At the foot of the western castle wall stair. There, the sheer stonework wall met the natural limestone bench, a clean, four-inch-wide groove had been chiselled into the native rock. It ran straight as an iron rule, lined up exactly north-to-south, marking the western boundary plane of the 1,024-pace Horizon prism.
A single white linen pennon, tied to an iron survey pin driven into the outside rock, flapped sharply in the freezing mountain wind.
The two basin stone-masons reached the bottom of the spiral stair. Their wool coats were dark with sweat despite the biting cold. Between them, the eighteen-inch ash chair harness swung with steady, pendular rhythm, suspended from the short lifting bars. In the seat, Morren had his eyes closed. His teeth clamped was tight against the dull throb of his swaddled pelvis, his hand clinging to the sheepskin armrest Fellis had padded for him.
“One step,” Davren Venn said from the outer road, his voice steady, grounding, and clear. He stood three paces beyond the white flag, leaning his full weight onto his split-triangle ash stick. His left knee was locked straight in its iron brace. “Straight across the groove. Don’t hitch your shoulders. The cart bed is waiting.”
