The midnight wind off the northern crags was cold, clean. Then it scented with dry snow from the distant glaciers of the Spine. High above the Saltglass basin, the moon rode full and bright in an indigo sky stripped of clouds. It cast an unearthly silver bright glare across the vast bitter salt flats below.
Kezra Venn stood on the rocky promontory of the northern rim overlook, her dark wool coat buttoned to the throat, her hands resting on the ash staff of her sounding rod.
Beside her stood her companions: Yseld Arken with her hooked climbing staff planted in the scree. Paxa Sel with her medical satchel slung across her chest, watching the stars. And Fellis Dain leaning against the shafts of their restocked handcart. His breath rose in faint, pale wisps in the chill air.
A hundred paces below them, winding out of the shadows of the lower canyon, the final night convoy of Joric Thane’s freight caravan was rolling across the sixty-four-pace limestone road bench.
From this high vantage point, the convoy looked like a crawling string of golden fireflies. Horn lanterns swung from the tailboards and harness collars of eight heavy freight wagons. He cast long, swaying beams of amber light across the pale stone floor. The mules moved with steady, unrushed rhythm, their iron shoes ringing against the dense pale limestone slabs with clear, musical notes that drifted up the gorge on the night breeze.
