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“It is.”

“Joran also sent Briar running for me.”

“He is cautious.”

“He knows you.”

Rhysandir rests his arm across a folded cloth. His house ring remains on his right hand. Blood has dried beneath its heavy edge, so I slide the ring from his finger and place it where he can see it.

That earns more attention than the wound.

“It will be returned,” I tell him.

“I assumed so.”

“You look as though I have taken Morwen’thir itself.”

“The ring opens more of Morwen’thir than most armies could.”

“Then perhaps you should not wear it while sparring.”

I pour warm water into a basin, add a measure of bitter cleansing tincture, and soak a clean cloth. The first touch makes the muscles beneath my fingers tense. He neither pulls away nor complains.

“How did this happen?” I ask.

“I parried late.”

“That tells me how the blade reached you.”

His gaze fixes on the opposite wall. “My attention was divided.”

Rhysandir seldom offers an admission without wrapping it in strategy. I wait, but nothing more follows.

I clean the edges of the gash, pressing away blood until I can see the full injury. The warmth in his skin is ordinary. There is no swelling yet, no grit left by the blunted blade, and no sign that the old curse has stirred. The scar beneath his clothing remains beyond my sight, but I feel no flare of its pain through the limited connection between us.

Only restraint reaches me, hard and controlled.

“This should heal cleanly,” I say. “Provided you do not pick up another sword today.”

“I have work.”

“Does the work require a sword?”

“Not usually.”

“Then we agree.”

I rinse the cloth. Pink water clouds the basin. When the wound is clean, I dry the surrounding skin and open the lower compartment of my case.

Several jars sit inside, each marked in my hand. The old muscle salve is nearly empty. Beside it rests the fresh jar I prepared last night with the rirzed I bought in Lowtown and dried fylvek from the solarium stores. I chose the new rirzed because its blue petals appeared sound, its stems held the proper gray cast, and its crushed leaves carried the faint mineral scent I expect from plants grown near cold stone.

Nessa’s frightened face rises in my memory.

Her fingers bruising my arm.

Her insistence that I use the second stall.

I should have asked more questions. I did ask, and she lied. Fear turned every answer aside.