The overhang half a mile back from the rockfall was dry enough to keep the drizzle off Lilt’s broad wings, and deep enough that a thumb-sized grease lamp set behind three flat stones threw no light into the gorge.
For the first hour nobody talked about gods or precentors. Kiv boiled shredded willow bark and a pinch of salt in the small tin cup over the shielded stove, let the dark liquid cool until he could test it on his own wrist, and soaked a clean rag to lay against Siv’s swollen left gum. The old wolf lay with his heavy chin across Kiv’s boot, letting out a single thin whistle through his nostrils before his yellow eyes half-closed. Tern and Moth curled on either side of him, their iron-grey coats trapping the heat while they watched the outer drip-line.
Beside the packs, Ysabet set the half-covered boot-nail box on a dry fold of sacking. The original mouse climbed out of Pip’s heated fold on its own, limping slightly on its old stiff hind leg, and went straight to the water lid before nibbling a cracked oat kernel. Ysabet broke two pieces of clean white chalk-stone into Pip’s wooden bowl and untied the Stone Shepherd’s silent stone flute from Pip’s shoulder sling so the carved bone-grey cylinder would not chip against the rock wall while Pip ate.
