The third dawn of the ninth turn broke over Harth in shades of bruised tallow and slate. Through the leaded panes of the River Lantern’s taproom, gray light fell across trestle tables, catching dried rings where mugs of beer had rested the night before. The room smelled of cold hearth ashes, pine scrubbed with vinegar, and mutton grease.
Behind the bar, Jon Hale stood with a stoneware ink-pot and a reed pen. Across the wide oak board, seated upon a low bench with his spine held straight, sat Sir Cael Ardent.
The young knight wore only a coarse linen undertunic, open at the throat. Across his collar, thick linen pads were bound tight with boiled wool, dried blood crusting the edges where Sister Oda and Elin had dressed the fresh wound after Keld’s lancers brought him back from the levee. Bound tight over the collar wound beneath the linen, resting against the bone like a heavy coin, was the gold Returner Seal. Scarcely an hour had passed since Cael had refused the covenant upstairs, strapped on his breastplate, and galloped north with Senior Guard Keld to break the Host vanguard at the river crossing. He had held the levee, but the cost was carved into every line of his hollow face.
