At first grey light on the seventy-third morning of their journey, a thin skim of hoarfrost coated the grey limestone flags of the upper shelter bench. Below the shelf, the resin forest of Hushwood lay drowned in a sea of motionless white vapor, cold and iron-hard, while five miles to the south, the distant iron horns of Captain Hest Vale’s cavalry column sounded three short, brassy blasts. The morning roll call of an army that had not yet given up the hunt.
Kezra Venn stood near the cold spring trough, a cup of hot pine-needle tea in her right hand. Her eyes measured the flat expanse of the terrace. The night of rest had restored her stamina, but their tactical situation remained precarious. The Host tunnel diggers at the blind bend would eventually clear her crushed pack-frame from the deadfall chains. When they did, cavalry scouts would fan out across the upper switchbacks.
She looked at her glow in the dark, still water of the mossy trough. Her face was hollowed by twelve weeks of mountain wind, her collar frayed, her hair gathered in a practical knot bound with hemp cord. Her left ear held only the flat, unchanging hum of the mountain breeze. But her eyes were sharper than they had ever been in Kilnstep.
