Bringing up the rear of the group of mages with Ser Trevan riding only just behind him, Constans walked with a small cart in tow. Too small to be pulled by the horses that the Templars rode, it was a simple, three-sided wooden affair with two poles extending from the front, intended to be hitched to a smaller pack animal like a mule. Constans used these poles as handles; the Circle had not felt it necessary to supply the mule. After all, he was Tranquil. It wasn't as though he minded, and he ought to be up to the task.
The cart contained an assortment of specialized blacksmithing supplies including a small anvil, although it was mostly filled by sundry baggage of the party. Concealed carefully at the back, in a plain, sealed and heavily insulated package, was nestled a small amount of lyrium to be used in enchanting on behalf of the Wardens. Despite being such a miniscule amount of the material, this package no larger than a woman's fist was likely the most valuable single item for a radius of miles upon miles. The longsword strapped to the Tranquil's back, sheathed and wrapped from hilt to haft in cloth to disguise its gentle glow, would undoubtedly come in second.
Constans had been silent for most of the journey so far, never uttering a word of complaint and speaking only when addressed, most often by his brother. As the party stopped, the senior Templar rebuking the pair that had run ahead, Constans said quietly, "There does not appear to be any danger here. Perhaps we will be able rest?"