Night in Alderfast brought a stillness so total that the creak of the tool house timbers sounded like cracking bone. Beyond the oiled parchment shutter, the mountain basin lay bathed in the cold, silver light of an alpine half-moon, lighting up the nested terraces of frost-stiffened cabbage and the dark, silent gash of the southern gully where the mountain shoulder had moved three days ago.
Inside the tool house, a single animal fat dip flickered on the pine table. It cast long, swaying shadows across the rough larch-board walls. Davren slept on his straw pallet across the room, his breathing deep and steady for the first time in months, his ash stick resting within arm’s reach of his hand, his braced knee pillowed on a bundle of dry oats.
Kezra Venn sat at the table with her bonded leather survey notebook open beneath her fingertips. Beside her sat Yseld Arken, carefully cleaning the wire splices of her hooked climbing staff with an oily rag. Meanwhile, Paxa Sel sat on a three-legged stool, grinding dried coltsfoot leaves into a fine green powder in a stone mortar. Near the doorway, Fellis Dain leaned his head back against the heavy doorframe, his braced left forearm resting across his knee. He watched the play of candlelight across the thick parchment pages.
