The silence in the basalt cavern thickened until only the slow drip of cave water could be heard.
Old Barnaby stood motionless beside the iron-bound crate. His single hand gripped the heavy carpenter’s chisel so tightly that his knuckles turned chalk-white. His grey brows drew together in a harsh, knotted scowl as he stared at the wrapped horse-blankets.
Kaelen did not linger to watch.
He turned his back on the crate, took twenty long strides across the pale gravel, and sat down on a flat limestone slab facing the blank rock wall. He opened Book 11 of The Bandit King’s Secret Bride, resting the coarse paper on his knees.
If I look at that stone being dissected, I might figure out the matrix holding the marrow together, Kaelen thought, keeping his eyes firmly glued to the printed woodblock characters. My timer is ticking toward hour 624. I am not letting someone else’s dead skeleton rob me of my month-long multiplier.
Behind him, boots crunched against the dry grit.
“Master Wen,” Barnaby called out, his gruff voice unusually subdued. “Master Guan. Bring your specimen trays. Leave the silver probes in the cart.”
Two rescued guild alchemists hurried over from the refugee camp near the lower spring.
