden."

"Oh yes, it is time," his father said. "Only we should activate the charms first."

"Really?"

"Oh yes, it's quite serious business," his father replied and took out the cloth-wrapped bundle. He unbuckled the thin leather strap, opened the fabric, and took out the two leather charms.

"You can't use your Tjoreal for that - the Esarel must come directly from you," he said and handed Arn one of them.

That wouldn't be a problem, Arn thought and took the charm. It was an angular piece of leather about the size of his entire hand with a hexagon at the center. The head of a leopard was carved inside of the hexagon. Above it were imprints of leaves and flowers, while at the bottom were mountains and water. The work was quite intricate. A metal ring attached the charm to a belt and a clasp at the top.

"Put it between your hands and think about our destination," his father said, "Naradael," he added.

Arn had never been to Naradael, so he decided to focus on its location on the map. He could picture it quite clearly after he and his sister spent hours watching his father plan out the route.

"Now, this is the hard part. I know that you're used to the Tjoreal, but you must direct your Esarel into the charm without it," his father said.

Arn recalled his actions with the fire starter from a few moments earlier and repeated the process. He felt the barest amount of resistance as the energy flowed from him and into the leather charm. Arn concentrated, and unlike before, his Esarel responded quickly - eagerly even. It poured into the charm. Much more of it came through than he used for the coals.

Soon the charm felt full - he wasn't sure how he knew, the thought just appeared in his mind, and he stopped. The leather was a little warm to the touch. He was surprised to discover a handful of letters etched into a small section below the leopard carving. I am almost sure that I did this, but I can't read it; how does that make any sense? He wondered.

A few moments later, his father was done with his own charm.

"Don't be too hard on yourself. It may take a few...," Arn's father began, but his words trailed off when he saw Arn's charm. "You're done?"

"Am I?" Arn asked and showed the charm to his father.

"You, yes you are," he frowned, "you're really quick with this."

"I am?" Arn looked at the piece of leather, "that's good, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, it's wonderful! Perhaps you are destined to work with charms after all," his father said, still looking at Arn's charm.

"So, what did we do?" Arn asked.

"What - oh yes, the charm." Atrel finally tore his eyes away from Arn's newly activated charm and held up his own. He frowned and twisted it in his hands.

"I think you did a better job than I did," he said.

"You're kidding with me, right?" Arn said suspiciously.

Atrel chuckled and shook his head. "Never mind. What you did with the charm is bind it to yourself and to this journey. It is now attuned and will aide us in small things along the way."

"Small things? Such as what?"

"That's hard to explain. You'll just have to trust me on this," Arn's father replied.