The sky over the Silver River was the color of bruised iron when Elias reached the approach road.
For thirty years, this specific stretch of the King's Highway had been the bane of Elias's existence. He was a small-scale farmer, hauling cabbages, heavy root vegetables, and whatever else his rocky two acres produced. In the past, reaching the river at dawn meant bracing for two hours of misery. It meant the terrified, struggling weight of his draft horse, fighting the current of the ford. It meant shouting, whipping, and the constant, gnawing fear that the cart would overturn, sending a season's worth of profit floating downstream.
Today, the approach was dry, packed earth.
Elias pulled Brutus to a gentle halt at the second lane of the Pendelton toll plaza. He didn't have to shout over the roar of a chaotic river crossing. He reached into his rough spun tunic, pulled out a single copper coin, and dropped it into the wooden bucket held by a Pendelton guard.
