Sunrise broke over Fen Hollow with a clarity that seemed to wash the world clean of all shadows. The frost of dawn was melting on the cedar shingles of the archive, dripping in sparkling drops into the carp ponds. Meanwhile, a light, warm breeze from the south carried the smell of peat smoke and clean river water across the stilt village.
Tomas Reed stood on the southern landing stage of the boardwalk, his ash pack-frame securely buckled across his shoulders.
The load felt different this morning. The seventy pounds of audit folios, tools, and traveling provisions were still there, resting firmly against his back. But the dead weight—the invisible, crushing burden of forty years of unfulfilled duty—was gone. His boots felt light on the oak planks, his knees bent with easy, springy power. His scarred left forearm hung naturally at his side, the tendons warm and supple under the morning sun.
Beside him, Nessa Vale was adjusting her traveling gear. Her dual-chamber sound horn was slung over her shoulder. Its polished brass shone in the dawn light. Meanwhile, her six-foot folding staff was tucked under her arm, ready for the fifteen miles of river dyke that lay between Fen Hollow and the gates of Bellwether.
