On the last day of the tribunal, Mara took the white rod from the inside pocket of her coat.
It had been in the felt case since Lorn. Since the day Lisan signed the custody sheet first and gave it to her and tied his tag to the strap in his own hand: outside every pool. It had traveled with her on the transport out of Lorn, and on the Tern, and down into the well, through the descent and the opening and the quench. It had lain on the stabilization room’s table beside his statement while neither of them picked it up. It had gone to the evidence room with Sera and been entered under his name, in its case, unopened; the clerk had handed it back into Mara’s custody that evening, to be produced in the hall on the last day.
Now the tribunal wanted it on the table.
She had not wanted to give it up. She noticed that, as she reached into her coat. It was the carrying of it she minded losing, more than the rod itself. For a long time the felt case had been a weight against her ribs, a reminder that somebody had trusted her with a thing he could not trust himself with.
