In the quiet afternoon heat interval on Day 41, the caravan camp had pulled back into whatever shade could be found beneath wagon tilts and canvas awnings.
Behind Paxa Sel’s medical wagon, on a narrow limestone bench sheltered from the blistering glare of the bitter salt flats, three women sat in a quiet, secluded circle. Paxa sat on an overturned water cask, a bowl of soaking linen strips resting between her boots, her sharp eyes fixed on Yseld Arken. Kezra sat on a flat-topped packing crate, her bonded notebook closed in her lap. Her ash sounding rod leaned against her knee.
Twenty paces away, at the corner of the wagon park, Fellis Dain stood on watch, his six-foot staff planted in the gravel, his back turned to give them privacy while ensuring no curious wagon driver wandered into earshot.
Yseld laid her hooked climbing staff flat across the limestone bench. Her hands, scarred by wire splices and rope friction, rested open on her knees. When she spoke, her voice had the flat, plain rhythm of a witness giving formal testimony before a judge.
“Three years,” Yseld began, looking out toward the shimmering white expanse of the salt pan. “Before I came to the western uplands and answered your notice on the tavern board in Kilnstep, I wore the grey wool cloak of the Cairn Host. I held the rank of Route Warden in the Third Logistics Squadron under Quartermaster Kael.”
