Sir Cael Ardent lunged upward from the straw mattress, his hands shooting forward like an iron grapple, his fingers knotting into the rough wool of Jon Hale’s apron.
His chest heaved in violent, whistling gasps, his ribs straining against the linen binding that Sister Oda had wrapped around his torn collarbone. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and wild with the raw, animal terror of a drowning man breaking the surface of a frozen lake. He did not see the whitewashed cedar walls of the River Lantern; he did not see the tallow candle guttering in the draft or the gray earthenware bowl on the deal table.
“Edda!” Cael screamed, the name tearing from the bottom of his lungs with a ragged, guttural force that shook the rafters. “Edda, grab the timber! The pins are out! The water is coming through the race!”
Jon did not pull away. He planted his heavy boots firmly upon the spruce floorboards, leaning into the soldier’s violent grip, placing his broad calloused hands over Cael’s trembling fists.
“You are in Harth, Cael,” Jon said, his voice deep, calm, and deliberate, measuring out the words like dry grain. “Look at my face. You are in the upper room of the River Lantern. The flood was five years ago.”
