The lone rider halted his lathered bay gelding forty paces outside the mouth of the dry wash. It held the horse’s head high with a gentle touch of the curb bit.
He was a young Cairn Host courier of nineteen or twenty, wearing a lightweight riding tunic of grey linen over buff leather breeches, devoid of iron shin guards or skull-cap. In his right hand, he held the peeled white willow wand planted firmly against his stirrup leather. The universal symbol of an unarmed parley herald recognized by every civilized guild and military company from the northern peaks to the southern sea.
Behind him, two miles up the valley road, the two light scouts who had shadowed the expedition all morning remained on their knoll, their horses picketed. They watched the meeting through their brass glasses.
Yseld Arken stepped out from the shadow of the wash alone. She carried her climbing staff in her right hand. But her staff was reversed, the iron metal ring pointed harmlessly at the sky.
“Stand where you’re, courier,” Yseld called out across the gravel. Her voice carried the dry, experienced power of an old company veteran. “Show your hands, drop your saddlebags to the ground, and state your dispatch.”
