The crunch of frozen gravel in the narrow upkeep lane died away, replaced by the hollow whistle of the morning wind sucking through the gap between the service wall and the cliff.
Host Cartographer Ulvan Dret stopped two paces from Kezra Venn’s right shoulder. His right hand trembled as he leaned his full weight upon his ash cane. His left arm pressed the unrolled linen map of Empty Choir tightly against his chest, as though trying to smother the truth drawn upon its surface.
His breathing was harsh, rattling in his throat like dry peas in an iron pan. His bloodshot eyes were fixed upon the open rag page of Kezra’s bonded notebook. There, the green grid lines of Stonewake Citadel pulsed with the living mass of three hundred and eighteen men.
Four paces across the chiselled boundary groove, Guard Vane and Guard Kellen stood with their backs against the stonework. Their axe-spear shafts were held upright, their eyes fixed on the empty sky above the castle walls.
Ulvan lowered his chin, speaking in a hoarse, ragged whisper that carried no farther than the limestone stone base between them.
“There’s no road to the market,” Ulvan rasped. “The bench you labeled North Relay... It has no connection to the southern trade passes. The historical approach was cut eighty years ago when Correl moved the Needlehouse spurs. Krail’s supply boss map joined two dead names across an impassable top stone ledge.”
