At midnight after he carved the cliff, Central Heaven Mountain was quiet enough for Pei Jing to hear the stone cooling. Above the broken dome, the stars stretched farther than he could follow. He had spent so long reading the sky for lights that marked gates, stations, and patrols. He let his eyes go past the places where those lights had been.
Then he knelt by the old hearth and opened his pack.
He dried the iron pot and tied it into the bottom pocket. Three pairs of hemp socks went beside it. He wrapped the clay bowl and chopsticks in linen so they would stay quiet against the iron. The Thousand-Herb Mortar still smelled faintly of bitter thistle and pine. He nested the pestle inside it and pulled the flap closed.
He checked his bracers. Twelve plain cold-iron needles lay in the right guard. In the side pocket he put his sea salt, six dried plums, and two cakes of buckwheat tea. Then he reached over his shoulder to test the strap of the Astral Bone Blade. The black blade rested in its sharkskin sheath, its weight settled along his back.
One thing remained on the granite slab. The Black Mountain Whetstone was damp with dew and dark as dried ink. Pei Jing picked it up with both hands.
