The stone sorting yard on the eastern terrace of Splitflint Hostel was a working space built for iron tires and heavy freight.
It formed a broad, level shelf of dark flat stone slabs laid four ages ago. Just then, the first lime kilns were opened in the high notch. Here, wagon drivers unloaded bags of calcined lime, stacked crates of copper wire, and sorted rough-dressed stonework blocks before loading them onto the heavy freight wagons bound for the eastern valleys. To the west, the yard was separated from the main hostel building by a three-pace drainage alley of loose fiery gravel. To the north, it ended cleanly against a low drystone retaining wall. And to the east, it looked out over the vast, blue-shadowed drop of the Saltglass descent.
By late morning on Day 20, the weak mountain sun had burned away the last skiff of frost from the paving stones, leaving the dark stone flags dry, rough, and ringing under the iron nails of work boots.
Kezra Venn stood at the corner of the gravel alley. Her sighting compass was balanced on the palm of her glove. She turned slowly until the brass needle swung true against the etched index mark.
