Outside the spring shed, the late-afternoon shadows lengthened across the terraced herb beds as the first day of the winter auction drew to a close. Cart wheels rumbled down the stone ramp toward the outer gate. He carried away casks of ordinary willow-bark tea and dried marsh-root bought by valley merchants. Inside the shed, the lantern Mina had hung from the rafter beam cast a steady amber circle over the bench where Seyun sat with his braced foot propped on the cedar block, and over Elder Hesh on the upturned bucket across from him.
Hesh rubbed his palms slowly across his knees, wiping away damp stone water drops. “When you stood up during the winter check two months ago and refused to certify Joren’s Bronze breakthrough,” he said, his voice low and plain, “you believed Senior Elder Tor and I had planned a grand trick together from the beginning. I saw it in your eyes when I gave you back your needles at the gate.”
“Joren’s chest was streaming borrowed fire heat that hadn’t passed through his own liver or spleen channels,” Seyun said. “Any teacher who had stood within five paces of the platform could feel the back-and-forth swing. You sat at the judging table three paces from his boots and signed the sign-off scroll anyway.”
