At dusk on Day One Hundred and Thirty-Eight, the cold alpine wind sweeping down from the jagged limestone crags of the northern pass began to bite with the sharp edge of early winter. In the narrow, timber-heavy mouth of the Alderfast southern gallery watchpost, two hooded lanterns threw a warm, amber circle of light across the scarred oak planking of the guard bench. Outside, the high mountain shoulders were already turning to deep indigo and violet under an overcast sky that smelled of coming soon snow.
Kezra Venn stood by the outer stone embrasure. Her breath condensing into was pale, steady plumes against the dark rock face. Beside her sat Davren, his right leg stretched out stiffly in its heavy boiled-leather knee brace and his split-triangle walking stick propped against the timber doorframe. For nearly an hour, neither of them had spoken. They sat listening to the faint, distant rhythm of the valley settling into night. The hollow clack of a picket gate in the lower orchard, the muffled rush of the river around the terrace piers, and the periodic calling of the watchmen atop the defensive berm.
Davren reached down with a piece of dry rag and absently rubbed the iron hinge of his knee brace, working a drop of neat’s-foot oil into the joint to keep the metal from groaning against his shins. His mind, like Kezra’s, was miles away to the southwest. He traveled down the rocky gorges and through the limestone gaps to the quiet pottery…
