Icy wind, snow blowing white against a grey sky. A pass carved through the mountain's stone, straight and level. A mage clad in black, standing with a silent army behind him...

It's about time, Leareth is thinking. He hasn't spoken to Vanyel in over a year. Which isn't surprising, they had a formal agreement about that, but - he's still been worried, hearing spy-reports about Vanyel's long stay in the Dhorisha Plains. He can assume that something went unexpectedly wrong. 

“Herald Vanyel.” He doesn't allow his voice or his face to reveal anything, not surprise, or relief, or pleasure.