By the flickering light of three beeswax tapers, Tomas Reed read the final dispatch of Captain Brand aloud to the silent chapel.
Hester Quill sat upon the altar step, her split steel pen flying across her transcript ledger, her face rigid with skilled fury.
“‘To the Magistrates of the Realm,’” Tomas read, his voice echoing off the stone groin arches. “‘This is the sworn statement of Captain Eric Brand, commanding the Fourth Fenland Levy. On the fourteenth day of the harvest moon, the lower castle walls of Fortress Val-Mora began to slide into the mire following the collapse of the northern drainage water gates. At the hour of midnight, Sir Justinian of the Grand Adventurers’ Guild entered the central armory with his four companions.’”
Tomas turned the page, the dry thick parchment crackling like dry grass in the quiet.
“‘Sir Justinian presented an emergency clearance order from the High Board, demanding the immediate surrender of the guard post payroll—three thousand royal gold crowns—under the pretext of securing the treasury for the Crown. I surrendered the strongbox upon his sworn oath that his party was deploying the heavy siege fire-glass to blow the breach and cover our pullback.’”
Tomas paused, swallowing the dryness in his throat.
