The morning sun had barely cleared the eastern rim of the Blackglass foothills. Just then, the valley road bent sharply around a spur of red fiery marl.
The dry valley road was rutted by the passage of heavy carts that had ceased running years ago. Where the winter rains had cut across the berms, thick beds of white quartz pebbles and sharp fiery chips filled the wheel ruts, crunching under the hooves of the pack mule with a dry, rhythmic hiss.
Kezra Venn walked with her eyes scanning the ground five paces ahead of her boots. Every fifty paces, she touched the waxed tally cord at her belt. She felt the smooth boxwood beads click against each other.
“The grade is falling,” she observed aloud, looking back over her shoulder at Fellis. “Four degrees down toward the south. That means we have dropped two hundred arm-lengths since leaving the knife-edge crest yesterday afternoon.”
“My knees already reported the drop,” Fellis Dain answered with a wry grimace, adjusting the canvas shoulder strap that kept his right arm pinned across his ribs. “Uphill hurts your lungs. Downhill finds every loose linchpin in your joints. But the mule is walking easier. Look at his ears.”
