A skin of paper-thin ice coated the puddles between the cobblestones. Just then, the first morning bell tolled from the high keep tower on Day 103. The highland gale that had battered the castle walls all through the last night had finally dropped during the pre-dawn hours. That left the air inside Stonewake’s service ward bitter, motionless, and sharp enough to sting the lungs like inhaled needles.
Kezra stepped out of the guest chamber into the gray gloom of dawn, her heavy wool coat buttoned to the chin and her woolen scarf wrapped twice around her neck. Across the courtyard, the guard post cooks were already hauling split-larch logs to fire the great copper cooking pots for the morning porridge, the yellow flames casting flickering ribbons of amber light across the frost-crusted roofs. The smell of burning larch sap and boiling oatmeal mingled with the cold, metal scent of the mountain stone.
“The air is still,” Fellis said. He fell into step beside her, his breath billowing in white clouds. He carried the brass-bound wooden sighting rule tucked under his good arm. At the same time, his braced wrist was protected inside a thick sheepskin mitt. “No cross-wind to throw off the weighted drop-line. If the under-road drain is dry, we can finish the soundings before the second watch bells.”
