The bunk nook at the rear of the Splitflint hostel was little more than a timber lean-to built against the living rock of the notch.
Through the gaps in the split pine ceiling, the smell of mountain peat smoke mingled with the biting chill of the fiery dark rock behind their pallets. A single animal fat candle, stuck in a hollowed turnip on the rough pine table, gave off a sputtering, reddish light that threw the shadows of the four travelers high onto the timber rafters.
Fellis was lying on his left side across a straw-filled tick, his right arm resting comfortably atop Yseld’s folded wool cloak. The thick, animal fat-treated wool cushioned his elbow and forearm, preventing his shoulder from rolling forward. Just then, he breathed. His face was still drawn and grey with the tiredness of two days of pain. But his breathing had steadied into a deep, steady beat.
“You’re quiet, rigger,” Paxa remarked. She sat on an overturned grain tub with her wooden pestle and mortar between her knees, grinding dried willow bark into a bitter grey powder. “Usually by this time of night you’ve found six things wrong with the timber floor beams and three reasons why the roof will cave in before dawn.”
