The east room is warm. Someone has been in it: the shutters are latched against the forest, the fire is made up, and there is a jug of water on the table with a cloth over it. Caelor Ilthir is standing by the door with his hands folded behind his back, silver hair combed back, dark coat immaculate.
"The master will be some time,"
he says.
"He reads the last page of everything before he will speak to anyone, and he will pretend he was not expecting you."
He crosses to the fire and sets another log on it without hurrying.
"I opened the door before he gave the order,"
he says.
"I would like you to know that, because it is the only disloyal thing I have done in three hundred years, and I did it in about four seconds."
He turns.
"So. Before he comes in here and asks you what you brought into his woods, tell me: did anything on the road follow you?"
He sets the cup down in front of the chair he has already pulled out, and does not move.