3

On the eleventh day, Kaoran found a red ribbon on the split oak.

He had gone out before dawn to check the woodland snares.

Two rabbits lay in his pack, and he carried a willow branch under his arm.

The ribbon hung from the lowest knot, sheltered from the rain by a raised piece of bark.

Enna had wrapped the cloth twice. The warning meant soldiers were asking about him.

Kaoran studied the path.

The night had left clean mud among the birches. He saw Enna’s tracks, short and deep at the heel. Beside the wall was the mark of a broader boot. The stranger hadn’t crossed toward the house. He had stayed on the path, perhaps while she pretended to gather branches.

Kaoran cut the ribbon and put it in his pocket.

He returned by the upper slope. From there, he could watch the roof, the stable, and the stretch of woods descending toward Nydel. Smoke rose straight from the chimney. Bruma grazed inside the enclosure. No birds had left the nearby branches.

He entered through the back door.

Isolde was awake. She had tied her hair back with a strip of bandage and held a spoon in her left hand. Her thumb and index finger gripped the handle. The other fingers were still stiff. An untouched bowl of porridge sat before her.

“Eleven,” she said.

Kaoran set the rabbits on the table.

“Eleven what?”

“Times without dropping it.”

The spoon trembled. Isolde rested it on the rim before she lost it.

“Twelve when you get it to your mouth.”

“I could use my right hand.”

“You could eat with your right and practice afterward.”

Isolde changed hands. Some color had returned to her face, though her skin was still hollow beneath the cheekbones.

The fever had broken three days ago. The stitches no longer seeped, and Enna thought she might be able to remove them at the end of the week.

Each improvement revealed another limitation.

“You took a while,” Isolde said.

“There were signs to read.”

Kaoran took the ribbon from his pocket and left it beside the bowl before going to the bench outside. Isolde put down the spoon and extended the two fingers that could grasp the cloth.

“Red,” she said. “They’re asking about you.”

“There was a footprint beside the warning. Someone was nearby when Enna reached the tree.”

The bench creaked as Isolde tried to rise. Kaoran placed the walking stick within her reach.

“We have to leave.”

Kaoran opened the first rabbit with a clean cut.

“How far can you walk?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yesterday you made it from the bed to the fireplace on my arm. That’s nine steps.”

“I can do more today.”

“Then we’ll measure it.”

Isolde came to the threshold. She wore one of Kaoran’s shirts cinched with a belt, pants rolled above her ankles, and a boot on her right foot. Her left was still swollen, so she covered it with a hide wrapping. The clothes made her seem more fragile. Her gaze had the opposite effect.

“I want to go down to Nydel,” she said.

“No.”

“We need to know what they’re looking for.”

“I’ll go down.”

“They could arrest you.”

“They could arrest you too. The second outcome would give them more reason to celebrate.”

Isolde rested a hand on the doorframe.

“Take me to the stable.”

“After you eat.”

“Now.”

“Urgency doesn’t feed muscles.”

She went inside, took the bowl, and ate standing up. The first spoonful fell onto the table. The second reached her mouth. Kaoran finished cleaning the rabbits while she emptied the porridge.

Fifteen minutes later, Isolde stood at the threshold again.

“Ready.”

Kaoran offered her a short walking stick.

“I want your arm.”

“The stick won’t get distracted watching the woods.”

“Your arm shouldn’t either.”

“The stick is closer to the ground.”

Isolde took it in her right hand. She set her good foot outside the house, planted the wood, and dragged her left foot forward. The wound pulled beneath the bandage. She stopped until she could breathe without bending over.

The second step went better.

The third sank the hide wrapping into the mud. Her left leg buckled. Kaoran caught her elbow before she fell.

Isolde pulled away.

“I can keep going.”

“I hope so. The chair is behind you.”

“The stable is ahead.”

“So are Nydel, Caleryon, and the edge of the continent. Today we’re measuring the path.”

Isolde took four more steps. Sweat appeared along her hairline. On the eighth, the stick slipped. Kaoran set his foot against it.

She reached the fence post.

Bruma raised her head. The mare approached slowly, sniffed Isolde’s hand, and nudged her shoulder.

“She’s accepted you,” Kaoran said.

“She tried to knock me down.”

“That’s how she shows affection.”

Isolde leaned against the post. From there, she could see the first bend in the road. It lay some fifty steps away.

“Saddle her.”

“Not today.”

“If the patrol comes up, we’ll need her.”

“Bruma can carry you. A gallop would open the wound before the first bend.”

“A walk will be enough.”

Kaoran looked at Isolde’s trembling knees.

“Go back to the house.”

“Saddle her.”

“I said I’ll go down to Nydel. If we’re still here afterward, we’ll practice getting you on and off without tearing your side open.”

Isolde tightened her grip on the stick.

“Don’t leave me in the dark.”

Isolde kept her fingers around the post. Kaoran had seen her search for the saddle buckle as she spoke. He leaned the stick against the wood and waited for her to take it.

“I’ll bring whatever news I can verify,” he said. “I’ll tell you who is saying the rest.”

“I want the names of the people signing the orders.”

“I’ll look for them.”

She looked up toward the path.

“Aelyn, my father, Maelia, Rheskan. Whatever they know about them.”

Kaoran nodded. Isolde looked at the reins in his hand and took a while to finish.

“And if they talk about Darian, that too.”

It was the first time she had asked for information about him without immediately trying to turn it into an order to leave. Kaoran put the red ribbon away with his shopping money.

The return to the house took longer. Isolde sat beside the hearth, white-faced, with the stick across her knees. Kaoran left her water, bread, and the knife. He checked the packed saddlebags, mounted Bruma, and took the lower path.

Nydel had changed again since his last visit.

Two black banners hung from the mill tower. A red stripe crossed each from corner to corner. The symbol of mourning belonged to Caleryon, but the local authorities had sewn it from sackcloth. In the rain, the embroidered flames looked like open wounds.

Six soldiers stood in the square. Three wore frontier uniforms. The others had new dark blue coats and a circle of white metal pinned at the neck. Kaoran had seen that insignia in Cendral. It marked Varek’s men.

He tied Bruma outside the smithy.

Conversation in the square grew quieter.

A carter stopped counting sacks. Two women selling turnips put their coins away.

Nydel knew Kaoran as the old man on the hillside, the man who set bones when Enna was away and bought salt twice a month.

His recent absence might draw attention.

The dried blood on his cloak would have drawn more, which was why he wore another.

The blacksmith, Doven Ardel, came to the doorway.

“You’re in time to pay for breathing,” he said.

“They’ve put a price on air?”

“Reconstruction tax. The bridge is whole, the mine is open, and the tavern has lost a window. Caleryon needs to rebuild itself out of our good fortune.”

Doven had an old burn on the right side of his neck. His sister Ancia worked in the deep mines of the Range. Kaoran had repaired the stable roof with him two winters ago.

“When did they arrive?” he asked.

“Last night. They brought the town crier, forty sealed sheets, and an appetite fit for a company.”

“I see six.”

“The others are searching granaries.”

One of Varek’s men looked toward the smithy. Kaoran rested an elbow on the post.

“Are they looking for someone?”

Doven spat into the mud.

“A wounded woman who came out of Cendral, a horse thief, and anyone with undeclared food. The captain says all three could be the same person.”

“That saves work.”

“They asked about you too.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That I saw you a month ago, and you were too old to steal a horse.”

Bruma bit the edge of the blacksmith’s blanket.

Doven pushed her away.

“Your mare weakens my testimony.”

Kaoran untied a bag from the saddle.

“I need nails, a buckle, and flour.”

“The flour’s been requisitioned.”

“Then I need two things.”

Doven brought him inside. The unlit forge left the workshop colder than the street. A sheet bearing a black seal lay on a table. The paper had been folded and opened so often that the edges were beginning to tear.

“The crier read this at dawn,” the blacksmith said. “The copy in the square has soldiers around it.”

Kaoran stepped closer.

The heading ordered forty days of mourning for the death of Isolde Valarys, heir to Caleryon.

The official account described a heroic defense of Cendral, a retreat broken by the forces of Ice, and an accidental fall during the collapse of the galleries.

No line mentioned Darian’s ambush, the men executed in the gorge, or the order to abandon the body.

The decree went on to describe King Ardan’s temporary inability to exercise the powers of the Crown owing to grief and a worsening illness.

The Council of Houses had chosen Darian Rhyne as protector regent.

Varek kept a longer title: first councilor for defense, confluences, and the reconstruction of the kingdom.

The final clauses established the tax, expanded recruitment, and permitted the requisition of metal, coal, grain, and animals along strategic routes.

Darian’s signature occupied the bottom.

“May I take it?” Kaoran asked.

“It’s my nephew’s. He tore it off a wall before the soldiers came.”

“I’ll return it.”

Doven shook his head.

“Let whoever needs to read it have it.”

The blacksmith knew Kaoran had gone to Cendral. He knew nothing of the rest, though his words left room for too many possibilities.

Kaoran folded the paper and tucked it beneath his shirt.