Mid-morning on the eighth day of the countdown, the air above the abandoned seal court smelled of cold quartz and scorched pine needles.
Down in the valley, Mother Renn’s first train of ox carts—carrying Tavan’s wife Brenna, eight-year-old Leni, Widow Sela, and fourteen other village households—had cleared the low willow milestone an hour after sunrise without incident. Up here on the high granite terrace, Seyun was warming up for his first twelve-breath session of the day with Kes and Pera. Meanwhile, Vaska Ren knelt beside the bronze-and-quartz pressure lens, oiling the central gimbal pin with a feather quill.
Seyun rolled his shoulders inside his hemp jacket and shifted his grip along the plain ash staff Nara had given him. A full night’s sleep and the seventh stone-ash healing wrap Mina had spread over his left collarbone at breakfast. Then, his bruised right knuckles from yesterday’s threshing-floor lesson had faded to a dull yellow stiffness. The silver curve of Place I sat cool and steady against his upper rib.
“Remember the four beats before I pull the cord,” Pera said from ten paces across the flat stone slabs, holding two braided hemp ropes tied to wooden balance weight buckets near the eastern pillar. “Yesterday you had Nara calling out ‘Ditch line!’ in a voice that could wake the dead. Today Kes and I aren’t going to shout a word when we switch the bucket ropes. You have to ask with your eyes and your staff contact before you plant your rear…
