The inside of the black bronze pillar was not built for comfort or ceremony. It was built like the inside of a chimney fluke. Cast bronze treads, each shaped like a narrow wedge of pie with raised diamond-pattern ribs to keep frost-slick boots from sliding, spiraled tightly around a central hollow pipe no thicker than a man’s thigh. The outer curved wall was barely wide enough for one person’s shoulders to clear without scraping wool against metal. The air smelled of old green rust, frozen iron, and twenty winters of unwashed animal fat grease used to lubricate the wall joints.
Seyun climbed first, keeping his bandaged right palm lightly against the inner pipe to guide his balance in the pitch dark. Meanwhile, his left hand protected the satchel holding Master Uren’s stone tablet against his ribs. Two steps below his heels, bound Osen Tal breathed in short, wheezing puffs as the mountain chill bit into his lungs. Behind Osen came Daro Kesh, his left hand resting on his sword sheath throat so the chape wouldn’t clink against the bronze risers, and below Daro climbed Ilyra. She carried her marsh-iron spear straight up beside her cheek like a mast in a narrow river lock.
