Dawn broke over the gravel terrace with a pale, cold wash of primrose light that turned the watch-fire on the northern ridge to a faint smudge of grey smoke.
The two Cairn Host scouts were already awake, their figures visible through Kezra’s sighting magnifying glass as two tiny slate-grey silhouettes standing beside their tethered horses. They watched the southern camp.
Kezra sat beside the cold ashes of the hearth, a steaming mug of very thirsty barley tea cupped in her hands. Beside her on a flat dark rock stone lay one of the expedition’s braided travel bracelets. A four-inch circle of fine copper wire twisted around three strands of raw, unwhitened flax thread, fitted with a sliding knot of split calfskin.
Paxa Sel knelt opposite her, slicing a cold boiled turnip with the small paring knife from her medicine chest.
“You asked me last night if you could move that injured corporal through an exchange,” Paxa said, her voice cutting through the morning stillness with clean, steady care. “You spoke of it as an act of mercy—a gift of your class that would spare a young soldier six weeks of pain on an ambulance cart.”
Kezra looked down at the copper bracelet. “Is it wrong to spare a man pain?”
