Unforgivable Weakness

The crowd’s deafening screams blended with the sound of overturned market stalls, footsteps, and shattered glass to create a single, chaotic roar. Just moments before, the sun-drenched square in front of the palace had hummed with the joyful bustle of a holiday fair, complete with children’s laughter, townspeople’s carefree chatter, and the trilling of a flute. Now, it looked like a wasps' nest. Terrified, people rushed ahead, pushing, yelling, and tripping over polished marble slabs that were still slippery from the morning rain. Leran’s nose was struck by a choking mixture of smoke and spilled wine instead of the delicious aroma of fresh pastry, the very scent that had prompted him to put aside his business and walk along the stalls. His already labored breathing was smothered by the sharp, sweet-and-sour stench that settled on his tongue. In that headlong turmoil he could barely take in what was happening as a whole. The world broke into a chain of separate images: a half-empty jug rolling from beneath an overturned bench; a dark burgundy velvet drape with heavy fringe drowning in a puddle of grape juice; golden pears scattering from an upended basket. A girl in a bright blue dress stumbled and fell; a light sandal flew from her foot, yet she sprang up at once and ran on without so much as a backward glance. Nearby a clear voice called someone by name, but the cry immediately sank into the common din. Leran was running too, cursing his decision to appear before the Emperor today in a new ceremonial outfit. For long weeks he and a renowned tailor had perfected every curve of the collar and every fold of the hem, down to the very last stitch, with the same seriousness with which the Council decided the fates of provinces. The multilayered silk with silver embroidery, the light cape streaming behind him, and the long, flowing sleeves—everything he had admired with pride in the mirror just a couple of hours before—were now snarled, catching at his shoes and twining about his legs as if intent on pitching him to the ground. Old Zhanmen had foreseen almost everything in that attire: hidden fastenings, the perfect angle of the drape, even a semi-transparent layer to soften the colour in candlelight. Almost everything—except for the possibility that its owner would have to sprint headlong across a slick mash of crushed fruit and shattered porcelain. He was already short of air—his chest burned as if with fire. Leran was not used to running. To be honest, he could not remember the last time he had needed to do it—probably back in a distant childhood that now seemed like a half-forgotten dream. Suddenly something jerked him back—so abruptly that his heart seemed to drop in his chest. Losing his balance, he slammed his shoulder against the sharp corner of a stall piled with cheap trinkets. Bronze pendants and earrings came spilling from the shelves with a dull clatter. Hissing with pain, Leran turned in irritation: his long sleeve had snagged on a splinter in the cracked post of the awning. He yanked sharply, and the costly silk stretched, creaking plaintively, yet refused to tear. Each tug only drove the fabric deeper against the sharp edge, leaving snags behind. Clenching his teeth, Leran felt anger swiftly pushing aside his first fear and confusion. How could he have ended up in such a situation—and not on some far-flung frontier, not in a battered outpost, but in the capital itself, at the very gates of the imperial palace? He had even sent his own servants away, never thinking he might need them: the palace always had staff enough to fetch and carry at a moment’s notice, to hold a cloak or bring a letter, and the court guard never closed an eye by day or night. Who could have imagined that a routine visit to the Emperor on the fund’s business would turn into this? The thought of his servants suddenly filled him with worry. He should not have let them go. The old housekeeper and the groom were loyal and sure-handed folk, unlike the witless girls his brother was hiring these days. Those two had served his father, and Leran was responsible for them. He could only hope they had stayed somewhere safe and had the sense not to plunge into the thick of the danger trying to find him. At last freeing the ill-fated sleeve, Leran looked around. Above the rooftops, dense black smoke was billowing—most likely the central market was on fire. And at the far end of the emptied fair, armed men were moving toward the palace—lazily, as if out for a stroll—leaving chaos and ruin in their wake. Unhurried, they overturned baskets, shook out canvas sacks of cloth, took all that was valuable and mercilessly smashed the rest. Heavy boots crushed ripe peaches and clusters of grapes, trampled costly fabrics, and ground the fragile beauty of once-wealthy stalls to shards. One of the warriors struck a jade statuette of the Goddess of Fertility from its pedestal with the pommel of his sword—the very statue where children and market women had crowded that morning to toss coins for luck. Another picked up an elegant goblet, smirked, and hurled it against the stones. The thin glass exploded into sharp splinters. At first, in the confusion, Leran thought they were bandits—the very men whose outrages the Emperor had spoken of so often in recent evening talks. Had they truly dared come this close? But now, as he took in the familiar pattern on black-and-red lacquered armor and the polished swords snatching blinding sunbursts, he felt a spreading cold in his chest, the chill of rage uncoiling. These were soldiers of the imperial army. The very men he had seen at parades and in ceremonial formations—impeccable, as if hewn from stone, the embodiment of order and martial valor. Back then they had marched across this square in even ranks to the rhythmic beat of drums, and it had seemed that nothing in the world could break their iron discipline. Now not a trace of that former grandeur remained. This wasn’t mere robbery. This was treason—an insult not only to all the capital’s subjects but to the Emperor himself. His hands clenched into fists of their own accord. Whoever had arranged this, he thought, would pay dearer than they could imagine. In the front ranks, the soldiers raised their bows. An instant later a ghastly whistle swept over the heads of the fleeing—high, quavering, and ear-piercing. Arrows with stone whistles on their tips sliced the air until it seemed to vibrate, the sound crawling into one’s bones. The crowd screamed anew, as if the sound itself inflicted pain. The turmoil swelled into true chaos: people veered wildly from side to side, knocking down those who lagged. Leran bolted for the palace: he could clearly see the doorway into the inner garden. It still stood open, and people were forcing their way in, vanishing one by one beyond the stone wall. Not so far… just make it there. Another whistle—closer, harsher. They were firing without aiming: most arrows struck the marble slabs and skittered away, but each new volley sent the crowd into hysterical shrieks. These bastards were toying with them, Leran realized with fury. Like on a hunt. Wasting costly arrows just to frighten people. Damn it, where was everyone? Where was the palace guard, the Emperor’s personal guard—why was no one here yet? Out of the corner of his eye he saw a girl running at his side suddenly cry out and drop out of sight. Leran, glancing back almost reflexively, froze for a heartbeat. A plump maid in a kitchen apron lay on her side. An arrow jutted from her thigh; the dark fabric of her skirt was quickly soaking with blood, spreading in a ragged blot. She clutched at it with both hands; her lips moved soundlessly, as if she were trying to say something, not understanding what had happened, while tears welled in her eyes. He was about to run on, but he hesitated, waiting for someone to go and help her. Yet people rushed past without seeing her. A girl in a similar outfit slowed for a moment, then, glancing over her shoulder, ran on. A heavy man, puffing as he hurried after her, simply jumped over the wounded woman, his boot catching her and making her cry out. Enough! Leran thought with disgust, and, shouldering through the runners, hurled himself toward her. “Press the wound!” he cried out, bending and grabbing her by the shoulders. “Harder! Hold it!” The maid groaned dully, digging her fingers into her skirt instead of the wound. But there was no time. They’d be trampled here. Leran slung her arm over his neck and hauled her up. She was heavy; her limp weight dragged him down, and he hunched without meaning to. He glanced ahead: the door wasn’t far at all. Through the general roar he could already make out a harsh, commanding voice beyond the wall: “Don’t linger! Inside, quickly! Don’t trample the women!” So there was a guard after all, Leran thought with relief, plodding on. Each step cost him more: blood-soaked cloth slid stickily under his fingers, and his cape had slipped off his shoulder and was driving him mad. “Don’t let go of the wound, do you hear me?!” Leran shouted through his ragged breath. But the girl was already hanging limp on him, her head lolling and bumping against his shoulder. “Now… just a little… we’re here,” he muttered, more to himself than to the maid. Everything else grew far away and unimportant; before his eyes there was only the saving, wide-open door. Almost at the threshold someone slammed into them with a shoulder, and Leran all but toppled into the courtyard, tripping over the sill and barely keeping his feet. The maid, who had been slung across him, slid down and almost dragged him with her. One of the warriors standing inside the gate came quickly over to them. Tall and powerfully built, he easily took the girl’s weight from Leran’s other side and, without a word, led them deeper in. Leran immediately felt each step grow easier. But when he raised his head, his gaze caught on a sight that made him slow. Until recently this small inner courtyard had been one of the palace’s jewels—a place where the Emperor loved to receive guests and take short walks between audiences. Graceful arched bridges spanned narrow channels of silver water, and delicate paper lanterns hung from the branches of red-leaved maples. Now that fragile beauty lay trampled, churned together with dirt and dust. One of the bridges was broken—wooden rails stuck out at angles. Fragments of cloth and swollen lanterns floated in the stream. Topiary shrubs that gardeners had carefully clipped into the shapes of animals were now squashed flat, like grass under hooves. By the gate stood a stocky man with a close-cropped beard, clad in old but sturdy armor. His voice boomed across the court, drowning the noise of the crowd: 'No crowding! One at a time! Inside, quickly! ' A small detachment—no more than three dozen men—bustled about the yard, hastily reinforcing the passage with whatever lay to hand. To the left of the gate several guards were overturning a cart of straw, heaven knows how it had found its way here. It crashed down with a roar, crushing a bed of rare pink narcissi. Leran remembered them well: the Emperor’s first wife had raised a public scene when someone forgot to water them. Such a storm blew up that the poor gardener—a quiet, narrow-shouldered old man—had nearly lost his head. He smiled despite himself, but the memory was cut short by a sharp bark beside him: “Take her! Bandage that wound!” They had reached the palace’s double doors. Several servants spilled out, quickly took the wounded maid, and vanished with her into the depths of the corridor. Leran remained on the threshold, breathing hard. After the mad sprint across the square the world gradually returned to color—and with it came the aftershocks of all he had just endured. His shoulder answered with a dull, smarting ache from the blow against the corner of a stall. The fingers that had gripped the maid’s shoulder too tightly were now numb and clumsy. His legs throbbed from the unaccustomed strain. He swept the courtyard with his eyes, trying to corral his scattered thoughts into some order, and for a moment met the gaze of the man who had helped him carry the girl. A young warrior in well-fitted armor stood close by, and what struck the eye at once was a particular bearing—no peasant, no ordinary city guardsman carried himself like that. Confidence lived in his every movement, while his face remained calm and focused, with a straight, watchful gray gaze. Leran was sure he had seen him before—glimpsed among the retinue of the head of the Imperial Guard—but neither name nor rank would come. “Where’s Captain Telin?” he asked, straightening and finally steadying his breath. His hands by habit began to set his clothes in order, smoothing the creases. The sight of the soldier’s collected poise jabbed him with shame at his own sorry state. 'Has the Council been convened? ' he added hastily, more to cover his embarrassment than anything else. “There’s no Captain anymore,” the warrior snapped curtly, without even glancing at him. Then he wheeled to his men and barked so that his voice drowned the drone of the courtyard. “Archers! To the walls! Hold as long as you can!” “Sergeant,” he called to the broad-shouldered bearded man fussing at the gate. “We wait a little longer. Then we close!” For a minute Leran stood, silently watching the bustle of the guards. They stumbled as they dragged shields, set them in a row at the entry, hauled ropes taut, wedged heavy stone blocks—plainly ripped from some foundation—under the door-leaves. And he kept smoothing the snags on his torn sleeve by rote, when the thought that had been beating at the edge of his mind rose up sharp, burning with understanding. “Wait…” His voice came out harsher than he intended. “This is our defense? Did you see how many there are out there? They’ll simply sweep us away!” “Everyone who remains,” the guardsman finally turned to him, fixing him with a needling glance. “My lord,” he emphasized the form of address, a near-mockery in his tone. “You’d best go inside with the others. This isn’t place for you.” “And what’s your plan?” Leran stepped closer, ignoring the insolence, but irritation was already breaking through. “I hope your plan isn’t to fight an army with six archers?” The unease that had seemed to ebb flared anew. This wasn’t what he had expected behind the saving walls of the palace. But the soldier had already turned away as if he hadn’t heard and moved on with a quick, precise stride, flinging out orders. His voice thundered off the garden’s stone walls, yet the words drowned in the noise. That was why he hadn’t remembered the man’s rank. Men like that should hardly be let into the palace at all; with such manners, their place was in the barracks and no further. He stepped down from the porch and paced the path, at a loss for where to put himself. Agitation took him whole. He clenched his jaw, feeling the blood beat in his temples. Each fresh glance across the court confirmed one thing: the situation was dire. Frightened peasants who had fled in from the square pressed themselves to the walls, trying to keep away from the gate. A child cried, clutching at his mother’s hem; an old man in a gray cloak sank heavily onto the stones and covered his face with his hands. From a breach in the wall, where an old maple limb had grown into the masonry, the distant tramp of heavy boots could already be heard. They had not found a refuge; they had driven themselves into a trap. Those bastards would break in here and cut down everyone without a second thought. The shields and pile of stones would not slow them. It wasn’t defense at all, merely stage dressing. Something far more serious was needed. His thoughts whirled, collided, and collapsed without forming anything sound. His gaze darted across the yard until at last it snagged on the far corner. There, behind skewed shrubs, rose wooden scaffolding. They had been repairing the gallery roof here recently. The tiles on the slope still lay loose. And under the eaves, squat barrels huddled—big, bellied, cinched with iron hoops. Viscous streaks of pitch glistened down their sides. The plan flared to life in his mind at once. Snatching up the hem that snagged in the grass, Leran ran after the commander. “On my mark! Close the doors! Take positions!” the man was shouting as he went. “Wait!” Leran nearly stumbled, but caught up and, pointing toward the eaves, spoke fast, tripping over the haste: “There, under the gallery—barrels of pitch and sacks of oakum. If we set them alight…” “I asked you not to meddle. There’s no time,” the warrior threw over his shoulder, cold and without turning. “Do. Not. Interrupt. Me,” Leran clipped out, his voice snapping into steel and booming across the yard. Even the big fellow at the gate flicked them a startled glance. It boiled inside him. Familiarity and disrespect were the vices Leran loathed most in people. The guardsman wheeled sharply, measured him from head to heel—and made a curious grimace, as if only now recognizing him. “I’ve read about the siege of Tar-Vellar,” Leran went on, quieter now but with his voice unsoftened. “They held the advance with a wall of fire…” “That was a narrow corridor, not an open garden,” the commander cut in again, dry as ever. Leran dragged in a breath, steadying himself. “But there’s a gallery right over the palace entry—a pitched roof. If we let them close, we can topple the barrels from above, straight onto their heads. There’s grass everywhere; the fire will spread quickly. Judging by what I saw at the market, they’re already certain of victory and expect no resistance. It’ll catch them off guard—frighten them. It’ll buy us time for a real defense.” The commander froze for a heartbeat, weighing it. His fingers senselessly settled on the hilt of his sword—a habit born in moments of doubt. “Sergeant, here!” he shouted, wheeling toward the gate. The stocky bearded guard, grunting and weaving between overturned benches, hurried toward them. His armor clinked at every step; his boots slid on the wet stones of the path. Together they moved under the eaves. Leran caught a snatch of an animated exchange and a harsh bang. Someone had knocked a barrel. Realizing he had been left out again, Leran barely stifled his outrage. A curse from his stablemaster—one Leran had so often rebuked him for—flashed through his mind. A bad example is contagious indeed, he thought, mastering himself, and hurried after them. But he hadn’t reached them before the commander straightened to his full height: “Planks to the stairs! Move!” He waved at the nearest soldiers. “Take the scaffolding apart! Sergeant, take command!” “You! All of you!” The commander pointed at the servants clustered by the walls. “Blanket the garden with straw! Find anything that burns—leaves, cloth!” “The cellar!” Leran added, trying to outshout the rising noise. “There’s a summer kitchen close by—wine, vinegar—bring whatever you find.” A feverish bustle seized the courtyard. Leran had not expected everything to fall into place so smoothly. It seemed every person ran somewhere at once, desperate to busy themselves with something. Even the peasants who, moments before, had stood numb now moved along with the current. It was more panic than real help; people were trying to run from their own fear, and the mere appearance of action gave them hope. Servants dragged armfuls of straw, shook out sacks of oakum, hurrying to lay them by the doors and along the paths. One lad, rushing, dropped his bundle and the clumps scattered across the grass. He bent to gather them, but someone shoved his shoulder and he froze, bewildered, until a soldier barked at him, rough: “Move!” Leran stood at the center, unsure what to do. Events around him moved faster than his mind could keep up. Whenever he meant to step in, the commander appeared, shouting short, crisp orders. It seemed he was everywhere at once. His sure voice brought order wherever it was needed. Leran could not help thinking that with such a talent he might’ve risen far—if not for his abominable temper. Two young maids burst from the cellar of the summer kitchen. Each held a heavy small cask by the handles, dragging it more than carrying it. Their faces flushed with strain, hair tumbling from their braids. Suddenly the bung popped from one cask and a stream of thick red wine gushed onto the ground. The air filled at once with the tart perfume of old 'Lerian Garnet'. The scent of the costly drink conjured memories of quiet, peaceful summer evenings in the Emperor’s company. Now, among the hustle and harsh shouts, it felt absurdly out of place. “There! Pour it along the paths and between the shrubs,” Leran directed. A clatter sounded from the stairs. Leran turned to see three men heaving and rolling heavy, blackened barrels of pitch up wide planks toward the terrace. One barrel scraped a step, jammed, and nearly tore free. A guardsman stumbled, slipping on the grass, and Leran flinched, bracing to watch it all come crashing down. But another man caught an iron hoop in time, and with effort they righted the load. Perhaps we may even make it, Leran thought, sweeping the garden once more, trying not to miss anything vital. At the palace doors two youths shook out sacks of oakum—the shreds flew on the wind, snagged on shrubs, settled on the wet flagstones. One boy coughed, yanked his sleeve over his nose, and threw an anxious glance toward the opening to the square, where the roar swelled louder. An archer’s cry rang out from the wall: “They’re coming! Already close!” “Finish up! Move it!” the commander roared, goading the men above. “Archers, take cover behind the parapet! The rest—down, behind cover! Ready torches!” Servants flung whatever they held and dashed back toward the palace, stumbling over the maple roots. Leran, feeling his heart thump like a muffled drum in his throat, stepped back to the doors, but his eyes clung to the half-open gateway to the garden. “Inside, all of you! On the double!” the sergeant’s voice boomed nearby. People kept rushing through the palace’s stone threshold. The guards fell back slowly behind them, weapons ready. The emptier the garden grew, the tighter the tension stretched. His nails bit into his palms, and Leran, catching himself, unclenched his fists. Hold yourself together, he told himself. Not the time for doubt. There’d be time later to count mistakes. And yet, despite all effort, the treacherous thought that his plan was not so sound grew louder in his head. He was no warrior, no strategist. For that matter, he had never even held a sword. In books it was simple: great human effort, the craft of field commanders, the soldiers' sacrifices and bravery—all masked behind a few dry lines on a page. “Let’s go,” came the commander’s calm voice right beside him. Leran turned, and their gazes met. The commander extended a hand, plainly about to touch his shoulder, but at the last moment—as if remembering his manners—he drew it back and turned the gesture into an invitation. Without answering, Leran stepped across the palace threshold. The interior met him with dim light falling through high windows and the heavy scent of mingled incense overpowering everything else. After the fresh air outside, smoke-tainted though it was, this felt suffocating, and Leran involuntarily covered his nose with his sleeve. The attendants had always taken meticulous care in choosing incense to keep a comforting atmosphere in the palace’s halls and corridors. Now Leran noticed shattered oil vessels—the source of this cacophony of scents filling every corner. At the hall’s center, amid carpets of many colors, people were crowded together—frightened peasants, pitiful and gaunt, their faces dusty, mingled with palace servants dashing from corner to corner with baskets and bundles. Among them flitted the Emperor’s concubines, their gold ornaments winking faintly in the dim light. They glanced about nervously, as if they could find no place amid the nightmare. Near them stood an old servant. His melancholy face seemed familiar. But when Leran met his eye, the old man turned away quickly, dropping his gaze in shame, as if he didn’t want to be recognized. The last of the guards hurried in. The commander, surveying the crowded hall, waved his hand. “Shut the doors!” Two soldiers hauled at the heavy iron-worked leaves. The panels groaned as they yielded and swung shut, sealing off the last breath of fresh air. Inside, everything froze—even the muffled voices and the footfalls softened by carpets fell still. A few torches in iron brackets trembled in the draft; tongues of flame sent ragged shadows shivering along the walls. The commander climbed quickly, near-silent on the narrow stair. His voice sliced the hall’s viscous air: “Go deeper inside! Stay away from the doors! Find cover!” he shouted into the crowd as he moved. Leran followed, his heart beating dull and heavy, as if beneath a weight of water. The gallery overhanging the inner garden laid everything bare, like an open palm. From here they could make out every stone on the paths, every curve of the walkways. Leran and the commander crouched behind the stone parapet and waited. The archers spread beneath the arches, drew their strings, and stilled. Two fighters took their places by the rough ropes that held the barrels, fixed at the brink of the pitched roof. Below, the garden had gone still in an unnatural quiet… or so it seemed after all the noise and scurry. Leran would’ve sworn he could hear clumps of oakum snagging at the shrubs, the maple leaves shivering with the freshening wind. From the square the shouting, the crashing, the ring of iron still reached them—so near now, yet as if from another world. The world out there, beyond the garden wall, now seemed suspended outside of time. Leran even started to imagine that the chaos of the square would not reach them, wouldn’t see them, would pass them by… But then, at the gate, a dog’s bark rang out. Time slipped its leash again. Several peasants, in a panic and desperate for safety, dashed through the open gateway into the garden. Someone stumbled and could not rise in time. After them poured a black-and-red wave in costly armor. Soldiers—though Leran couldn’t longer bring himself to call them that—boisterous, loud, came in unhurried, like they owned the place. Plate rang in time with their steps; lacquered pauldrons caught the light. People, having reached the palace doors and found them barred, began to hammer their fists against the tough oak: “Let us in! Help!” Their desperate cries dragged Leran from his stupor. Collecting himself, he sprang up and raced toward the stairway. “There are still people out there!” he shouted to the guards below. “Open the doors! Now!” The guards didn’t stir. The sergeant at the leaves only cast him a quick glance. Leran flared, “How dare y—” “They won’t make it.” The commander’s calm voice beside him cut him off. “You know that yourself, my lord.” Leran wanted to object, but the words stuck. A chill spread through his chest. The commander snapped around and raised a hand. “Begin!” In one motion the two on the roof severed the holding ropes. A barrel lurched and plunged. A dull thunder rolled along the gallery. Leran darted to the parapet and saw the first barrel smash at the foot of the stairs, flinging black, viscous mass. The others went rolling after. One struck the edge of a step and failed to split, but bounced, turned over, and clanged away into the shrubs. Leran tracked it, everything inside him drawing tight to a single thought: either it works, or it’s the end. The first cries of surprise rose from below. The attackers recoiled. One, too slow, took a barrel square in the shoulder and went spinning aside. “Light it!” The command swept over the gallery. Torches slipped from the guards' hands and plunged down. The archers lifted their bows; the first fire-arrow carved a bright yellow-orange arc through the air and bit into the tarry slush. Then a second, a third. Flame bloomed at once with a low, cavernous hiss in several places. Pitch that had spread in fat puddles across the flagstones caught fire with a heavy, choking, metallic stench and gathered strength swiftly. The men who had been so jolly a moment before faltered. Bewilderment flickered over their faces and hardened into anger. The bellow of flame mingled with shouted curses. Grass soaked with wine flared in a scatter of sparks; tawny tongues ran along the walkways as if following a map drawn in advance—between shrubs, up the maple roots, coiling over everything in their path. The fire made no distinction between its own and others. Two peasants, pinned at the doors, darted in desperation over a narrow patch of stoop, leaping the blazing oakum. A soldier, shielding his face with a forearm, lunged for the stream but slipped on tarred leaves, crashed to his knees straight into the fire, and screamed, high and sharp. The air thickened with acrid smoke. His throat rasped, his eyes stung. Leran stood with his fingers locked on the parapet stone and didn’t blink. The heat swelled his light silk mantle, ballooned behind him and snapped as if to shove him back. But he didn’t move, and he didn’t look away. At last the attackers understood what was happening and began to back toward the exit, vanishing in the black smoke that already blanketed the garden. Tongues of flame reached the old maples and climbed up the trunks, devouring the bark. The heat grew unbearable, yet Leran still couldn’t tear himself from the sight of the burning garden. A woman’s piercing scream at the very doors cut through the courtyard’s roar. Leran peered into the coils of smoke and made out the silhouette of an elderly woman in a tattered dress; gray strands had sprung loose from under her kerchief. She stood with her back to a tree trunk, ringed by fire. The flame had already caught her hem. In terror she tried to beat it out with her palms, as if brushing off stubborn insects, but that only fanned it higher. The commander beside him wordlessly took a bow from an archer. The arrow vanished into the smoke, and the scream broke off. Leran flinched all over, as if struck, but found no strength even to turn away. His body felt frozen; the hands gripping the rail had gone to wood. His fingers wouldn’t uncurl. The man returned the bow and let his gaze rest on Leran for a moment. “We have to go,” he told in the same neutral, almost emotionless voice. “We don’t have much time.”