Kezra Venn waited until Fellis Dain had finished his final rounds of the camp outer edge.
The boy had checked the mule’s pickets, tightened the rawhide hobbles around its hocks, and laid out the spare cargo tethers within arm’s reach of his bedroll. He had carried two buckets of salty water from the seep at the foot of the bluff, straining the liquid through a clean linen cloth to remove the fiery grit before letting the beast drink. Tiredness from two days of grueling mountain descent through the dark rock fields had caught up with him. He crawled into his sheepskin blankets on the leeward side of the pack frames. He pulled his wool hood over his ears. Within ten breaths was breathing the deep, untroubled sleep of a healthy youth who trusted his companions to keep the night watch.
The fire had burned down to a fist-sized knot of dry tamarisk root, glowing deep orange against the black fiery stones of the hearth.
Paxa Sel sat on an overturned water keg, slicing dried willow bark into fine threads for her morning infusion, her movements quiet and careful. The small knife scraped against the wooden cutting board with a steady, soothing rhythm. But her eyes never strayed far from the two women across the coals.
