Frost had turned the trampled mud of Stonewake Citadel’s central quadrangle into corrugated iron by the second morning of the survey.
At first light on Day 140, Kezra Venn stood beside the central wellhead. Then she drew the first of her quarter-width inside grid lines across the open page of her notebook. Across a Horizon parcel measuring 1,024 paces on every north-lined up side, the class rules demanded three nonstop inside grid passes in each cardinal direction, spaced at precise 256-pace intervals. It was never enough to map the outer rim and assume the heart of the mountain remained solid. Every attached cellar, water tank, foundation pier, and buried drain along those cross lines had to be inspected, paced. Then it sounded with her own hands.
Yseld Arken walked twenty paces ahead, unreeling the heavy, knotted hemp measuring rope that had been boiled in linseed oil to resist stretching in the bitter mountain cold. Every tenth knot was tagged with a scrap of red leather, giving Kezra an immediate visual tally of distance without needing to break her stride or squint through the morning fog. Behind them came nineteen-year-old Fellis Dain, his braced left forearm resting in a thick wool sling. Meanwhile, his good right hand held the sighting compass level against his waist.
