Red clay roof tiles glowed with warm amber light as the travel wagon pulled through the gates of Stone-Willow Lane.
The courtyard was exactly as Kaelen had left it. Tall weeping willows draped their pale green branches over the mossy stone walls, and the small turnip patch in the eastern corner was thriving in the damp autumn soil.
Kaelen hopped down from the wagon bed, kicking off his travel sandals and slipping his feet into his favorite sheepskin clogs. He let out a long, luxurious sigh as the familiar scent of river mist and drying tea leaves filled his lungs.
“Barnaby,” Kaelen called out, nodding toward the storehouse keys dangling from the main post. “You’re the courtyard steward now. Keep the tea jars full and make sure the guards unload the trunks without scratching the cedar threshold.”
Barnaby caught the heavy brass keyring in his single hand. A broad grin split his weathered face.
“Aye, Master Ash,” Barnaby grunted, resting his hickory ladle against his shoulder. “If any of these canyon boys so much as scuffs the paint, I’ll dose their cabbage with dried bitter-root.”
The old man turned and began barking orders at the fifty escort guards, his voice ringing with healthy vigor. Without fifteen years of internal fire scorching his chest, his lungs were clear as mountain air.
