The courier’s footsteps had fully faded down the Hushwood switchbacks. Then, the four of them sat around the banked hearthstone in the outer shelter. The subalpine afternoon had turned cold and sharp, the sky overhead a deep, hard cobalt that signaled an approaching frost.
Paxa had taken the fourteen silver marks. Then she locked them in the iron-banded cash box inside her medical satchel. Meanwhile, Fellis sat quietly on his cedar crate, oiling the brass buckles of his note-bag with a greasy rag.
Kezra Venn sat across the flat hearthstone from Yseld Arken. The disarmed short spear and hooked climbing staff still leaned against the doorframe, untouched.
“Pick up your weapons, Yseld,” Kezra said quietly.
Yseld looked at the weapons, then back at Kezra. She didn’t reach for them right away. “The courier is gone, Kezra. But the paper he carried was true. You don’t have to pretend that signing a bond makes us friends again.”
“I’m not pretending anything,” Kezra replied, her voice firm, level, and unrushed. Her right ear was turned toward the guide, catching every inflection of her voice. Meanwhile, her left ear held its constant, low-hum. “And I’m not giving you your spear back because I feel sentimental. I’m giving it back because if a snow leopard or a Host scout comes over that low roof wall, we need four people who can defend the camp.”
