The underground air of the deep shaft had transformed fully. The stale, choking pressure that had choked the lower landings twenty minutes earlier was gone, replaced by a fierce, invigorating gale of freezing mountain air pouring down from the newly opened two-hundred-and-ninety-pace gorge chimney pipe. The cold draft whistled through the stone risers. It cleared the haze of hard coal soot and carried the sharp, clean scent of high-sky frost.
Kezra Venn stood at the entrance of the three-hundred-and-ten-pace lateral drift, her hair whipped by the cross-breeze, holding Paxa’s safety lamp high. Inside the brass cage, the yellow animal fat flame burned two full inches tall, steady, vibrant, and pure gold, without the slightest trace of blue discoloration.
Beside her, Paxa Sel inspected the air-pressure gauge and took three deep, experimental breaths of the incoming air. “The air is sixty percent outside gorge air, fully flushed of carbonic acid gas. The oxygen thickness is normal for mountain elevations. We have safe passage.”
Yseld and Fellis returned down the stairwell rope line. Their faces were flushed from the wind and hard effort of the cliffside rappel. Fellis carried his signal paddles under his arm, his braced hand resting comfortably in his sling. Meanwhile, Yseld unclipped her iron pinch-bar and wiped the cold cliff rime from her brows.
