Tavin knew they were close before the ridge opened.
The wind had changed. It carried the dry mineral smell of the Sill beneath the familiar odours of harness, axle grease and the onion Jem had bought at the last halt. For thirty-five days the loaded convoy had worked its way west from Caldrin, taking the heavy road’s actual stages, inspections and rest stops. At Cold Steps, the keeper had admitted them under the ordinary weight limits. No northern lieutenant had been waiting inside the shelter.
That had pleased Tavin more than the keeper’s tea.
Now, on day seven hundred and eleven, the last rise fell behind the lead wagon.
Stonewake lay ahead.
Jem stood in his stirrup for a better view until Dessa caught his coat.
“You can look when we’ve stopped.”
“I can look now.”
