By the time the sun climbed to the top of the sky. That turned the pale limestone of the newly arrived Empty Choir bench into a dazzling field of white glare, the trembling in Kezra Venn’s hands had subsided from a violent palsy to a dull, manageable quiver. Paxa Sel had forced another half-cup of salted barley broth down her throat, checked her pulse three more times. Then she finally allowed her to sit upright with her back propped against a folded wool pack.
“You may open the book,” Paxa said, wiping her fingers on a clean linen rag. “Your eyes are tracking straight and your breathing is steady. But if you try to stand on those legs before noon tomorrow, I’ll tie you to that baggage cart with Fellis’s best climbing hemp.”
“I have no desire to stand,” Kezra said honestly. Her legs felt like two sacks of wet clay, heavy, numb, and devoid of spring.
With slow, careful movements, she reached down to the lap of her skirt and unhooked the small brass toggle that secured the waxed oilcloth wrapping around her bonded survey notebook. The leather binding beneath was dark, supple, and cold to the touch. She had pressed her thumb to the corner impression during the warning count. Then, the book had pulsed with a fierce, burning heat that had warmed the lining of her coat. Now, it held only the surrounding chill of the mountain air.
