Timeline: Roughly eighteen years before the Epic. Aderthor is 21, and other ages are mentioned.
The foothills rising just behind Calembel were steep in several places, loose scree fumbling treacherously underfoot. Most days Aderthor tripped often on his way up, but today most of all in his haste, and his shirtfront was no doubt filled with dirt. Not for the first time, he cursed his siblings’ nimbleness of foot, and their daring.
He chased now after little Amathan, only eleven years old, and was glad for it. Had fifteen-year-old Areher fled, Aderthor wouldn’t have a hope of catching him in this darkness. Amathan did not lack for many qualities, but length of leg was certainly not among them.
Small, heaving breaths were audible through the trees as the ground leveled at last, and he slowed to a trot.
“Amathan?”
“Go away.”
Hardly an unexpected response, albeit a disheartening one. At least he’d found the right child.
Aderthor came to halt beside a tall craggy boulder upon which a dark shadow was perched, and tried to come up with an opener. Any mention of Areher or Adar would probably send him off the rails, and bringing up the not-insignificant danger of a preteen careening about Lamedon alone at dusk would like as not be taken as a dare.
“Uncle Calden’s saved your pie,” he said instead. Amathan was silent.
With a sigh Aderthor slumped against the boulder, turning back to face the lights of Calembel. He had no fear of wild beasts save the birds, this close to the city, and Adar wouldn’t raise the alarm for an hour at least. He had time, and though Amathan’s tempers did not abate with time they might cool.
Darting shadows in the tree-tops chittered gaily at the departing sun, bidding each other their last farewells for the night and settling down in nests and hollows.
“Lieutenant Laindir has given us permission to use the grounds next week,” he said at length, brightening in remembrance. Perhaps that was what they all really needed, to finally move a bit after a week of summer storms crowding them together.
To his surprise, Amathan groaned long and tortured atop his boulder.
“What? You don’t like practicing?”
“No, I don’t! Areher’s right, I can’t fight at all, and— and I’m failing maths too, even Hirthes says so—”
“That’s not right at all, you’ve been getting better all summer. Nobody picks it up on the first try, not even Adar.”
“But now Areher’s mad about the festival—”
“Areher doesn’t have the least idea what he’s talking about. He’s been sulking about Adar not letting him run off to Linhir with his friends all summer, it’s certainly not your fault he’s blown up tonight. He shouldn't have yelled at you, and I’ll bet you anything Adar’s giving him a stern talking-to right now.”
In fact, Aderthor really should have guessed things would come to head like this, even if Amathan being the target had been a complete shock.
“But he was so excited about going and now he can’t because of me!”
“Areher didn’t really mean what he said.” Aderthor tried, “We’re all having a hard time right now because of the winter, and Adar’s shift change,” And the closed passes and Galengam’s prices, and the illness last spring…
Their family had never precisely been the most financially stable, not since Emel died eleven years ago and Adar had had to work less to care for three small sons. Uncle Calden had helped, but he hadn’t really started being successful as a trader until only a year ago, and their situation could still be severely rocked by just a few bad strokes of luck in a row.
Areher wouldn’t be going to the festival in Pelargir this year like Adar had promised him, for the funds for Amathan’s schooling had to come now from those savings. A hard winter lay ahead, and another if they couldn’t get back on their feet easily in the spring. They had suffered worse, but now that Amathan was growing older, he could see more of the trouble they often tried to hide from him.
“He’s angry, but not at you.” Aderthor finished at last, not turning to look at the huddled figure on the boulder, “I know it seems like everything is getting worse, and everything’s changing with both of you growing up. But Amathan, we will get through it together as a family. It’ll take more than a few bad winters to tear us apart, and more than any amount of math problems or sword lessons you could be unhappy with.”
“Promise?” His little brother’s voice was dreadfully small, filled with more worries than any eleven-year-old should ever have to hold. Aderthor’s heart panged hard suddenly, with all the grief they had struggled through and still looked upon, but he shoved it back as best he could. There were many families worse off than they, many families who had lost more than just one parent.
“Promise. I know everything, remember? Comes with being the best big brother.”
A wet snigger escaped from the shadow above, and Aderthor’s face split in a grin. Amathan might be growing up, but he was still easy to tease.
“Absolutely everything. Such as… Uncle Calden’s world-famous pear pie getting colder by the minute down there. Best hurry back before it’s frozen, huh?”
With a rustle and a thump Amathan landed on nimble feet beside him, swathed in a patched coat at least two sizes too large. From there it was easy to bundle him back down the slope to the hearth-fires of Calembel, now gleaming brightly in the darkness.
