At first light, a pale, frost-bitten mist hung inside the sunken inner courtyard of the ruined pilgrim shelter. High granite walls surrounded the twenty-foot square of cracked flat stone slabs on all four sides, hiding the enclosure fully from the upper ridge lookouts while trapping a two-inch carpet of powdery rime over the stones. Mina sat on the dry threshold block inside the archway with her medicine satchel across her knees. Meanwhile, Ilyra and Daro Kesh stood side by side against the southern wall, their breaths smoking in the grey air.
Seyun stepped into the center of the courtyard carrying his iron-shod ash staff. Overnight, Mina’s winter-bark healing wrap and the cedar splint had taken the worst of the hot throbbing out of his left outer foot. That left a dull, manageable ache whenever he shifted weight onto the ball of his big toe. He rolled his shoulders twice against the morning chill, settled his heels into the frost at the balanced width of the Returning Step. Then he raised the ash staff to guard height.
Across the flat stone slabs, Hall Mistress Soran stood without a cloak, her grey wool tunic belted tight at the waist and her grey hair braided back from her scarred temples so not a single loose strand could hidden her outer vision. In her hands she held the plain, forged-iron spear she had bought at the Red Ford forge shop. Its rough hemp cord wrapped dark with frost moisture.
