The dusk brought a drop in air pressure. Low, purple-bellied snow clouds rolled down from the Arctic wastes, obscuring the northern stars and turning the jagged bluffs into indistinct mounds of chalk and charcoal.
Pei Jing climbed Raven Crag for the second time.
He carried a double-walled iron canteen wrapped in wool, filled with boiling bear marrow broth. A bundle of seasoned cedar split-wood lashed to his hip. The wood was dry, rich in resin, yielding clean heat with zero smoke.
When he reached the ruined summit turret, Lu Tingxuan had not moved from the granite top door beam. The old Sword Saint sat upright, his bare calloused feet resting on the blue ice, his wispy beard stiff with frozen water drops.
Pei Jing didn’t offer pleasantries. He cleared a patch of frozen rubble with the toe of his boot. He set the cedar wood on the stones, and used a flint striker to ignite a handful of birch shavings.
Within two minutes, a small, bright flame crackled in the lee of the dark rock wall.
Pei Jing placed the iron canteen on the embers to keep the broth steaming, then sat down on an overturned stonework block four paces away.
