The Feast’s hour came with the lanterns. Idrin stood on the causeway at the inland end of the stone, where the scale stood balanced in the dusk, and watched the last of them go up along both banks, one by one, until the water of the Lantern Ford’s channel was lined with small gold flames from the toll-house to the reeds, and the sky above the marsh had gone the colour of a bruised plum. The air was cool. He could feel it on the back of his neck. He could feel the cold in his left arm, too, from the elbow to the fingertips, a stillness that had settled into the joints like silt in a slow river, and he did not glance down at it.
Tallow stood at his left shoulder with the minute-book open on his forearm and the pen behind his ear, and Lune stood at his right with the rod grounded on the stone like a staff. Ysra was at the scale. Korrin and Gaunt were at the causeway’s inland stake, where the rag hung dirty from the post, and Gaunt was objecting to the rag. Pell had come out of the toll-house yard with a tray of honey-bread and stood behind them, saying nothing for once. Harrow sat on the toll-house step with the count-cord across his knees and did not count the lanterns, which Idrin noticed, and was grateful for.
