The midday heat in Saltglass was not merely warm. It was an active, choking weight that drove every living thing beneath canvas or into the deep shadows of the quarry cliffs.
Inside Paxa Sel’s medical tent, the glare was muted to a dull, amber twilight. Paxa had laced the outer canvas flaps tight against the rising dust and hung two damp linen sheets across the entrance to catch the grit. In the center of the tent, sitting on a low ash medicine chest with her hands resting flat on her knees, Kezra Venn sat blindfolded.
A strip of clean, boiled linen covered her eyes, knotted securely behind her head.
“Keep your chin level,” Paxa’s voice came from somewhere to her right. “Don’t turn your head toward the sound. If you tilt your neck, you change the angle of the jawbone. That gives you bone heat flow instead of air hearing. I need to know what reaches the drum.”
“I’m keeping it level,” Kezra said. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. It was thick and muffled, shaking inside her teeth like a bee trapped in a clay pot jug.
“Hands open on your knees,” Paxa commanded gently. “Don’t ball your fists when you strain. Tension in the neck muscles pulls the mastoid muscle tissue.”
