Fen washed his hands a third time in the copper basin of hot willow-bark water, scrubbing under his short nails with a stiff bristle brush until the skin burned pink.
In the river hospital down in the southern valley, Master Harlan used to rap any apprentice across the knuckles who hurried the wash. The knife is only three inches of steel, boy, the old surgeon had told him on the winter night Fen’s brother Dael died in the Third Border Regiment’s camp before a healer could reach him. What kills a man after the blade comes out is the dirt the surgeon brought in on his thumbs, or the shake he hid in his wrist because he wanted to look brave.
Fen dried his palms on a linen towel baked over the hearth stones and stepped up to the side of the limestone slab.
Edren Dene lay flat on his back with the folded harness strap clenched between his molars. Sweat already beaded along the miner’s grey temples, though the stone beneath his shoulder blades radiated a steady, gentle warmth that kept his skin from goose-pimpling. At the head of the slab, Tessa knelt on the flags with her fingers locked around her father’s scarred fists. Across the room by the door, Prit stood on an oak stool with a tray of boiled linen sponges balanced on his bony forearms, his empty eye sockets fixed attentively on Fen’s elbow.
