The council hall emptied slowly into the cold night. That left only the dying embers of the fire bowl to paint the timber rafters with faint, pulsing amber light. Kezra stepped through the low side portal onto the stone terrace that overlooked the upper terraced gardens of Alderfast Basin.
The frost had settled thick upon the limestone low roof wall, transforming the rough-dressed coping stones into long ribbons of pale silver. Below her, the basin curved away into the starlit gloom, a vast natural cradle of gray rock cradling eighty-five souls who slept beneath slate roofs, trusting their lives to the accuracy of her compass and the honesty of her notes. Along the terraced garden walls, the dormant apple trees and bare hazel hedges stood rigid in the frost. Meanwhile, the wooden water gate gates of the irrigation water chutes gleamed with icicles. Far across the valley, perched high upon its limestone shelf like an eagle carved from granite, the dark, menacing dark shape of Stonewake Citadel broke the jagged line of the western peaks.
A familiar, rhythmic sound approached along the gravel path. The solid thud of an ash walking stick followed by the scrape and click of a hinged leather knee brace. Davren limped to the wall and stood beside his sister, leaning his forearms against the frost-coated low roof wall and pulling his heavy wool cloak tight against the biting mountain draft.
