The eighty-foot upright granite cliff was glazed in a sheet of black, sub-zero ice.
In the dark, the rock face felt cold as pig iron sunk in winter salt water. The sleet had coated the tiny quartz grains in a greasy, zero-drag film that would have denied purchase to an iron climbing crampon. Every breath drawn from the canyon was an icy draft that burned the back of the throat.
Pei Jing didn’t use crampons or climbing spikes.
He stood barefoot at the base of the wall. His boots were tied securely by their laces around his collar. Between his teeth, he held the end of a braided silk line. A thin, high-pulling cord woven from triple-ply mountain caterpillar silk, capable of supporting eight hundred pounds of deadweight while weighing less than two pounds. Before slinging his pack, he had checked the Black Mountain Whetstone in his pocket. He ran his thumb over the dished dark rock to ensure the oiled cloth around it hadn’t shifted. The dense black stone served as a familiar physical anchor against his ribs.
He reached up with his right hand.
His fingers didn’t probe blindly. His heightened sense awareness, unlocked by Tier 6 Marrow Washing, detected the subtle heat and load-bearing variations in the granite. Three inches above his head, he located a level fissure no wider than the blade of his skinning knife.
