Due's letters were never restful.
This one arrived in the fig three days late, and it was longer than the others. The hollow in the fig behind the scribes' dormitory was the only line between Alistair and the south, and every letter that reached it cost Due a bribe he could not truly afford.
Alistair retrieved it after dark, returned to his room, and read it under the lamp as Tobian Marrow, a scholar with no brother anywhere.
Six factions are circling us, Due wrote, and I finally have names for all six, which is more comfort than you would think.
The Ashen Chain wants our steel. The Black Furrow wants our fields. The Brindle Crown wants someone, anyone, to call them nobles again to their faces. The Quiet Confluence wants the river we happen to sit beside. The Spurred Hand wants the bounty Verissan has not posted on us yet but certainly will.
The Hollow Banner simply wants to still be breathing next year. Out of the six, I understand them the best, because so do I.
