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“You approved my request,” I say.

“Sarveth approved the inspection.”

Sarveth adjusts the report in her hands. “Under authority delegated by the lord.”

Rhysandir looks at her.

She lowers her silver gaze with flawless composure.

Bran replaces his cap. “If the invitation still stands, I should finish what I came to do.”

“It stands,” I tell him.

Rhysandir gestures toward the western side of the courtyard. “Joran will accompany us.”

“Us?” I ask.

“You requested an assessment of my wood stores.”

“I did not request your help.”

“No. You requested access to stores belonging to my house.”

“They warm your household.”

“They also warm my walls.”

Bran clears his throat. “Wood burns the same for either purpose.”

Joran turns his face away, but his broad shoulders move once.

We cross the courtyard together.

The west sheds stand against the inner wall, sheltered from the strongest winds. The first holds split tiphe for household hearths. The second contains larger logs for the kitchens and great hall. Charcoal and kindling fill the third.

Bran enters the first shed and becomes immediately absorbed.

He checks the spaces between rows, presses his thumb against exposed grain, and studies the roof beams. He crouches to examine the lowest logs and reaches behind them toward the stone wall.

“You have good wood,” he tells Rhysandir.

Rhysandir inclines his head. “I am pleased the store meets your standards.”

“It does not.”

Joran folds his arms.

Bran pulls a piece of darkened bark from the bottom row. “Good wood stacked badly.”

“The storekeeper reported no damage,” Rhysandir says.

“The storekeeper has not crawled behind the logs.”

“You have?”

“That is what you invited me to do.”

He holds out the bark. Moisture gleams across its inner surface.