Brin’s departure notice had reached the Gate while Iven was on the eastern approach.
The receipt named the thousand and forty-eighth day. The notice inside had left its first relay on the fifth, one day after the caravan actually departed Stonewake. Forty-three days of road lay between the two marks.
Now Iven could replace a hope with a fact.
Brin and Jora had left.
Their expected Gate arrival remained the thousand and sixty-third day. The proposed Harp stage had already passed, but no confirmation of that stage had reached him. He did not turn a printed estimate into a person standing at the receiving fence.
He read the notice after returning from East Spindle, then again on the morning of the public hearing.
It was the thousand and fifty-fourth day.
He had slept, eaten and let the ordinary aches of the counterattack settle. The graft’s reserve had recovered through rest while modest support work spent its part. His shoulder still showed the fight’s color. Its movement remained free. Twenty-five patterns and five channels waited without requiring him to prove his usefulness every time a door opened.
