The ninth beat rose from the bedrock like a rising tide against a sea cliff.
It didn’t rattle the loose mortar. It tightly packed it. The air in the narrow upkeep lane grew thick, smelling of ozone, cold iron, and crushed quartz. In the corner crevice between the native bedrock and the castle foundation, the brass collar of the sounding rod began to sing a high, piercing note that pierced through the deeper bass roar of the mountain.
Kezra didn’t wait for the tone to crest.
She bent her knees. That kept her left palm anchored flat against the thick parchment page of her notebook. Then she reached down with her right hand. Her fingers closed around the six-sided lead balance ring of the rod.
The metal was scorching hot. Friction and deep ringing hum had driven heat through the alloy in thirty seconds. But her calloused palm gripped the fluted neck without flinching. She set her heel against the edge of the limestone anchor socket, locked her elbow, and pulled.
The brass groaned as it slid from the three-foot drill hole.
It came free with a dry sucking rasp, trailing a puff of powdered limestone. Kezra swept the rod backward in a tight, practiced arc. She cleared the boundary groove by two feet. Then she drove the narrowed point down into the stiff leather sheath at her right hip. The spring-loaded brass keeper clicked home over the balance ring. It locked the loose metal securely against her thigh outside…
