The southern edge of the capital valley smelled of rotten sedge grass, peat smoke, and the stale, iron-heavy mud of the Great Marsh. A narrow, corduroy road made of unpeeled alder logs laid across the swamp gave a greasy, sucking sound beneath the wheels of the two-wheeled hand-cart that Tomas and Sile hauled through the darkness. The sleet had slackened into a fine, freezing drizzle that coated their wool caps in gray rime. Then they turned their breath into steady plumes of steam.
Fifty paces ahead. There, the willow trees grew thick and twisted along the edge of the abandoned drainage ditch, a single yellow lantern swung from the tailboard of a high, canvas-topped freight wagon.
Beside the wagon stood a tall, severe figure in a heavy black wool travel gown, its hem stiffened with two inches of waxed cowhide to resist the marsh damp. Her dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, braided tight against her skull beneath a black linen mourning hood. Her hands, resting calmly upon the iron handle of an ash-wood spade, smelled faintly of powdered lime, dried rosemary, and elderberry vinegar.
Mirelle Voss didn’t raise her lantern as they approached. She waited until Tomas’s cart bumped over the last alder log, her dark, unblinking eyes assessing the weight of their pack-frames before shifting to Tomas’s face.
