The morning wind swept the gravel terrace clean of ash as the four travelers prepared their gear for the march toward the Saltglass margin.
Fellis Dain was kneeling beside the pack frames. He used his good left hand and his teeth to snug the rawhide cinch-strap around the grey mule’s belly. His right arm was still bound across his chest in Paxa’s linen sling. But the boy worked with the steady, uncomplaining economy of an apprentice ropewright who refused to let an injury turn him into a spectator.
Kezra Venn walked over to him. She held the braided copper-and-thread travel bracelet she had picked up from the hearthstone.
“Fellis,” Kezra said, kneeling in the fiery dust beside his boot.
The boy looked up, wiping a strand of brown hair from his forehead with the back of his wrist. “The diamond hitch is snug, Kezra. The water casks are balanced on the left, the grain sack on the right. She won’t list an inch on the downhill grade.”
“I’m not asking about the hitch,” Kezra said softly. She held out the copper bracelet, letting the wire catch the morning light. “Do you remember Day 6 in Kilnstep? The morning after Paxa arrived with her mule?”
