The launch shelf two hundred paces higher was a flat tongue of gray granite jutting over the deep trough of the gorge. Here the wind did not chop in small eddies; it rose out of the valley in a thick, cold river of air that smelled of pine resin and wet iron.
Chaska left her folding cargo frame strapped to the pack crate with Ashaun and worked quickly with Lilt’s light leather riding harness. The old harness rub on Lilt’s left side from Bent Reed had healed weeks ago into a smooth dark line, and Chaska had sewn a double strip of greased sheepskin under the front cinch so the buckle never touched the skin. Lilt stood with her wide tail-fluke braced against the cliff wall, leaning her heavy left shoulder comfortably against Pip’s curved shell while Chaska drew the belly-girth snug.
When Chaska reached for the rear flank strap, Lilt shifted her weight and deliberately stepped on the edge of Pip’s front left foot—not hard enough to bruise, just enough to claim an extra two inches of sun-warmed granite. Pip pulled its toe out from under the sandray’s padded claw, nudged the underside of Lilt’s jaw with the flat of its nose until her chin came up, and then slid its own front legs right back onto the warm spot.
