The lower approach to Stonewake Citadel climbed in a broad, snake-like ramp of dark stone cobbles, buttressed on the downhill side by a massive dry-stone retaining wall that had stood against mountain frost for three hundred years.
To their left, the gorge dropped sheer into the frozen bed of the Alder River, where grey water rushed beneath a mantle of jagged shelf ice. To their right, the upright limestone cliff rose two hundred paces toward the lower outer gatehouse, crowned with defensive hoarding and timber arrow-slits.
Kezra walked at the front of the civilian column, her sounding rod tapped lightly against each fourth flat stone slab to monitor the balance of the foundation fill. Ten paces ahead, Captain Hest Vale rode a rangy bay mare with braided mane and iron-shod hooves. Meanwhile, her four dismounted lancers marched in file behind. Their boots struck the stones with the unrushed care of veteran infantry.
As the ramp curved past the ancient lime-burners’ nook—where the mountain wind was caught and muffled by a projecting spur of rock—Hest Vale reined in her mare slightly. It allowed Kezra to draw abreast of her stirrup.
‘A map maker carries a heavy burden, Venn,’ Hest Vale said. That kept her eyes fixed on the winding road ahead. Her tone was conversational, even shiny. But beneath the surface lay the sharp, calculated edge of an interrogator laying out the settings of a trap. ‘Most soldiers think only of the next meal, the next watch, or the dry socks…
