Kezra Venn stood in the sun-drenched courtyard of the abandoned toll booth. She held the two physical relics of her brother’s journey side by side in the open palm of her left hand.
In her fingers rested the wax rubbing of the shortened triangle from the rear quoin. The mark Davren had cut with his own chisel thirteen months ago, recording five months of life that her mother had never known he possessed. Beside it lay the heavy brass octagon issued by Joric Thane. The complete, closed triangle stamped with a steel die, proving that his route work had been checked, approved, and traded upon by the toughest freight trade ring in the southern province.
Fellis Dain was tightening the final rawhide cargo lashings on the pack mule twenty paces away, working with his left hand and using his teeth to draw the half-hitches snug against the timber frame.
“Look at the difference between the two marks, Fellis,” Kezra called out. She held the brass token toward the morning light.
Fellis paused, wiping a strand of brown hair from his forehead with the back of his wrist. “One has a broken shoulder. The other is sealed shut at the peak.”
