The wind on the eastern edge of the displaced grove died away. That left only the steady, solemn drip of condensed moisture falling from the dying pine boughs onto the crushed timbers of the logging sled.
Kezra Venn stood by the shattered front axle, her hand resting against the cold, unbending face of the two-ton limestone block. Her pulse beat rapid and hard against her ribs as the full implication of the disaster washed through her mind.
She turned to face her three companions.
“Fellis. Paxa. Yseld,” Kezra called out, her voice ringing with a total, unbending power that brook no delay. “Leave the cart where it stands. Gather here beside the stone.”
The three companions walked over to the eastern seam, stopping in a semicircle around the crushed oak runners. Forester Bram stepped back into the shade of a mountain hemlock. He watched the young map maker with quiet, respectful curiosity.
Kezra reached into her coat, pulled out her bonded notebook, and flipped past the active parcel slates to the very front endpapers. The clean, heavy leaves where she had inscribed the binding rules of their expedition charter back in Kilnstep.
She pulled her work pencil from her pocket. She looked at Fellis and Yseld with an intense, unblinking gaze.
