The tallow candle in the wall sconce flickered as Lady Signe Lorr carried her brass student-lamp into the warded bedchamber. She set the lamp upon the edge of the deal table, adjusting the tin reflector until its pale yellow beam illuminated the gray earthenware vessel and the two crossed bars of hoop-iron.
“The seal remains dormant,” Signe observed, peering through her round spectacles at the glassy surface of the turbid water. “No thermal surge, no acoustic bleed. How long will the lead sinkers absorb the field?”
Sister Oda stood on the opposite side of the table, her habit pinned at the shoulders, her sleeves pushed high. In her right hand she held the caribou-bone stylus, its tapered point scrubbed clean with pure spirit.
“The lead will hold until the dawn fog clears, My Lady,” Oda answered, her voice quiet so as not to disturb the sleeping knight upon the rope bed. “Lead is a dead metal. It has no memory of fire or blood, so it swallows the anchor’s hum without answering back. But the gold leaves floating in the vapor are not dead. They are living imperial decrees, sustained by the sovereign will of the throne.”
Jon Hale stood beside the nun, his apron dusted with flour from his brief check of the kitchen bins, his hands warm from the stove. “We need to lift the oldest leaf first. Cael spoke of High Pass, but before that, he spoke of the sluice mill.”
