The back room was at the end of the east passage, past the drying racks and the cupboard where the Keep kept its spare candles. Dorran sat on the floor outside the door with a slate on his knees. He was copying a number from memory, one stroke at a time, and he was getting it wrong.
“Nineteen,” Calen said, passing him.
Dorran looked up. He got to his feet too quickly and said, “Sorry,” to the wall. Then he sat down again and began the stroke over.
Inside, Ysra was at the long table with the Trial papers. She had them sorted into piles, and a stone sat on the corner of each pile to keep it from sliding.
Each pile was a day of the trial. She did not look up when the door opened.
“You have the copy request,” she said. “I can see the fold from here. It is still sharp, so nobody has opened it twice.”
“Hoff lent it to me,” said Calen. “For one reading.”
“Then read it.” She still did not look up.
