The dawn rose over the High Karst in a clean, crystal-clear sweep of pale gold, lighting up forty miles of unhindered, flowing water.
Across the Oakhaven gorge, the three-tier Roman stone arcade of Saint Eleanor stood amazing and unmoving against the mountain mist. Within its upper channel, forty thousand miners’ inches of pure alpine snowmelt rushed southward at twelve feet per second, its deep, musical roar echoing off the limestone cliffs like the breathing of a living god. Below the central span, the rapid-curing fiery volcanic cement grout beneath Pier Six had hardened into a massive stone stand of artificial dark rock. It anchored the ancient stonework directly into the bedrock of the deep gap. Not a single drop leaked. Not an inch of stone deflected.
In the village of Oakhaven below, forty thousand acres of newly watered winter wheat were already pushing green shoots through the dark, moist loam. The morning air smelled of wet earth, wood smoke, and baking barley loaves.
Tomas Reed stood upon the stone terrace of the waystation at the junction of the King’s Highway, checking the hemp lashing lines of his ash-wood pack frame.
He had spent an hour greasing the leather straps with neat’s-foot oil, ensuring the cowhide was supple against his shoulders. In the lower cradle of the frame rested the lead-lined courier satchel, packed with approved duplicate charters, ink-horns, dry blotting chalk. The signed receipts of forty-two thousand crowns of communal payback. Above the satchel sat the Pine-and-Iron Treatment Box (LC-039-VOSS)…
