Whyborne
The excavation proved to be cold, miserable work. The chunks of broken green stone were still embedded in a frozen conglomeration of silt, gold, and gravel. To extract a piece, the surrounding matrix had to be warmed and thawed. To avoid damaging the artifacts, we poured boiling water over the mud, then hastily dug fragments out before everything froze again. I helped surreptitiously, using my fire spell to speed up the thawing process.
I’d never used my arcane abilities in such a way before—small, controlled bursts, repeated again and again and again. After an hour, I developed a nagging headache, and felt as though I’d been moving heavy loads about. After two, the headache grew to blinding proportions, and I stopped to keep from becoming utterly useless. In Widdershins, with the maelstrom to draw upon, I probably could have kept it up for days.
Even thawed, the muck was cold, and my fingers were soon reddened and numbed from helping to pry the fragments loose. Once a broken bit of stone was pulled free, it was washed, photographed from both sides, and labeled so its original position could be easily referenced if needed.
Christine began to give me impatient looks. After unearthing a dozen or so fragments, I turned my attention to the painstaking job of piecing the stele back together. Whenever I found where a piece went, Jack cemented it into place with a layer of mud. As promised, the stuff froze to the hardness of cement in a short time.
When the first day ended, the stele was perhaps a third complete, including the fragment Jack had originally mailed to us. As we climbed out of the pit, Turner said, “I’m glad Jack thought to call on you folks. I’m pretty sure we couldn’t have done this on our own.”
I might not be able to split firewood or dig through feet of muck in the hopes of finding gold, but at least I could do this. “I’m glad my talents have been of service.”
“Quite,” Christine agreed briskly. Like the rest of us, she was smeared with stinking black mud. “Archaeology is a business best left to the professionals.”
“I for one will be glad for dinner,” Iskander said, pausing to help her off the ladder.
“And a shot or two of whiskey,” she added.
“Come along,” Turner said with a grin. “Dinner and whiskey await you at the saloon.”
Exhaustion ate at my bones, and I would have preferred to return to our cabin and collapse. Still, a hot meal might drive away the chill that seemed to have settled in every limb. As we left the tent, however, Jack said, “A word with you, Griffin?”
I paused and glanced back over my shoulder. Griffin didn’t look at me, though, only nodded to his brother. “Of course.”
I turned away and followed Christine and Iskander. But as I did so, I had the oddest feeling Jack watched me over Griffin’s shoulder, his gaze boring into my back until the tent flap fell closed between us.