By late afternoon on Day 145, the golden light of the declining sun was pouring clear into the northern throat of Alderfast Basin. For seventy years, the massive black shadow of Stonewake Citadel had fallen across the terraced orchards and cold-frames of the valley, cutting off the evening light and chilling the soil two weeks before the winter frosts.
Now, sitting in a padded two-wheeled handcart at the foot of the newly arrived Empty Choir road, Kezra Venn watched the long, warm shafts of sunlight strike the stone walls of the lower hamlet.
Her body was still heavy with the lingering tiredness of the Horizon exchange. Paxa Sel had wrapped her in two thick wool blankets, tucked a warm brick against her feet. Then she refused to let her leave the cart. But her breathing had steadied, her pulse had returned to its normal resting rhythm. The violent tremor in her forearms had faded to a faint, occasional twitch in her left thumb.
Beside the cart wheel, Fellis Dain was cleaning his iron stone-chisels with an oily rag, working with his uninjured right hand. Meanwhile, his braced left forearm rested comfortably in its larch-wood sleeve.
“Relay signal from the high ridge!” a voice shouted from the upper terrace.
