Frost coated the broken limestone boulders of the rubble ramp when Kezra Venn adjusted the oiled canvas harness of her field pack and began the slow ascent toward the southern outer gatehouse of Stonewake Citadel.
The morning of Day 139 broke without wind. Above the serrated granite teeth of the Spine, the sky was the pale, scrubbed grey of river flint, cold enough to turn every breath into a plume of white steam that drifted across the shoulders of her companions. Yseld Arken walked half a pace ahead on Kezra’s left flank, her hooded wool cloak pinned back to keep her scarred left cheek clear of the fabric and her iron-shod climbing staff striking the frost-slick cobbles with a dry, rhythmic tap. Behind them, nineteen-year-old Fellis Dain carried the dual-plumb wooden sighting frames strapped across his broad chest, his left wrist and lower fingers still rigid within the ash-wood splint Paxa Sel had bound after the iron staple snapped in Hushwood. Paxa herself walked at the rear, leading the pack-mule whose panniers carried their coils of knotted hemp measuring line, four bags of animal fat, and two iron chisels wrapped in oiled lambskin.
Inside the inner pocket of Kezra’s coat, nestled flat against her ribs where body heat kept the rag paper supple, her bonded survey notebook rested in its waxed leather wrapper. Tucked into the front leaf of the binding was the folded slip of parchment that had arrived by carrier chain at dusk the evening before.
