By full moonrise the mist had climbed halfway up the canyon walls, turning the gorge into a pale trough of moving vapour. Through the fog, the bridge gleamed like wet chalk.
It was six paces wide at the buttresses and narrowed to four at the center, arched slightly against the up-canyon draught. Millions of white antler beetles formed the span. Each insect had hooked its branched, serrated head-horns deep into the shoulder ridges of the two beetles ahead of it while bracing its six hooked feet into the shell-seams of its neighbors below. Together they made a living, flexing rib of bone and shell that rose and sank two or three inches whenever a gust came down from the peaks.
Chaska crouched at the southern abutment, tying a heavy loop of braided hemp around a jutting horn of granite with both hands. She gave the knot a hard yank, then passed the running coil over her shoulder.
“Iskren wasn’t exaggerating,” she said, peering out across the pale, clicking carpet. Even locked in place, the beetles were never entirely still; tiny ripples of adjustment ran constantly from wall to wall as individuals shifted a leg or tightened a horn-lock to share the wind load. “It’s like walking across a basket full of crabs.”
