Twelve Words at the Ford

At Brindle Ford the shallow river ran over its stones. A Keeper of Names stood at the border post with a satchel strapped flat, moving her lips through twelve words she had carried since Saltmarrow. Across the water a Glare lamp burned warm on a post, its glass offered to anyone who would wade for it. She did not look. Not your name, not your light, she told the Confiscator who asked, and crossed with her twelve words intact.