Page 36
“It is.”
He asks nothing further until we reach the Morwen’thir residence in Orthani. Once inside my private study, I order the steward to bring every current report concerning Vesper’s Peak.
The documents arrive in three bound stacks.
Tax accounts. Labor assessments. Clinic records. Disciplinary reports. Requests for grain, fuel, and repairs.
I read until evening darkens the windows.
Most humans appear only as numbers. A miner injured. A laborer fined. A household delinquent in its tithe. A widow receiving reduced grain.
One name recurs.
Fiona Holt.
Human healer. Twenty-eight years old. Unmarried. No living parents or siblings recorded. Maintains the Lowtown clinic. Organizes emergency food distribution. Mediates disputes before they require Morwen’thir intervention.
Three overseers describe her as difficult.
That recommends her more than praise would.
She repaired a communal pump with Bran, a local firewood hauler, rather than wait for stronghold assistance. She treats workers who cannot pay. Several reports note that Lowtown residents seek her advice before obeying official instructions.
An informal leader.
If I select a passive woman, Lowtown will view her elevation as theft or punishment. Selecting Fiona converts existing influence into a connection with Morwen’thir. Her cooperation could steady the settlement through winter. Her resistance can be contained by contract, rank, and law.
I know nothing of her voice, habits, or temperament beyond what officials record.
None of those matters more than utility.
I close the final report and write her name upon a clean sheet.
Fiona Holt.
Lowtown healer.
Human bride to Lord Rhysandir Morwen’thir.
I seal the selection with the ring.
Fiona becomes my intended wife before she knows her name has entered the king’s design.
7
FIONA
Matron Sarveth’s arrival silences the lane outside my clinic.
A moment earlier, market vendors are calling prices through the wind. Two laborers argue over a handcart blocking the road. A batlaz barks at a boy carrying dried fish.
Hooves strike frozen stone.
Armor rings.
Every human voice stops.
I look through the clinic window as six Morwen’thir guards surround a black carriage bearing the silver crest of their house. Their armor catches the grey daylight. The equus wear more metal than most Lowtown families own.
