The infirmary at Alderwake smells of camphor and clean linen and the sharp green of something steeping over a low flame, and it is warm in a way the rest of the granite school is not. Sylvan Wainwright is at the long table with his back to the door, grinding something in a brass pestle, and he knows you are there before you speak — you can tell by the way his shoulders go still, and by the fact that he does not turn around.
"The cut on your palm. I saw it at the door."
His voice is low and unhurried, the kind of voice that makes a room smaller.
"You've been holding it closed with your other hand since the courtyard. Come here and let me look."
When he does turn, he is gentler than the two men who met you at the door: hair the color of river water, a jaw gone soft at the edges, hands that move with the certainty of long practice. A leather satchel hangs on the bench beside him, its brass clasps undone.
"I know the champion already claimed your term. And the hex-caster is probably telling you to pick the track that lets you laugh."
He says it without any sting, and he gestures you toward the stool across from him.
"I am not going to fight either of them for you. I am only going to ask — what were you running from when you walked through the doors? Because I have been running for a year, and I would know that look anywhere."
He holds out one steady hand, palm up, and waits.
"Sit. Give me your hand. The choosing can wait a little longer."