At midday on Day One Hundred and Thirty-Four, the wind across the high Spine began to back toward the north-west. He rose from a steady mountain breeze into a gusty, forty-knot gale that howled through the upper rock towers of Windpit.
On the granite spur of Relay Station Two, Drover Bren and young Kester stood behind the dry-stone sighting bench. He peeked through the brass sighting tube toward the watching ridge three miles away. Behind them, Kezra and Yseld sat on a pack-crate in the leeward shelter of the canvas tent, checking the cinch-straps on the four loaded mules that were preparing for the afternoon march down to the lower scrub clearing.
A sudden, sharp whistle cut through the camp: Bren’s two-finger signal.
“Station One is flashing!” Bren called out, his eye pressed hard against the rubber eyepiece of the brass tube. “Three flashes from Garr’s mirror. One... Two... Three. Clean as a whistle.”
Kezra stood up right away, walking across the flagged shelf to stand at Bren’s elbow. Her woolen coat flapped wildly against her shins as the wind screamed off the western cliff edge.
“What shape is he hoisting?” Kezra asked, turning her good right ear toward the drover.
