The afternoon sun struck the western canvas of the command wagon with oppressive force. That turned the burlap filters into warm, steamy drapes that no longer chilled the air. Outside, the camp had fallen into the dead silence of the midday heat interval. The wagon drivers rested under the heavy cart beds, the mules stood with drooping heads in the cedar pens, and only the dry rattle of bitter salt dust against the spokes broke the quiet.
Inside the cab, Joric Thane didn’t look away from Kezra’s eyes. He took the packet of oiled paper, placed it deliberately on the corner of the map table. Then he folded his thick hands over his knees.
“He came back,” Joric said.
The three words hung in the dim wagon like three lead line-weight bobs dropped into deep water.
Kezra stared at him, her hands going fully motionless in her lap. “He... Came back? Here? To Saltglass?”
“Eleven months ago,” Joric said, his voice flat, neutral, and unsparing. “Three months after he left with Kaven, Brant, and Corin. It was late autumn, just before the first frost struck the lower bench. The southern road was still open. My return convoy was hitched and ready to roll south toward the kiln towns. He carried salt blocks, cured mutton, and copper ore. If a man wanted to reach Kilnstep in ten days, all he had to do was toss his bedroll onto the tailgate of wagon three and let four Missouri mules do the walking.”
