At the southwestern corner of Empty Choir. There, the granite curb met the outer drainage trench, Kezra Venn knelt on the cold stone to close the forty-third circuit of her life.
The sun had sunk behind the jagged dark shape of the western Spine. That left the high plateau bathed in a deep, cobalt twilight. The wind that blew across the three massive terraces was sharp with frost. It carried the distant scent of snow-laden crags from the north. Her knees throbbed beneath her boiled-leather pads. Her shoulders were stiff from carrying the transit and sighting gear for six miles across the inside grid lines. And her right hand was stained with black carbon ink and brass filings from the sounding rod.
Beside her, Yseld Arken held the final corner sighting pole upright. Her amber eyes watched the boundary line with quiet vigilance. Across the terrace, near the central shaft small roof-dome, Voss and Paxa waited in silence. Meanwhile, the two Brackenford quarrymen, Bram and Orel, stood outside the western curb leaning on their heavy stone-sledges.
Before uncapping her ink, Kezra pulled her pocket notebook from her breast pocket and reviewed the numbers one last time. Every station around the outer edge had to match the counterpart measurements she had taken at Stonewake Citadel five weeks ago.
