The vault smelled of ancient cedar oil, crushed slate. The cold, bitter-salt tang of undisturbed mountain limestone.
For several heartbeats after Yseld wedged the iron fire-shutter open with climbing pitons, no one spoke. The flame of Paxa’s beeswax taper burned tall and motionless. It cast amber warmth across the six massive stone pillars that held the mountain aloft. Here, deep in the limestone root of the Needlehouse ridge, the bitter western gale was reduced to a faint, rhythmic pulse. Not a sound Kezra could hear with her damaged left ear. But a steady tremor she could feel through the thick leather soles of her boots.
Paxa stepped forward across the flat stone slabs, her medical satchel slung under her arm. Her eyes were fixed on the high-backed oak chair at the head of the larch drafting table. There, the skeleton sat under its mantle of faded wool. The physician’s movements were gut, born of twenty years spent attending injured wagon drivers and miners in the upland camps. She reached out a gloved hand toward the fallen hand bones resting on the table, intending to gather the scattered finger bones and arrange them with decent respect.
“Wait, Paxa,” Kezra said softly.
