At the rear corner of the tallow chandler’s yard, behind three stone vats of cold lye-ash, the mountain cliff met the colossal root of the dead beast’s western antler. Where the ancient bone wedged into the slate, centuries of winter runoff had carved a deep, dry sluice-trench about five feet wide, roofed over with heavy split-flagging to keep snowslides out of the lower tanning pits.
An iron-barred wooden grate blocked the mouth of the trench. The old man reached behind a loose capstone in the dry-stone wall, pulled out a greased iron key as long as a ladle, and fitted it into the rusty padlock. With Kiv lending a shoulder to lift the frost-heaved oak frame, the grate swung inward without a squeak.
“This is the winter lime-drain,” the grandfather said in a low voice as the cold, clean draft of the upper barrens blew down the stone cut. “It climbs four hundred paces straight under the west horn-root and comes out above the old slate-quarry, half a mile north of the toll-house and the temple watch-post. The grade is rough, and you’ll have to lift your barrow over three water-steps near the top, but there’s width enough for the wolves and the sandray if she keeps her wings folded.”
