Seyun stepped onto the white chalk mark twelve paces before the limestone dais, planting his boots shoulder-width apart in the basic Ash Reed foundation listening stance. Twenty feet to his right, Ilyra stood with her back to the eastern stonework wall, her marsh-iron spear grounded vertically at her toe and her gaze fixed straight ahead toward the opposite pilaster in strict obedience to Soran’s order. To his left rear, Osen Tal stood half a step behind the chalk line, his eyes narrowed on Seyun’s linen-wrapped palms.
Hall Mistress Soran studied Seyun’s face under the converging animal fat lamps for three full breaths before speaking. “Keep your hands out of your cuffs so I can see your wrists, Ash Reed student, and speak at the pace of a walking horse. If you drop your chin toward your chest or slur your words together, I’ll have the guards put you back on the mountain road before the water-clock empties.”
“I understand, Hall Mistress,” Seyun said, bringing his bandaged hands clear of his wool sleeves and holding them open at waist height. Having grown up watching Mina treat deafened foundry workers in Oran’s lower wards, he didn’t shout or exaggerate his mouth into grimaces. He simply separated each consonant cleanly and kept his head steady in the light.
