The camp outside the western boundary of Empty Choir was pitched twenty paces clear of the chiseled curb, nestled into a natural granite hollow that broke the worst of the northern wind.
Above the low charcoal hearth, Paxa’s iron travel pot bubbled with a thick, hearty pottage of salt mutton, pearled barley, and dried cabbage leaves, seasoned with a pinch of peppery wild leek that Voss had gathered along the lower stream banks near Windpit. Kezra sat on a rolled horse blanket with her back against the dry stone wall, her tin bowl cupped in both hands to draw the heat into her chilled fingers. Beside her, Yseld ate with the silent, rhythmic economy of a long-distance scout, while Voss, Bram. Orel sat around the fire. Their breath rose in thick white plumes against the black alpine sky.
For several minutes, no one spoke. The only sounds were the quiet scrape of horn spoons against tin, the low hiss of charcoal embers. The eerie, multi-toned piping of the whistling shelters carrying across the dark plateau behind them.
Kezra blew gently across the surface of her broth, staring into the red coals of the fire.
“When I was in Kilnstep,” she began, her voice quiet in the hollow, “back when my notebook was only a Step slate and the drying shed floor felt like a great journey, I used to lie awake on my straw tick and imagine what a high-rank map maker could do.”
