The inside of the western tool house was cool, dim, and smelled of dried mountain herbs, cold stone dust, and old iron. Sunlight cut through the single narrow shutter in a bright, slanting shaft, lighting up the motes of dust dancing above the low wooden sleeping bench where Davren had spent eleven months of slow, painful recovery.
Paxa Sel didn’t right away reach for the buckles on Davren’s leg. She set her rolled leather medical kit on the rough pine worktable, unclasped the brass buckles with slow, deliberate movements. Then she turned to face him where he sat perched on the edge of the mattress pallet. Her stance was straight, her expression neutral and calm. He carried none of the emotional heat that still stayed in the yard.
“Davren,” Paxa said, her voice fully stripped of judgment, holding only the quiet, unbeatable power of an experienced razor-sharp rigger. “I’m going to unstrap this harness and examine the knee joint. I’ll need to touch the scar tissue, test the knee mobility, and check the lateral play of the bone. Do I have your permission to unbuckle the iron?”
Davren looked at her. His jaw still was tight from Kezra’s words in the yard. But the skilled formality of the request seemed to disarm his bristling defensiveness. He looked down at the battered iron ore-cart straps, let out a slow, ragged breath that rattled faintly in his chest, and nodded. “Take it off,” he said quietly. “It bites my shin every time…
