The midday bell tolled forty feet above them in the upper citadel, its deep iron reverberations muffled and deadened by the sheer granite walls of the sunken courtyard. Down here on the flags beside the timber headframe, the air was cold enough to turn every breath into a dense plume of white vapor.
Kezra Venn didn’t move.
She stood three paces west of the main shaft collar, her boots planted firmly on the wet stones, her head tilted slightly to the right. Her gloved fingers remained resting upon the brass handle knob of her sounding rod. But her attention was focused entirely on the skin of her right cheek.
The air of the lowest courtyard was stale, chilled, and heavy with the damp stench of stone slow leak and coal-tar.
Yet against her skin, moving with a faint, persistent pulse, was a distinct current of cold air.
It wasn’t a random gust blowing down from the upper castle walls. The curtain walls of the keep were forty feet high and fully sheltered the sunken arena from surface wind. This draft was level, moving from west to east, cutting across the flags like a cold wire drawn through the gloom.
“Fellis,” Kezra whispered softly, without turning her head.
