On the morning of Day One Hundred and Thirty-Seven, the rain cleared from the lower ridges. That left the autumn sky washed clean and pale, like watered milk.
Kezra Venn, Yseld Arken, and Paxa Sel dropped the final rocky spur where the alpine trail joined the high contour path running along the northern rim of Alderfast. Below them, through gaps in the golden birch woods, the great terraced bowl of the basin opened out in the morning light. The stone farmsteads, the plum orchards with their bare, frost-blackened branches. The silver ribbon of the central canal looked peaceful, almost untouched by war. Save for the dark, brooding bulk of Stonewake Citadel three miles to the north, where military pennons flapped along the gray stone low roof walls.
The three women reached the junction where the contour trail branched toward the narrow mouth of the southern rock gallery. Then, a faint clatter of iron-shod staff-poles on stone drifted up from the ravine below.
Yseld stepped into the brush. Her hand dropped instinctively to the handle of her short spear. She peered through the yellow birch leaves, then relaxed her shoulders and signaled all-clear with two taps of her staff.
“Civilian travelers,” Yseld whispered. “Carrying bundles on their backs.”
