Yseld Arken looked up at Kezra Venn. Her weathered grey eyes held a depth of cold, exhausted sorrow that seemed older than the mountains around them. She didn’t look away from Kezra’s anger, nor did she raise her hands to defend herself.
“Because I was a soldier, Kezra,” Yseld said, her voice cutting through the ridge wind like a dull iron blade. “Seven years in the Cairn Host trail corps. Do you know what they teach an apprentice guide in the backup barracks at Stonewake?”
Kezra didn’t answer. She stood with her feet planted wide on the limestone flags, her right ear strained toward the guide’s words. Meanwhile, her left ear held only its dull, unchanging bass roar.
“They teach you that an army is an engine,” Yseld continued, her voice level and unrushed. “They teach you that a company commander sees the whole board—the supplies, the enemy movements, the seasonal snows, the political treaties—while a single scout sees only the twenty paces of trail in front of her boots. They teach you that when an officer gives an order, your job isn’t to debate whether the order is fair. Your job is to keep the line moving, maintain discipline, and prevent panic among the ranks.”
