Dusk fell swiftly across the upper heights of Hushwood. The western sky deepened into bruised plum and cold slate-gray, silhouetting the fractured jagged crest of the Spine against the dying light.
With the southern margin hearth cleanly retired from her active register and the iron sounding rods safely buckled inside their canvas pack sheath, Kezra Venn knelt on the hardpan floor of the bare upkeep yard.
Outside the northern boundary string. There, the drystone under-road drain shaft met the native dark grey rock wall, she set the edge of her cold-chisel against the crystal-clear rock. With three sharp, rhythmic blows of her horn-headed mallet, she drove the three-sided locator mark half an inch into the stone, blowing away the pale gray powder to reveal the crisp three-inch chevron pointing true toward the center of the terrace.
She cut the second anchor into an outcropping of dark quartzite at the southwest corner. She cut the third into a massive sandstone boulder flanking the eastern grease ditch.
Every anchor rang with a high, clear note of solid bedrock.
Beside the handcart, Fellis Dain wiped his hands on his canvas apron. Then he stepped back to the tripod of the sighting frame. He checked the twin horsehair plumb-threads against true north, checked the level bubble in the glass vial. Then he gave Kezra a single, solemn nod.
