Kezra swallowed the apology before it could leave her tongue.
The sharp sting of Yseld’s rebuke cut through the panic in her chest like a cold chisel through chalk. Standing on the blood-spotted limestone ledge. He watched Paxa work the linen wrap with clean, steady care, Kezra realized the childish vanity of what she had almost done. An apology was a try to purchase forgiveness for feeling helpless. It asked the person who was bleeding to expend their energy comforting the person who was guilty.
She took a deep, steadying breath, closed her fists until her fingernails bit into her palms. Then she looked up at the scar in the overhang.
“Paxa, does she need me to hold the tourniquet?” Kezra asked, her voice dropping into the quiet, functional register of a land-mapper calling line measurements.
“No,” Paxa answered without looking up from her knotting. “The pressure pad has slowed the flow. It’s a clean muscular tear. Two horsehair stitches and a willow-bark healing wrap will keep the rot out once we reach the valley floor. Keep Fellis on his feet and watch the upper rock.”
Kezra stepped two paces back toward the cliff face, unslung her sounding rod. Then she pointed the iron tip directly at the raw fracture where the slab had parted.
