The trail dropped out of the bare granite chutes into the shelter of the timberline pines. Then, the first pale gold of sunrise broke across the eastern valley rim. Beneath the snow-laden boughs of the spruces, the wind fell quiet. The cold mountain air carried the clear, welcome scent of birch smoke, boiled linen, and toasted barley broth rising from the lower shepherd’s hospice half a mile down the grade.
Walking at the head of the battered column, Bel Sar planted the eight-sided iron metal ring of his broken four-foot Ash Reed staff into the packed snow of the switchback to test the footing before each turn. Beside him, former Chief Examiner Vaska Ren kept his bandaged, three-fingered left hand tucked securely inside the front of his wool coat. Meanwhile, his right arm cradled the lower three-foot leftover piece of Seyun’s ash staff, its iron metal ring still bearing the dull, fused bead of Elder Hesh’s three copper test needles. Neither man spoke, yet at every icy under-road drain Bel waited half a beat for Vaska’s nod before leading the slower climbers around the ruts.
Three paces behind them, Daro Kesh limped down the stone steps with his left hand braced on the chape of his sword sheath and the wooden splint bound tight along the deep gash in his right thigh. Despite the dried blood stiffening his trouser leg and the dark circles of tiredness under his eyes, the forty-two-year-old Black-Roof swordmaster was already straightening his soot-streaked shoulders as…
