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Chapter Eleven

I worried the round stone in my hands as we leaned over the map. The canvas sides of the tent snapped in the wind. I did not know where the stone had originated; a paperweight someone had lifted from the ground in their journeys that had made its way onto my table, and from there, into my pocket. Its surface was cool and smooth under my fingers, its imperfections well known.

Outside the tent I could hear the movements of the camp; voices, the distant song of the bards that seemed to flock to the camp in even greater numbers than combatants, the crack and screech of weapons and yells of the drill master training recruits in the distance, and the shift of leather and metal of the general’s horses tied outside.

The wind was biting. We were near enough the mountain range between Uyan Taesil and the neighbouring realm of Diyet Noyr that the wind brought with it the scent of snow from the peaks and swept through the canvas with sharp icy teeth

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