Sunset on the forty-seventh day was a silent, amazing giant fire that set the western fiery ridges on fire.
The jagged black crests of the Blackglass range turned from coal-black to deep, burning violet, throwing long, knife-like shadows across the blinding white expanse of the Saltglass bitter salt basin. High overhead, thin cirrus clouds caught the dying light in bands of amber, salmon, and bruised copper. It reflected down onto the vast salt flats until the desert looked like an ocean of molten brass.
The sun touched the knife-edge of the ridge. Then, the heat plunged twenty degrees in fifteen minutes. The daytime heat evaporated, replaced by the bitter mountain chill that always rolled down from the high Spine after dark.
On the upper quarry terrace, beside the newly leveled sleeping bench, the expedition’s small campfire of dry greasewood roots burned with a steady, smokeless flame. The pine-scented wood gave off a sweet, sharp incense that cut through the smell of bitter salt dust and mule harness. He dropped small glowing coals that held their heat like red river stones.
Kezra Venn sat on an overturned ash crate near the hearth, Maud Venn’s small clay pot cup cradled between her palms. The cup was glazed in pale celadon, chipped at the rim where Davren had dropped it during a childhood quarrel behind the kiln. But the thick clay held warmth long after a tin mug would have gone cold. It was filled with hot water steeped with wild mint and…
