Page 10 of Zenith Court

I went over the plan again. The decree kept us off the roads, the basins would catch us at the gates, and the rolls would keep our names out. The Ashford seat bypassed all three for five people.

The flaw was not there.

“It’s good,” I said.

It was his word, the one he had given me at nine. He heard the return and didn’t flinch. For a moment neither of us had anywhere to look except the cuffs.

“If I wear them,” I said, “it doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

“I know that.” He closed the lid; the latch sounded too loud in the kitchen. “One thing at a time, then.”

He would not stay the night. A lord absent from his own house became noticeable quickly, and he meant to be home before anyone could turn the absence into a useful fact.

At the head of the track he stopped. His hand came halfway to my shoulder, where it had never in my life landed, then changed course and straightened my collar. Neither of us spoke.

“Eat before you decide,” he said. “You were never fit to judge anything hungry.” He did not wait for an answer.

Then he went down the mill road in his forgettable wool, a man who had changed horses twice to arrive alone. I watched until the dark took him. The road stayed quiet. I did not mistake that for safety.

One by one, the others left me alone at the table. Kieran paused in the doorway. “For what it’s worth, your father walked here. Uphill, alone, and in terrible wool.” He glanced at the box. “I think he meant you to notice that.”

Then he was gone. Hale banked the fire, set the lamp within my reach, looked once at the box and once at me, and asked nothing.

Astra pressed her hand between my shoulders on her way to the stairs, then went up.

The box sat where my father had left it, latch toward me and hinges toward the empty chair.

I didn’t open it.

I turned the lamp low and stayed at the table. The plan would work. I still didn’t know whether I could wear the cuffs.

6

Jonah

Frost still covered the drill yard behind the barn when Aldric called the third count from the paddock rail. He never raised his voice. Nine days after arriving, he already had the waystation strangers moving to his cadence, boots grinding frost into ground that smelled like dung and straw.

He had hired me at nineteen and spent the next six years correcting my guard one word at a time. Now he watched me as he had at the salle, though a dozen others watched with him, waiting for me to find the error myself.

“Marsh. Hale. Staves.”

Kieran came off the rail grinning and rolled his right shoulder. It moved properly now, and he never missed a chance to test it.

We took two passes at half tempo. Kieran improvised; I watched his hips and caught the feints before they reached his hands. On a drill yard, noticing everything was useful.

On the third pass, he sold me a high feint and dropped low. I threw the counter move I had used ten thousand times: stave aside, shoulder to the chest. This time the force came through before I could check it.

He went down hard and skidded across the frost. His right palm struck the frozen ground, the impact running up his wrist.

The yard went still. A dozen people watched while my breath sounded too loud in my ears.

“Well,” Kieran said to the sky. “Somebody’s been eating.”

He sat up and flexed the wrist. The wince came fast, but I saw it. “Jarred, not broken. I know the difference; I’ve collected both.” He rolled the shoulder wide. “Shoulder’s perfect. Best thing I own. Came with a promise from a very good healer.”

He laughed for the people watching. No one joined him. His eyes moved from me to Aldric, then down to his wrist. He said nothing else. That frightened me more than the fall.

Aldric crossed the yard and crouched beside him. Kieran held out the injured wrist. Aldric worked the joint through its range. “Cold water. No staves for two days.”