The rain had turned to a thin, stinging sleet that rattled against the slate roofs of the market square like handfuls of coarse river sand. Jon Hale walked three paces behind Sir Cael Ardent, their boots splashing through the freezing puddles that pooled in the wagon ruts between the town hall and the river gate. Sister Oda followed on Jon’s right, her heavy woolen habit drawn tight around her shoulders, her brass shrine keys jingling against the iron ring at her waist with a sharp, nervous cadence that kept time with their rapid footsteps.
Cael did not look back. He strode through the darkness with his greatsword unbelted, carrying the naked scabbard in his left hand, his mailed right fist still clutching the crumpled vellum dispatch from the capital. The silver-chased cloak trailed through the muddy slush, soaked and stained with grease from the kitchen timbers, but the knight’s shoulders were squared, his stride long, aggressive, devoid of the weary slump that had weighed him down in the taproom.
The bridge chapel of St. Jude stood upon the first masonry pier of the river crossing, its gray limestone walls buttressed against the current, its narrow lancet windows dark save for a single, pulsing azure glow that emanated from the inner sanctuary. Beneath the road arches, the river roared over the gravel shallows, churning white in the gloom as the head of the autumn flood began to push against the cutwaters.
