By full sunrise, the morning sun had crested the eastern mountains, bathing the Saltglass quarry camp in a blinding, level glare that set the white stone flats blazing like polished silver. The bitter night frost was already evaporating in thin. It curled plumes of steam from the wagon covers. It carried the sharp, sulfuric stench of dry bitter salt into the warming air. The heat rose from the salt crust in shimmering waves, promising another scorching day across the basin.
Around the central command wagon, where Joric Thane had set up his frame stand table between the two forward wheels, thirty drivers, quarry masons, and family heads stood crowded shoulder-to-shoulder. They had watched from the wagon circle as the fourth lantern suddenly died on the distant ridge an hour before, and when the three upper beacons were snuffed twenty minutes later, a tense, expectant murmur had swept through the camp. Even the children, wrapped in wool shawls against the lingering dawn chill, leaned out from the tailgate openings to stare toward the southern flats.
When Yseld and Fellis emerged from the mouth of the southern drainage couloir. She carried a heavy, bulging canvas sack between them on a timber pole, the crowd parted in total silence.
