Along the western wall of the shelter, where the slate slabs were thickest to block the mountain gales, a single long panel had been polished smooth by generations of elbows and shoulders.
Ysabet walked over to study it while Chaska and Kiv checked the roof timbers for loose wedges. Four scenes in a row were preserved in the dark mineral grain of the stone, each separated by a natural white quartz vein.
In the first section, a stooped human figure in a heavy sheepskin coat—neither young nor handsome, with a wooden soup ladle tucked into a rope belt—knelt beside the central hearth of this very building. Across the threshold stood a blurred, shifting creature that seemed to be changing shapes even while the stone recorded it: part coiled water-serpent, part antlered hound, part fronded marsh-weed. The human had reached out both hands too fast, trying to hold the creature still during a violent molt. Frightened, the shifting beast had wrenched away and bolted out the doorway into an autumn sleet storm.
In the second section, the sleet had turned to deep snow. Instead of taking ropes into the gorge to hunt the runaway down, or barring the heavy oak door to keep the warmth in, the stooped tamer had dragged a wedge-shaped block of granite against the bottom of the open door so the wind could not slam it shut. A small turf fire burned on the hearth, and a shallow stone bowl of crushed shale and dried fish sat…
