The road left Riven Gate without asking anyone to agree on who owned it.
It began as two stone shelves cut into the canyon, joined by bridges where the cliff permitted no continuous path. Beyond the last watch post, it became a packed track through a field of broken gray ridges. Old marker stones stood at irregular intervals, their faces worn smooth by wind. Newer markers had been added beside them: painted poles from the lower towns, small metal plates from Caldrin freight crews, and a pair of broad stones arranged by a Marcher whose path crossed the road during the wet season.
Iven liked the arrangement. It was untidy and visible. Anyone who tried to claim that the route had always belonged to one group would have to explain the others’ markers first.
He rode in the third wagon beside a crate of replacement contacts. Neri sat opposite him, checking a set of drawings against the movement of the wagon. She had tied the pages to a board so the wind could not take them, but every bump made her pencil mark longer than intended.
“You could wait until we stop,” he said.
“I could. Then I’d have to remember which measurement bothered me.”
