The hearth hall was as cold as a stone quarry in December.
Eighty-two people sat along the benches, huddled on bundles of dry heather, wrapped in every spare coat and blanket the fort possessed. The central hearth held only a shallow bowl of crimson embers, banked with gray ash to keep the chimney flues from freezing into ice-choked throats. The only light came from three tallow dips set in iron saucers on the trestle table, their greasy flames fluttering in the drafts.
Near the bread bins, Luma sat with her eight children packed closely around her knees. Edren Dene sat on a rough bench beside the pantry arch, his scarred chest wrapped in double layers of flannel, his breath rattling with a dry rasp. Behind him stood Sergeant Berr, silent in his rusted Third Border mail, his hollow eye sockets staring into the dim rafters.
Noll Vey drew his awareness into the speaking-horn above the stone mantel.
“I called you here to tell you the truth,” Noll said, his voice stripped of fairground ornamentation. “This morning, we audited the white ledger in the deep cellar. We examined the exact text that vested when the army grounded their pikes.”
A low murmur rippled along the benches. Jori the woodcutter leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his cap clutched in his hands. Beside him, Mira and two weavers pulled their shawls tighter around their chins.
