The afternoon wind was turning bitter as Kezra climbed the terrace steps toward the Seed Store. The grey clouds that had hung over the northern peaks all morning were lowering. That brought the sharp, metal smell of high-sky sleet. Beside her walked Fellis Dain. It carried a heavy mason’s cross-peen hammer and a cold chisel in his good right hand, while Adra Pike, Yseld. The five terrace growers followed in a quiet, solemn procession.
At the central cart barrier, the pool of Cressa’s blood had darkened to a dull, rust-brown crust on the limestone risers, half-covered by a dusting of grey stone powder from the morning’s barrage. The harvest wagon had been pulled straight, its iron brake pin securely wedged once more, and two growers with ash pikes stood watch behind the oak tailgate, their eyes fixed on the empty northern scree.
Kezra stopped at the northeastern corner of the Seed Store. The granary was an honest piece of mountain carpentry, raised on eight heavy granite piers fitted with inverted tin pans to turn back rodents, its seasoned cedar floor beams pegged with dry oak trunnels. Inside, forty bushels of seed grain rested in dry cedar bins, the literal life of the valley awaiting the spring thaw. Flush into the mortar of the corner foundation sat the four-inch granite boundary plate she had chiseled on Day 95—Circuit 29: Plot Scale (16x16x8 paces). Three clean, three-sided survey scratches marked the orientation of its outside anchors. He locked the sixteen-pace cubic prism…
