The dim, amber glow of the winch house lanterns flickered against the damp granite canyon walls as Kezra Venn unbuckled the wide brass clasp of her map case.
Down in the sunken arena of the lowest courtyard, forty feet below the level of the citadel castle walls, the cold was a physical weight that seemed to seep straight out of the cut hard speckled granite. Overhead, the square of sky visible between the towering curtain walls was a pale, icy blue. But down here on the flags, the gloom was total. It was broken only by the greasy flare of pitch torches and the dull red embers of Master Ulvan’s fire bowl. The rhythmic breathing of the four draft mules inside the rope winch shed sounded like a bellows. Every few seconds a heavy drop of black, stone-stained water struck the canvas awning above the table with a hollow, bone-shaking thwip.
Captain Orvath stood with his boots planted wide upon the wet flat stone slabs, his scarred fingers resting heavily on the lead-weighted baton hanging from his wrist. His two spear guards remained at his flanks. Their iron breastplates reflected the greasy yellow torchlight, their expressions hardened into the stubborn, unquestioning belligerence of frontline soldiers who believed that a royal uniform and a drawn weapon were the ultimate arbiters of truth.
