The boy’s footsteps were light on the frozen gravel, the irregular scrape of a soldier trying very hard not to slip on the black ice.
Through the gatepost mortar, Noll felt the vibration of every pace long before Soldier Joss reached the outer threshold. The stone of the gate jamb was cool and damp from the sleet, but inside its lime pores, Noll held his presence tightly coiled. He did not hum. He did not emit a trace of blue luminescence or let his voice leak into the frosty air. He remained a silent witness inside his own wall.
Sella Rusk stood three paces back from the open archway, leaning against the mended granite casing with her arms folded across her chest. Her Survey dagger remained firmly in its leather sheath at her hip, but her eyes never left the soldier’s bare hands.
Fen walked out from the kitchen corridor, wiping his fingers on a dry cotton rag. He stopped just inside the entrance, the cold wind fluttering the grey wool of his healer’s coat.
Young Joss halted two feet outside the line where the threshold flagstone met the road dirt. He stood straight, his heels together, holding the roll of boiled linen out with both hands.
