A bead of cold sweat broke out above Sir Cael Ardent’s left eyebrow and ran down his temple toward the edge of his high gold gorget.
He did not step back from the publican’s desk, because a Knight of the White Rose was drilled from his fourteenth year never to yield ground before an inferior, yet his left hand let go of the tallow candle saucer and rose sharply to press the heel of his palm against his forehead.
“Take the lamp back a pace, innkeeper,” Cael grated out between clenched teeth, his eyelids fluttering as the yellow beam of Jon’s bull’s-eye lantern reflected off the wet vellum of the ledger. “The oil you burn in this house has sulfur dregs in the wick.”
“It is pure pressed colza oil from the north mill, Sir Cael—the same oil burning in Lady Signe’s chamber upstairs,” Jon replied quietly, leaving the lantern exactly where it sat on the oak counter. “The smoke isn’t in the lamp. It’s behind your eyes.”
Across the narrow width of the desk, Jon watched the terrifying pathology of the Returner bond work its way through the young knight’s nervous system in real time.
In the seventh life, Jon had stood behind the carved oak chancel screen of St. Jude’s bridge shrine while Cael came to Sister Oda complaining of a racking temple ache that his military healing charms could not touch. Through the lattice, Jon had heard the knight confess that whenever he tried to recall the…
