After finishing his tea, Bram rose from his seat in the access trench and picked up his sheepskin bedroll and woolen blanket.
“There’s plenty of dry straw inside the trench, Master Bram,” Kezra offered. She pointed to the sheltered corner beside the kiln chimney pipe. “The stone walls block the wind, and the charcoal hearth will stay warm until morning. You’re welcome to sleep inside the boundary.”
Bram looked at the neat linen strings marking the sixteen-pace Plot square, then looked at the three dark grey rock boulders where Kezra had cut her anchor triangles.
He shook his head firmly.
“I thank you for the tea, young mistress,” Bram said, his tone polite but entirely unbending. “And I thank your healer for tending my arm. Your guide for speaking the truth about Tobin’s wagons. But I’ll sleep out there in the ferns, five paces outside your white strings.”
Fellis Dain looked puzzled. “It’s colder out in the bracken, Bram. The frost will settle on your wool by midnight.”
“A little frost never killed a mountain man,” Bram replied, adjusting his bedroll under his arm. “What kills a mountain man is putting his faith in magic that can tear the ground out from under his boots while he’s dreaming. I saw what happened to Knife Ridge. I saw forty thousand paces of living earth vanish like morning mist. A map maker’s line is an unholy thing, no matter how politely she smiles. I sleep on ground that was laid down by…
