Back inside the western tool house, everyone could feel the bitter smell of crushed dried willow bark that Paxa Sel had boiled into a dark tea for Davren’s chest. Outside the high, slit-like windows, the morning sun climbed above the eastern limestone teeth, throwing bright, cold bars of light across the scarred oak bench.
Davren stood leaning against the doorframe. His ash walked stick gripped so tightly in his right hand that the knuckles were bloodless. His hinged iron knee brace gleamed in the sunlight, the leather cuffs pulled taut against his wool trousers. The argument had been brewing since the moment Kezra and Adra returned from the toll circle.
“I’m going with you tomorrow morning, Kez,” Davren insisted. His voice rough and was tight with frustration. “I walked the outer ditch with Voss. I know every embrasure on that southern wall. I know how Krail’s corporals question people at the gate. If Hest tries to separate you from Fellis, I can speak for the basin miners.”
Paxa Sel set down her horn spoon with a sharp clack against the clay mug. She didn’t raise her voice, but the sudden stillness in the room drew every eye to where she stood beside the hearth.
