As the eighth-day sun dropped toward the western ridge. That turned the limestone walls of the hospice garden a warm ochre-red, Seyun and Ilyra began a single slow circuit along the outer edge path between the rows of late autumn cabbage and dried sage.
Neither of them walked with the rapid, ground-covering stride of a Jade fighter on campaign. Seyun shortened his step deliberately so the heel-strike on the gravel wouldn’t jar his slung left upper arm bone in its healing socket, and because the fresh closure scar beneath his left collarbone still pulled taut whenever he drew a deep breath too quickly. Beside him, Ilyra matched his unrushed pace without having to pretend she was slowing down for charity. Her own channels were still deep in the flat tiredness that followed shielding Mer’s family on the hillside, pinning the lower hub blade at close range, and climbing to the northern chamber yesterday morning.
They reached the stone well at the far corner of the garden wall. Then, Seyun paused to let his breathing settle and looked across the well-curb at her.
He remembered their earliest contest with sudden, tactile clarity. The cold, wet dawn in the ruined outer gallery of the Monastery of the Last Question nineteen months ago. Back then, he had been a desperate Coal exile hiding a stone tablet beneath his coat. She had been an unbending Late Flame prodigy determined to haul a suspected saboteur before her hall’s trial. They had fought three fierce exchanges…
