By midday on Day 44, the entire caravan of nine heavy freight wagons, forty-two travelers, and twenty-eight mules had crossed the newly bridged highway, establishing a consolidated staging camp on the high eastern plateau.
Inside the shaded medical cart parked fifty paces back from the road, Paxa Sel pulled the canvas flaps closed against the wind, shutting out the glaring sunlight and the noisy bustle of the camp.
The inside of the cart was quiet and cool. He smelled of dried elderberry, bitter pine-resin oil, and bitter willow-bark.
Kezra Venn sat on the edge of the low check bunk, her boots resting on the timber floorboards, her wool coat unbuttoned. Her left ear was still hot and tender to the touch, the skin behind her jaw glowing with a dull, throbbing ache. Meanwhile, her right ear remained sharp, clear, and hyper-sensitive to every rustle of canvas.
Paxa stepped up to the deal table, laying out her three tuned instruments. The silver bell-chime, the two-pronged brass tuning fork, and the hollow goat-bone flute.
“You’ve had four hours of rest, a full meal, and three measured cups of salted water,” Paxa said. Her voice dropped into her formal, cold and exact register. “The acute tremor in your hands has subsided. Your pulse has dropped from one hundred and ten beats to seventy-four. Now we conduct the post-exchange audit.”
