Kezra froze with the braided hemp loop held six inches above the stone.
The wind off the northern gulf whipped a spray of frozen grit against the leather of her mittens, rattling the small brass buckles of her coat. Beside her on the two-pace narrow high walkway, the pack mule blew a wet, shuddering breath, its flank twitching against her hip as it shifted its weight off its left hind hoof. Twenty paces ahead, Yseld remained motionless on the forward stance. Her scarred climbed staff planted vertically between two dark rock columns, her dark eyes fixed on Fellis.
Fellis Dain took two careful. It slid steps across the frost-dusted rock until he stood at Kezra’s left elbow. His right arm was still bound tightly against his ribs in Paxa’s linen sling. But his left hand moved with the swift, gut care of a craftsman who lived by the tension of cordage. He didn’t touch the stone with his fingers. Instead, he raised the toe of his heavy trail boot and set it against the southern flank of the squared block.
“Look at the bed,” Fellis said. His voice was low, pitched beneath the roar of the ridge wind so that it reached only Kezra’s ear. “Don’t look at the face with the cross. Look at the bed underneath.”
