Between eleven in the morning and three in the afternoon on Day ninety-one, the high mountain sun transformed the South Mountain Shoulder into an anvil of blinding, blasting heat.
The surrounding air was barely forty-five degrees. Even so, the bare pink granite absorbed the raw solar heat wave like a dark sponge. Heat shimmers rose from the flat stone terraces above the haulage gallery, blurring the jagged horizon of the Spine into dancing, watery waves.
In any tale of reckless heroics, the young map maker would have opened her book at high noon. It struck the stone at the height of the sun to shave three hours off her journey and prove her indomitable spirit.
Instead, Kezra Venn lay flat on her back beneath a double-layered canvas shade-tarp rigged twelve paces outside the southern corner anchor, a damp linen cloth covering her eyes, her boots unlaced to let the blood circulate freely through her swollen ankles.
Beside her sat Paxa Sel, watching a glass water-timer with unblinking vigilance.
“Drink,” Paxa ordered. She handed Kezra a carved wooden horn filled with cool spring water spiked with coarse sea salt, dried mint, and crushed willow bark.
Kezra pushed the damp cloth up her forehead, propping herself on her elbows. “Paxa, I’ve drunk two quarts already. My stomach feels like a full waterskin.”
