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“What troubles you?” Rhysandir asks.
I look down and find my thumb resting on the jar’s sealed lid.
“Nessa behaved strangely yesterday.”
His expression changes by so little that another person might miss it. His attention sharpens.
“How?”
“She was frightened. She directed me to a vendor I did not know.”
“What did you buy?”
The question comes too quickly.
“Rirzed. Why?”
He considers his answer. That alone tells me he knows something he has not shared.
“A report reached me this morning.”
“About Nessa?”
“About a merchant connected to Varrus.”
Anger cuts through the unease I brought home from Lowtown. “You knew she was in danger.”
“I knew she had been threatened with ruin unless she performed a service. The service was not named.”
“And you let me walk into the market without warning.”
“I placed guards around you and watchers on the merchant.”
“Invisible protection is poor comfort when no one tells me what threatens my friends.”
“The surveillance was meant to expose Varrus’s purpose.”
“Did it?”
His silence answers.
I want to demand the entire report. I want to return to Lowtown and pull Nessa out of her stall until she speaks. The open wound beneath my hand permits neither quarrel nor journey.
“We will discuss this after I close your arm,” I say.
“Agreed.”
It is not surrender. With Rhysandir, agreement often means a postponed contest.
I break the wax around the fresh jar and lift the lid. The salve is pale green, thickened with rendered fat and beeswax. Rirzed gives it a cool, stony fragrance. Fylvek adds a sharper note, clean and pungent. Nothing in the scent warns me.
I stir it with a narrow wooden spoon. Its consistency is smooth. No grit clings to the grain. Under the window light, the surface looks as it did when I poured it into the jar.
“This will cool the bruising, keep the edges supple, and discourage corruption,” I say. The explanation is habit, offered to anxious children and stubborn woodcutters alike. “It may sting at first.”
“You have used it before.”
“The recipe, yes. This jar is fresh.”
