At mid-morning on Day One Hundred and Thirty-Two, Kezra Venn gathered her companions outside the western boundary of Empty Choir to formalize the stewardship agreement that would protect the plateau during her absence.
The camp sat twenty paces beyond the chiseled boundary curb, nestled into the granite hollow behind the settled drover’s porch. The cold mountain wind had eased into a steady, dry breeze from the north, rustling the edges of the heavy oiled canvas tarp that Voss, Bram. Orel had stretched across a framework of split spruce poles. Inside the shelter, three woolen bedrolls were laid out on dry birch boughs, with two cords of split pine firewood stacked neatly against the back wall and four heavy wooden pack-boxes containing eighteen days of dried salt beef, hard ship’s biscuit, oat silver coins, animal fat candles, and lamp oil.
Kezra laid a clean sheet of heavy rag parchment across a smoothed granite slab. She held down the corners with four lead survey weights. Across from her, Voss sat on an upturned nail keg. His heavy wool mittens were tucked beneath his arms. Meanwhile, Bram and Orel stood behind him. Their weathered stonecutter faces listened with grave attention.
“Before Yseld, Paxa, and I shoulder our packs to begin the descent,” Kezra said, dipping her steel dip-pen into the horn inkwell, “we write down the terms of your service. In Kilnstep, my mother taught us that an agreement silent is an agreement broken. You three men are leftover on this high mountain…
