At three-fifteen in the afternoon on Day ninety-one, Kezra Venn walked to the chiseled three-sided anchor on the untouched limestone floor six paces south of the cut haulage rails.
She stood four paces outside the boundary line. Comfortably inside the forced sixteen-pace activation radius. But safely separated from the rock that was about to move.
Beside her stood Paxa Sel, her medical satchel slung across her chest. Her hands held the padded leather rod case and the emergency tuning forks. Six paces to the east stood Fellis Dain. His good right hand gripped the halyard of the local semaphore frame, his eyes fixed on the distant ridge spine three miles away.
She stood beside the three-sided corner anchor on the limestone floor. Kezra Venn felt the huge, solemn weight of the moment settle onto her shoulders like a cloak of lead.
Around her, the high mountain pass was utterly still. The sun had vanished behind the jagged western crest of the Spine. He plunged the entire haulage gallery into deep, cool purple shadow. The wind had died away to a faint, cold whisper that stirred the dry sedge grass along the cut rail sleepers.
Paxa Sel stepped behind Kezra, checking the linen bandage that bound the neat’s-foot oil wool pad securely against Kezra’s damaged left mastoid.
