They carried the scroll out of the command wagon into the pale, shadowless morning, retreating to the canvas awning beside the expedition’s two-wheeled handcart.
The air was still cold enough that their breath plumed in faint white wisps. But the desert wind had died to a gentle draft that barely stirred the fringe of the tarp. Kezra Venn sat on the upturned grain crate, laying the heavy rag sheet flat across the smooth ash planks of the handcart’s tailboard.
Fellis Dain brought four smooth, water-rounded river pebbles from his tool pouch, placing one on each corner of the paper to hold it against the morning breeze. Paxa Sel sat on a folding stool to her right, her arms folded across her wool apron, her test satchel resting against her shins. Meanwhile, Yseld Arken stood at Kezra’s left shoulder, leaning her weight on her hooked climbing staff.
Kezra tilted her head slightly. That brought her uninjured right ear toward the center of the circle so she could hear her own voice and the quiet breathing of her companions.
“The date at the top,” Kezra began, her voice low and steady. “Eighth Month, Day 24. Written here in Saltglass, eleven months ago.”
