Ten minutes after Sir Cael Ardent and Notary Corve Penner left South Lane, five pairs of boots descended the steep timber steps into the Cellar Vault beneath the River Lantern.
Jon carried the hooded brass lantern at the head of the file, holding the light high so its yellow circle swept across the ancient dressed-granite arches of the Lantern Foundation. Behind him came Sister Oda, Lady Signe Lorr, Alden Bram, and Elin, while young Tobin remained upstairs at the taproom window watching the street lest Cael leave a pair of garrison scouts lingering by the horse trough.
The cellar was cool and silent, smelling of wet mortar, oak staves, and the cold river seepage that never entirely left the lower sump during the spring spate. Yet to Jon’s skin—and to the twelve white trust marks distributed across his fingers, right wrist, and right forearm—the air down here felt subtly altered since the red script had flashed above the bar upstairs. The deep, steady hum of the Hearth Nail buried beneath the center flagstones no longer answered his footsteps with its usual quiet certainty; it felt taut and skittish, like a moored barge straining at a frayed hawser while the tide turned.
