At first light on Day 121, the wind on the high firn dropped from a screaming gale to a steady, freezing draft that carried the scent of dry snow and ancient stone.
Kezra Venn crawled through the low flap of the canvas shelter, her knees sinking four inches into the wind-packed crust. Above the horseshoe low roof wall of cut firn blocks they had stacked the last evening, the Spine rose in a jagged tiered arena of black granite and blue ice. Two miles up the white incline, perched squarely in the notch of the snow saddle, stood the stone headframe of Windpit.
From below, the building looked like a solitary castle tower rising out of the snowdrifts. Built of massive, linked granite blocks with a steeply pitched slate roof designed to shed winter gales, it measured twelve paces wide by fourteen paces long. The morning sun, breaking over the eastern ridges, struck the high slate crest with a harsh, golden glare that cast long violet shadows across the firn.
“Rope check,” Yseld Arken called out, her breath misting her frosted eyelashes. She stood on the firm crust, testing the tension of the four-man harness line with sharp, rhythmic tugs. “Ten paces between each climber. If a snow bridge gives way under your boots, don’t kick. Throw your arms wide and let the harness take your weight. The snowpack looks sound, but meltwater runs deep along the granite contact.”
