Ralvar was watching him.
"The eastern ridge," Targesh said.
"You've said that three times."
"Then perhaps you should fix it."
"I did fix it. The solution is on the paper you've been staring through for the past hour." Ralvar's voice was mild. His eyes were not. "Shall I also fix the other thing you're not discussing?"
"There is nothing to discuss."
"She hasn't left the archives in two days."
"That is her custom."
"She hasn't eaten in the hall."
"She eats at irregular hours. She has done this since she arrived."
Targesh set the schedule down.
"The archivist is preparing her handover documents," he said. "She will need Grukash for the border crossing. Arrange it."
Ralvar opened his mouth.
The door of the council chamber opened.
Brenneth came in first, followed by Durgan, who was saying something about the smithy's output that Targesh would normally have an opinion on and currently did not. Behind them came Soldra, gray-haired and sharp, who had served as patrol commander under Gorath before Targesh had been old enough to hold a sword.
The morning council was informal. Standing business. Supply reports, patrol issues, maintenance on the eastern wall, a dispute between two warriors over training yard precedence that Targesh resolved in four words. The ordinary machinery of a fortress that had been running for four hundred years and would continue running whether or not one human woman was inside its walls.
He was not thinking about her.
He was thinking about the supply report, which indicated that the grain stores would last through winter with adequate margin. He was thinking about the eastern wall, which needed repointing before the first heavy frost. He was thinking about the training yard dispute, which would need to be watched.
He was not thinking about the way she tucked a quill into her hair and forgot it was there. He was not thinking about her brown eyes going wide when she found a document that excited her, the way her whole body oriented toward the page like a compass finding north. He was not thinking about the sound she made in the dark when he—
"Warchief."
Ralvar's voice. Targesh refocused.
Ralvar was looking at the door. Everyone was looking at the door.
Verity stood in the entrance of the council chamber.
She was wearing the blue wool dress. The one that fit her properly, that followed the lines of her body in a way that made his blood answer before his mind could intervene. Her hair was pulled back and there was a quill tucked behind her ear, and she carried a stack of papers against her chest with both arms,
She did not look at him.
"I'm requesting a formal audience with the council," she said.
Targesh's first thought was practical. She had written the handover document. She was presenting it formally, which was exactly what a trained archivist would do before departing.
His second thought was less practical and had to do with the fact that she was standing six feet away from him and he could smell ink and cold paper and the copper-bright thread underneath that she could not hide and he could not ignore.
"You may speak," he said.
She walked to the foot of the table. Set her papers down. Aligned the edges against the wood grain.
