Page 100

A wagon stands beneath the arch. Freshly cut tiphe fills its bed, and two human workers fasten an empty canvas over the rear boards.

A Zagfer guard holds Bran by the arm.

The herb basket strikes my hip as I change direction.

Bran’s wool cap lies in the snow. His weathered face is flushed with anger. The guard’s armored hand closes above his elbow, keeping him beside the gatehouse.

“I delivered the wood,” Bran says. “Ask the storekeeper.”

“You completed the delivery half an hour ago,” the guard replies. “You were found beside the west sheds.”

“I was inspecting the stacks.”

“You were loitering in a restricted ward.”

“I was invited.”

“You presented no written invitation.”

Bran sees me approaching. Relief crosses his face, followed by annoyance that I have witnessed the indignity.

The Zagfer turns toward me without releasing him.

“Let him go,” I say.

The guard inclines his head. “Lady Morwen’thir. This human remained after his delivery and entered a household storage area without authorization.”

“This human is Bran.”

“He gave his name.”

“Then use it.”

His black eyes narrow. Humans do not correct dark elf guards. A human Lady occupies a less certain position, but uncertainty has not prevented me before.

“Bran was completing work requested by this household,” I say.

“The delivery record has been signed. His work was complete.”

“Why were you beside the sheds?” I ask Bran.

“Someone asked me to inspect the wood stores.”

“Who?”

The courtyard doors open before he answers.

Rhysandir walks into the snow with Sarveth at his side and Joran several paces behind. They must have been inspecting the repaired gate braces. Fine wood dust marks the shoulder of Rhysandir’s black coat.

His gaze moves over the wagon, Bran’s fallen cap, and the guard’s hand.

I prepare to explain my request.

Rhysandir intervenes first.

“Remove your hand from my guest.”

The guard releases Bran immediately.