The ring was an iron ring the size of a man’s fist, and Calen had bound it to the post himself.
He had used three turns of cord, then a knot he had tied so many times that his fingers did it without him. The post was an old pine beam in the lodging stable, scarred at the height of a horse’s neck.
The cord ran from the ring to the beam, and the beam was the only thing holding the ring up. At three paces from the post, the cord stood tight in the dusk.
Nell had first unpicked a cord at the Keep, on Day 20, on a post much like this one. She stood at the three-pace line now with her back straight and her wrapped hand held loosely at her side.
She had watched him tie the knot. She had not asked him to slow down, and she had not asked him to show her again.
The lamps were lit along the stable wall. Somebody had hung a wet sack over the trough to keep the smoke off the water.
“Three runs,” said Calen. “The ring must fall. The post must stay whole.”
“The cord must not fray. Each run is alone unless I say otherwise.”
