The north road climbed out of the Bellwether flood basin through a row of barren limestone shelves. There, the soil grew thin and gray, littered with chipped scree that rattled against the iron tires of the heavy cart wagon.
Tomas sat on the wagon box. He held the reins of the two heavy bay geldings as they leaned into their leather collars. Beside him, bundled in a thick frieze overcoat, sat Nessa Vale. Her brass sound hearing horn rested in a felt-lined wooden holster mounted to the dashboard, its flared bell catching the pale morning sun.
In the wagon bed behind them, Mara Flint sat on a sack of salt oats, her iron-ringed bog-oak staff braced between her heavy boots. Across from her, Sile Rook sat with his back against the sideboards, his dark wool cloak pulled tight over the oak tall body-shield that was lashed securely to the wagon frame. Sile’s iron-wood hooked pruning blade lay across his knees. It was wrapped in greased canvas to protect the cutting edge from the road grit.
“The grade is increasing,” Nessa said, her voice carrying that clipped, precise rhythm. She touched the rim of her sound horn, pointing with her gloved left hand toward the northern horizon. “Four inches of rise per hundred yards. Look at the road cuttings.”
