“Are you from the Torre Cesme?” Nesryn asked in Chaol’s own tongue. The healer only stared at him. Something like surprise and anger lighting those remarkable eyes. She slid a hand into the pocket of her gown, and he waited for her to withdraw something, but it remained there. As if she was grasping an object within. Not a doe ready to bolt, but a stag, weighing the options of fighting or fleeing, of standing its ground, lowering its head, and charging. Chaol held her gaze, cool and steady. He’d taken on plenty of young bucks during the years of being captain—had gotten them all to heel.
