The northern track climbed away from the water through low, wind-bent scrub where salt crusted the undersides of every leaf.
By noon the village roofs had disappeared behind a spur of gray limestone, though the lake itself remained below them, wide and pale as hammered tin. The air up here smelled of dry pine needles and old brine. Suth rode ahead on the lantern elk, its unlit globes knocking softly among its antlers as it picked a path wide enough for Chaska’s bundled frame and Lilt’s broad wings.
Pip walked beside Ysabet instead of riding in the basket.
Every half hour Ysabet watched the raised white seam along its left plate to see whether the climb was pulling the split open again. The tissue underneath had darkened from raw pink to a dull, leathery gray, and the two halves of the shell held together along a crooked ridge that stood half an inch higher than the rest of the curve. It was ugly in the way Pip’s whole body was ugly: lopsided, patched together out of emergencies, and entirely suited to moving over rough ground.
When they stopped at a trickle of snowmelt to water the animals, Pip backed its scarred plate against a flat boulder and rubbed it gently, testing the resistance. The shell gave a dull, solid knock instead of a bright ring.
