The steam rising from the earthenware bowl carried a whisper that was not made of wind or boiling water.
Jon Hale stood alone by the deal table, his gaze drawn down into the turbid depths of the vessel. The room was hushed; on the rope bedstead, Sir Cael Ardent slept with the deep, motionless exhaustion of the dead, while Lady Signe Lorr sat at the small writing desk three paces away, rapidly transcribing notes into her leather-bound assize ledger.
Beneath the four inches of muddy water, the gold disc of the Returner Seal pulsed with a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It sounded like the slow heartbeat of an ancient iron furnace buried deep beneath the mountains. With each beat, a soft, seductive tremor rippled through the floorboards, traveling up the soles of Jon’s boots, settling into his ribs like a warm draught of spiced wine on a winter evening.
Jon leaned forward, his hands resting on the edge of the pine table.
In the dark water, the three floating gold bars shifted slightly, their burnished surfaces reflecting not the tallow candle on the wall, but visions of scenes that had never taken place in this room.
He saw the kitchen of the River Lantern on a sunlit morning in midsummer. His father, whole and hale, laughing by the flour bins with both arms unbroken by the river ice. He saw his mother, her hair still dark, kneading rye dough upon the broad maple board, looking out across a…
