Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
In the tiny, six-foot stone pocket beneath the suspended mass of Stone Beta, the only sound was the faint, rhythmic drip-drip-drip of cold limestone slow leak falling into the black depths of the giant’s kettle.
Tomas Reed knelt with his boots planted firmly in the wet gravel, his torso motionless as an ash post. His left hand held the brass animal fat lamp three feet away from the weeping keg, shielding the open draft vents with his leather mitten so that no stray spark could drift toward the yellow crystals.
“Sile,” Tomas said, his voice dropping into a barely heard whisper that held zero shaking. “Take your knife out of your belt. Very slowly. Don’t let the steel handle knob click against the sword sheath chape.”
Sile moved with the painful, liquid caution of a veteran scout clearing a minefield in the dark. His thumb slid beneath the leather retaining thong, eased the blade from the sheath without a sound. Then he passed the knife across to Tomas handle-first.
Tomas took the handle. The blade was forged from tough spring-steel, six inches long, ground to a dull scraping edge.
“Nessa,” Tomas whispered. He kept his eyes fixed on the amber droplet hanging from the oak stave. “What neutralizes the crystal crust?”
