The wind across the snow top stone ledge had the sharp, metal bite of high height. It carried needles of frozen crust that stung Kezra Venn’s cheeks whenever she turned her face eastward. Twenty paces out from the stable granite lip, the cochineal silk ribbon of the Cairn Host scout still snapped and fluttered on its rusted iron pin. In the clean afternoon glare, the ribbon looked like a festive marker, an invitation to step out onto a gentle white saddle that promised an easy crossing toward the northern valleys.
Beneath that white saddle lay three thousand feet of empty air.
Yseld kept the hemp belay taut around the natural granite bollard, her hooked staff planted deep into an icy fissure behind her heels. Her knuckles were pale inside her wool-lined mittens, her stance braced to arrest any sudden slip. Ten paces to the rear, sheltered by the reddish-brown arkose sandstone stone support prop that marked the ancient survey swap, Voss and Paxa waited beside the packs.
“A military scout who can’t read snow pays with his neck,” Yseld said. Her voice carried flat against the gusting gale. “That’s the border rule. The Cairn Host didn’t cry when their altered mile-posts in the Blackglass marsh drowned six wagon teams. Why should we spend our animal fat and muscle building signs for men who carry iron to Alderfast?”
