Ashaun crouched at the basin rim and poked the folded wooden beetle once with the tip of her right forefinger.
The carved legs did not unfold. The little figure lay shut as tight as a walnut shell on the frosty gravel, two paces short of the first pale flower stalks. When Ashaun lifted it and fitted it back into the empty groove beneath the handle of Suth’s walking staff, the wood settled into its notch with a soft click and stayed there.
“It’s not broken,” Ashaun said, testing the staff against the ground. “It just won’t cross that line.”
Lilt stepped up beside Chaska on the stone lip, stretching her long neck toward the quiet field, and let out a warm, whistling breath through her nostrils.
Where the sandray’s breath touched the nearest clump of bone-colored blossoms, six heavy bells trembled on their stalks. Slowly, without a breeze in the basin, the pale petals parted at the bottom and flared open, shaking a fine, golden-grey dust into the still air.
As the dust drifted back across the rocks, Ysabet caught a sudden, unmistakable smell of wet winter sheep’s wool, bruised thyme, and hot hoof-horn—followed by the sharp, dry click of a hundred cloven feet scrambling over shale.
