The heavy bronze door of the inner vault swung inward without a creak, its hinges freshly greased with animal fat for the monthly upkeep night. The smell that met Seyun across the stone threshold was not the dank rot of a prison cell. It was the clean, boiled-linen scent of a well-funded sick room. Bitter reed ash steeped in clay pot crocks, pine-resin floor wash, and warm oil lamps turned down to smoking wicks. Yet before his boot touched the first flat stone slab inside the room, a low, unvarying metal hum came through the soles of his shoes and set both of the silver curves beneath his collarbones aching at once.
Seyun halted half a pace inside the chamber. His bandaged hands rose instinctively to the strap of his satchel. Behind him in the dark service hall. There, the monthly registration lamps hung dark and unlit in their iron brackets, Ilyra shifted her marsh-iron spear into a low guard. Meanwhile, Daro Kesh guided bound Osen Tal across the doorstep by the elbow. Mother Renn followed with the medicine pannier braced against her hip. Mina stepped right away to Seyun’s left shoulder, her eyes adjusting to the dim amber glow reflected off the center of the vault.
