Chapter 2: What the Deadmarsh Swallows

The waystation smelled of pine resin and horses and the particular stillness of a place built to be temporary. Two wardens met her at the gate — a woman with a gray braid and a younger man whose hand never quite left his sword hilt — and they looked at the Elder's letter for a long time before they looked at her.

"You're the contact," the woman said. It was not a question, but it was not quite a statement either.

"I'm the bearer," Wren said. "There's a difference."