The heavy oak door did not open to Jon’s hand; it was kicked inward with concussive force, slamming back against the plaster wall with a splintering crack that sent dried lime cascading across the floorboards like fine winter salt.
Sir Cael Ardent stood upon the threshold.
The Crown Returner had not drawn his broadsword. His silver-chased gauntlets rested lightly at his leather belt, but behind him on the narrow landing stood four oath guards in blackened boiled leather, their iron-banded kettle hats casting deep shadows across their bearded faces. Each man carried a heavy five-foot partisan, the broad steel blades honed to a razor edge and held strictly vertical in the tight stairwell. Below them, through the open stairwell and the carriage doors of the post house, the muffled rumble of iron-rimmed wagon wheels vibrated through the foundation timbers, accompanied by the dull, hollow thud of heavy firkins being stacked against the cellar sleepers.
The draft from the landing blew into the high-ceilinged study, carrying the unmistakable, sharp stench of saltpeter, brimstone, and raw pitch—the sulfur reek of the forty powder casks being positioned beneath the floorboards by Cael’s detachment.
Cael’s pale blue eyes flicked from Lady Signe Lorr to Jon Hale, taking in the innkeeper’s dust-stained wool coat, the soot smeared along his right cuff from the aqueduct flue, and the magistrate’s packed pine traveling box resting beside the bronze inkstand on the desk. A thin, cold smile touched the knight’s lips—not the radiant, boyish grin of the hero…
