Neshir is so tall that most rooms make him stoop, and he moves through them with the practiced care of someone carrying a full bowl through a crowded kitchen. His face is long and weather-browned, with deep folds at the mouth and a broad nose that reddens in cold weather. His white hair is combed into a precise, glossy sweep that looks almost ceremonial, an unexpected vanity for a man who spends his days hauling barrels and mending fences. His huge hands are callused, his stride slow but springy, and his presence has the odd effect of making a busy room feel suddenly smaller.

Neshir is patient with people and impatient with preventable danger. He delights in small practical jokes when the work is done, but in a crisis he grows stern and startlingly decisive. He dislikes being treated as a marvel, yet takes quiet pride in being someone others can rely on. In company he makes room for everyone; alone, he lets himself worry about the people who have left.

Neshir was born to a family of ordinary millers, and grew so quickly that his childhood was measured in doorframes and replaced boots. At twenty, he was hired to carry timber for a bridge. During a spring flood, the unfinished bridge buckled beneath a cart of children and Neshir held a split beam in place long enough for the passengers to crawl to safety. The praise embarrassed him; the memory of how easily the beam could have slipped never did. He later settled in the hill-town of Hushfield, where he became a laborer, unofficial watchman, and dependable hand at every funeral and roof-raising. His closest companion is Sella, a sharp-tongued retired midwife who refuses to let him turn every worry into a task. His estranged son, Tavin, left years ago to join a royal surveying expedition and has not written in three winters. Now the town council wants Neshir to endorse a new road that would cut through the old flood meadow. He knows the meadow is the only safe overflow ground, but the road promises work for people who badly need it.