Dawn broke across the Spine in a wash of pale, diamond clarity. The wind, which had drummed against the watching ridge with forty-mile fury throughout the night, had subsided to a steady, singing draft that carried none of the blinding spindrift from the evening before. The heat stood well below zero, freezing the moisture on the tent canvas into crinkling rime as Yseld pulled the flap aside.
“The raised stone road is clear,” Yseld said. Her hooked staff tapped the frozen stones outside. “The gale swept the crest clean. What snow remains is hard-packed firn.”
Kezra rolled her blankets with swift, practiced movements, strapping them across the lower frame of her survey pack. Beside her, Voss was already tightening his gaiter straps. It tested each brass buckle with cold-stiffened fingers. Paxa distributed four strips of dried venison and a handful of very thirsty barley. That made them chew thoroughly before shouldering their loads.
“Drink your water before we step out,” Paxa ordered, tapping Kezra’s tin canteen. “The ice air will steal your spit before you reach the halfway mark.”
Roping together in single file at ten-pace intervals, they climbed out of the lee hollow onto the crest of the watching ridge. Yseld took the lead, probing each yard of snow with the chisel point of her staff. Kezra walked second, holding her field slate and compass. Paxa followed third. And Voss anchored the rear with his heavy pick and sounding wedges.
