At first light on the second morning of the countdown, the rhythmic iron-on-stone ring from the southern switchbacks drew Seyun, Ilyra, and Daro Kesh to the low dry-stone wall outside the shepherd hospice. Frost lay thick across the mountain scrub, turning the wheel ruts of the old burial road into white troughs. Up through the grey valley mist climbed a single broad-shouldered figure, planting a heavy six-foot staff with an iron shoe at every second stride to haul a loaded wooden pack frame up the grade.
Seyun recognized the rhythm of that staff before the climber’s face cleared the mist. For eleven winters at the Ash Reed Sect, he had heard that exact measured strike patrolling the outer flagging. Just then, the new students lined up for morning breath check.
It was Bel Sar, senior keeper of Ash Reed’s staff hall. The seasoned Bronze fighter whom Senior Elder Tor Ves had appointed in the winter auction courtyard to drive Seyun away from a bowl of healing ash for thirty breaths, and whose downward sweep had broken the fourth toe of Seyun’s left foot.
Beside Seyun, Daro rested his left thumb lightly on the handle knob of his short fire-rib sword, though he didn’t draw it. Ilyra held her rawhide-bound spear upright at her side. She watched the road behind Bel to see whether a retinue of sect guards or Aperture Court witnesses followed in the mist. The road below was empty.
