---
Gael shrugged on the leather that had always been more coat than apron and took his walking staff from the corner by the door. He looked over at the shelf where a small cloth bag with a seal sat by itself, not forgotten, simply waiting. The bag held the paper copy of the vows the ten had given months ago when they had decided mines dig only holes and men need to build. The bag did not move. It did not have to. Vows hold still by themselves when they are made right.
"We walk," Gael said.
Ruel grunted like a door that needed oil and would get it and fell into step. Orna rolled her shoulders. Bren checked the angle of the light where it came through the house eaves as if that might tell him something about the stranger's patience. Palt went ahead again, because legs are their own profession.
