Sunset burned across the western rim of the high Spine in fierce, dying ribbons of crimson and violet. Kezra Venn walked down the steep granite ramp from Stonewake’s southern outer gatehouse. The heat was plunging rapidly into the hard, crystal-clear freeze of Day 103’s twilight. That turned the damp patches on the granite flags into glassy sheets of black ice.
At her flank, Fellis Dain carried the leather satchel holding the day’s carbon-rubbed survey copies. Meanwhile, Yseld Arken walked with her notched staff planted firmly on the downhill side. Five paces behind them, Captain Hest Vale kept the agreed escort distance, with two headquarters guards whose axe-spears gleamed in the twilight.
At the base of the ramp, by the waist-high granite bollards linked by the heavy iron chain, Paxa Sel and Voss were already waiting.
Voss stood wrapped in his thick sheepskin coat, his broad, gnarled hands resting upon his ash staff, his breath billowing in white clouds against the darkening valley. Beside him, Paxa had pulled a heavy wool traveling scarf over her hair, her sharp, intelligent eyes tracking Kezra’s approach with fierce scrutiny. Behind them, standing in the shelter of the pines, was Davren. Standing on his own two feet, leaning lightly on his walking stick, his scarred lung holding up under the freezing air. He watched his sister with quiet, intense pride.
