The climb up from the sealed drift was longer and colder than the descent.
In the acoustic baffle, Tessa had said nothing when the mirror went black. She had simply lifted the brass lantern, its yellow flame flickering behind grease-smeared glass, and turned back toward the timber headings. Prit followed, his woolen overcoat brushing against damp shale walls, his jaw locked in a hard line that held no room for comfort.
When they reached the upper workroom, the others were waiting around the long oak table beneath the low vault of the Hall of Witness.
Ossa Flint had arrived from the upper forge, her apron dusted with iron scale, the brass rim of her empty eye socket gleaming. Cale sat near the stove, his empty broth bowl on his knees, his hands trembling from his hours in the rain. Sella Rusk stood behind him, arms crossed over her scarred chest, watching the cellar archway with the coiled patience of an old sentry.
Noll stepped into the circle of light. His basalt limbs felt heavy, dragging against the limestone flags as if the mountain were reluctant to bear his weight.
“Well?” Ossa demanded, setting a heavy steel caliper on the table with a sharp ring. “Did the High Auditor offer to paint your stones blue and make you a marquis?”
