Kezra crawled up the final three yards of loose scree on her belly, her elbows digging into the cold, frost-rimed fescue grass until she lay flat beside Yseld Arken on the outer rim of the limeworking cut.
The wind here blew thin, sharp, and dry. He smelled of distant snow from the high peaks of the Spine to the northwest. Below them, the world opened out into a broad, sunlit bowl where the sunken gorge road emerged from its limestone walls and met the high upland pass. The direct, level highway that led straight to Kilnstep in less than six hours’ march.
From this vantage, six hundred feet above the valley floor, the main road looked like a pale chalk ribbon unrolled across the brown pastures.
“Keep your head below the juniper tussock,” Yseld whispered, not turning her face. “The morning light is coming over our shoulders. Any brass or polished glass will catch the glare like a bright light.”
Kezra nodded. She drew the tube-shaped brass sighting tube from its leather sleeve, unscrewed the protective horn caps from both ends. Then she shielded the front lens with the curled fingers of her left hand. She turned her face so that her good right eye lined up with the crosshairs. She swept the tube slowly across the pass.
