As the carriage reached the bottom of the outer ramp, she raised a hand in greeting to Emmar and Hilsit. The sentinels stared in round-mouthed shock to see her seated on the driver’s bench of a royal carriage. Belatedly, they bobbed awkward bows.

She called down, “Who is that runner who just passed? Do you know who sent them?”

The sentinels didn’t hear because they got distracted by Joef charging up, flushed and out of breath as he tried to shout a farewell. He tossed the pack up to Kem, on the second carriage. The lad caught it deftly. Joef grimaced, first looking ready to burst into tears and then waving wildly, bouncing on his toes, as they rolled on to leave him behind.

The laborers in the fields halted at their work and bent like grain beneath a strong wind to honor the passing royal. The cavalcade rushed onward through the moated outer ward of the Halt. When they reached the earthworks, they crossed the moat and followed the cart track along the river, back the way Elen had come just this morning. It felt as if she and Kem had returned weeks ago. She was as wrung out as if she’d run all day, and maybe, in a way, she had, if being hit over and over with fresh shocks was a race against how much surprise a person could take before they broke down. But she’d never had the luxury of breaking down. All her life she’d had to be strong for Aoving and then for Kem.

The carriage absorbed the grassy lane’s bumps with ease. Instead of turning on the footpath that would cut across the Boulders, she gestured for Hemerlin to continue along the river track.

“Is there not a shorter route through here?” he asked curtly, indicating the footpath.

“If these carriages can climb steps carved into huge rocks, then we may take this turning. Otherwise, we must take a longer way around the Boulders into the woodland. I defer to your wisdom on this matter.”

His eyebrows quirked with anger, recognizing the irony in her tone. “Do not challenge me, Deputy Courier.”

“I pray for pardon. I do not know the proper address for a palace menial. In the intendant’s Residence, the menials are addressed by name.”

“You may address me as Chief Menial Hemerlin.”

“You honor me, Chief Menial Hemerlin.”

“That I do,” he muttered under his breath.

They drove along the river. The setting sun cast its grieving light along the waters, as it was said in the elegy composed by one of the many poets exiled from court in past reigns.

“Turn here.” She indicated a wide lane that cut into the upper woodland, with trees carefully coppiced under the eye of the intendant’s agricultural officials.