Inside the pump house, the corporal’s voice continued to batter Tesk against the rusted ironwork, demanding an account of every mile from Splitflint to the quarry bench.
Outside, crouched in the dry shadow beneath the stonework doorstep, Kezra leaned her right ear toward Yseld.
“Who’s he?” Kezra whispered, keeping her voice lower than the rustle of the dry salt-bush.
Yseld didn’t look at her. Her eyes remained locked on the younger scout through the four-inch gap in the crooked shutter.
“Dalen Aras,” Yseld said, her voice dry as old parchment. “Second son of a tenant farmer from the Eastern Marches. Joined the Cairn Host three winters ago. Just then, the frost killed his father’s barley and the landlord seized the threshing floor. He took a kick from a pack mule on his right ankle during the crossing of the Red Sike depot—two cracked bones that the field surgeons set crooked with pine splints because they were in a hurry to reach the timber camp.”
Kezra watched the young soldier through the chink.
The scout stood in the open doorway, his recurve bow unstrung in its leather boot. His fingers idly tapped against the steel handle of his saber. Exactly twelve minutes had passed since the two riders had entered the building.
