~...if I don't survive the trial, then at least I tried.~
Rhys stared at Jocelynn's letter for several minutes as he tried to come to grips with what she'd said.
His pipe had gone cold on the corner of the desk where he'd left it, well away from the last traces of the raven's frost. Rhys picked it up without thinking, the way he'd done ten thousand times before. He drew a long wooden spill from the cup beside the lamp, touched it to the flame, and held it over the bowl, puffing slowly until the leaf caught and glowed orange in the dim light.
Then he rose, crossed to the iron-bound chest beneath the narrow window, and unlocked it with the key he wore on a chain around his neck. Phylip's journals lay at the bottom, wrapped in oilcloth, stowed carefully like the treasures they were.
