Dawn on Day 80 broke in long, jagged streaks of cold amber across the eastern crests of the Spine, lighting up the thin hoarfrost that coated the limestone flags of the outer shelter. Inside, beside the broad hearthstone where dry cedar kindling crackled beneath an iron kettle, Bran the courier sat with a steaming bowl of barley broth cradled between his blistered hands.
Paxa Sel had washed the salt-chafed skin of the runner’s feet with warm chamomile tea and bound his heels in animal fat-soaked linen before allowing anyone to speak of business. Fellis Dain sat opposite the courier on a low bench, his braced left forearm resting flat against his ribs, his right hand feeding dry pine cones into the embers one by one.
“Drink the broth to the bottom, Bran,” Paxa ordered, her tone brooking no argument. “The wind on the Hushwood switchbacks dries a man’s throat faster than summer heat. We’ll not open Master Joric’s packet until your pulse settles below eighty.”
The runner drank obediently, his dark eyes shifting toward the open shelter doorway.
Thirty paces away, sitting squarely on a flat limestone boulder that projected over the southern gorge, Yseld Arken sat in plain view of everyone in the camp. She wore only her wool shirt, leather breeches, and trail boots against the biting morning frost. Her hooked climbing staff and her short spear remained propped against the shelter top door beam, ten paces behind her back. Her oilskin service case lay unbuckled on the…
