The cold did not creep through the pewter; it struck like an axe blade split into a frozen oak log in January.
One heartbeat Jon Hale was squinting through a cloud of scalding, copper-scented steam as the Returner Seal hit the bottom of the soapstone-lined basin. The next heartbeat, the rising vapor crystallized in mid-air into a fine shower of dry white hoarfrost that settled across Jon’s knuckles, Elin’s dark wool sleeves, and the rough hemp blanket covering Sir Cael Ardent’s knees.
Inside the basin, the six inches of spring water did not freeze solid into ice; instead, the water turned thick, clear, and heavy as liquid mercury around the submerged gold ring. The cherry-red glow of the Returner Seal had vanished completely. Stripped of Cael’s fevered pulse and fenced inside Sister Oda’s triple boundary of salt and cold-iron filings, the flattened gold disc lay at the center of the grey soapstone dish looking dull, ancient, and leaden.
Yet the cold pouring outward through the walls of the pewter bowl was like nothing Jon had ever felt in a winter cellar.
In the ninth life, during the first bedside loosening when Jon had merely held the earthenware dish to give Cael six hours of sleep without claiming the bond, the vessel had felt cool and heavy, like a bucket drawn from a deep well in July. That had been the weight of a dormant seal resting in neutral water.
