The stone ramp dropping from Stonewake’s southern outer gatehouse was paved with broad, rough-hewn granite slabs, scored with deep slanted grooves to give pack mules and draft horses purchase against the winter ice. Pitch torches set in iron brackets along the low roof wall hissed and sputtered in the bitter mountain draft. It cast long ribbons of smoky orange light across the descent.
Kezra walked with a steady, unrushed tread, her heavy wool coat buttoned to the chin and her brass sounding rod resting in the leather crook of her elbow. Beside her, Fellis carried the wooden satchel containing the duplicate rubbings. His good hand kept a firm grip on the strap. Yseld flanked them on the downhill side. Her notched hickory staff tapped the flags with the rhythmic assurance of a mountain herdswoman who knew the slope like her own palm.
Five paces behind them, maintaining the precise distance stipulated in the terms of safe-conduct, walked Captain Hest Vale. The Host officer was with only two guards. An honor escort, Krail had called them. Even so, everyone understood they were there to witness every syllable spoken at the outer edge. Vale’s dark wool cloak was clasped with a silver buckle at her shoulder. Her expression was as guarded and observant as ever. Her grey eyes reflected the torchlight without warmth.
