The iron-rimmed wheels of Deacon Vane’s carriage rattled across the timber threshold of the compound gate.
The two carriage horses snorted in the evening chill, their coats lathered with white sweat after the ten-mile haul through the sandstone canyon. Barnaby Holt hopped down from the driver’s bench with surprising agility, clutching three heavy stoneware jugs of cinnabar array ink and a bundle of blank array talismans against his ribs.
On the veranda, Kaelen swung his legs out of his canvas hammock.
He had spent the entire day in unbroken tranquility. Beside his hammock, Book 4 of The Bandit King’s Secret Bride lay face down on the bench, bookmarked at the passage where the royal caravan bribed border guards with dried persimmons.
Mina had spent the afternoon sitting on the porch steps, practicing her cold-marrow control by condensing tiny frost flowers on the wooden railing. Now, she was setting out a plate of roasted sweet potatoes and a steaming pot of mint tea.
“You took your time, Old Barnaby,” Kaelen said, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “I almost had to get up and brew my own tea.”
“Be glad we returned in one piece, boy,” Barnaby puffed, thumping the heavy jugs onto the veranda table. “Orson had a dozen garrison spearmen blocking the northern narrows with timber spikes. If not for the weasel here, we would have been peeling iron bolts out of our ribs.”
