In the pewter grey of dawn, gritty-eyed and clad in her riding leathers, Irenya mounted Nettle. She let the pony follow the other horses out of the citadel. The path Gedric took was unfamiliar, a narrow switchback rising too steeply through the trees to appeal to any but the most experienced rider. Nettle, accustomed to taking her cues from the animal in front, followed Julis’s mount in sure-footed persistence.
Irenya looked behind her, beyond Jamion and another guard named Holt, to the end of the line where two mules carried sack-wrapped bundles of Gedric’s equipment. Up front, and at each turn in the track, Gedric glanced down at the mules, presumably checking his barrel of black powder. Now and then he spoke over his shoulder to Elaaron, his words mostly lost to her in the jingle and c
