Davren had been gone from the garden terrace for ten minutes. Just then, the quiet scrape of an iron metal ring against limestone announced Yseld Arken’s approach. The twenty-eight-year-old scout stepped up to the low roof wall. Her hooked ash climbed staff resting lightly in the crook of her left elbow and a small roll of greased harness leather held in her right hand.
She didn’t speak at first. She simply leaned her hip against the stone coping. She looked out across the moonlit expanse of the basin toward the dark mass of Stonewake Citadel. The wind off the crags had shifted slightly. That brought with it the faint, stone scent of woodsmoke from the castle chimneys, mixed with the sharp, cold bite of high snow.
Her five-foot ash climbing staff was an extension of her body. Cut from seasoned mountain ash that had grown on wind-scoured limestone ledges, the wood was dense, springy. Then he rubbed with linseed oil until it shone like dark amber. Its head was capped with a forged steel mountain hook that could bite into narrow rock fissures or arrest a sliding body on a steep snow slope. Meanwhile, the butt was shod with a three-sided hardened iron metal ring. Along the upper third of the shaft, Yseld had carved twelve neat notches. One for each major mountain pass she had crossed since fleeing the royal army three years ago.
