When Sir Cael stepped out onto the porch of the River Lantern, the two hundred townsfolk gathered around the market cross did not part with the murmured awe that had greeted his white cloak in the earlier lives, nor did they raise their ash pikes in defiance as they had during the Charter confrontation on the cellar steps.
Instead, a hard, watchful quiet settled over the wet cobblestones.
Master Weaver Joran Finch did not move his hand from Annis Thorne’s sheep-bone flute lying on the lower margin of the Town Ledger. Twelve-year-old Eban took half a step back against Sister Oda’s grey wool skirt, his hand rising to the blue wool muffler at his throat. Down by the gravel wagons, Harlan Pike and Garrick Holt stood shoulder to shoulder with their bare heads glistening in the river mist, waiting to see what the man whose eleventh death had cost seven burgage houses would say when he looked at the bill.
Jon Hale did not step between Cael and the lectern. He turned slightly on the porch boards, leaving the space before the open chronicle clear.
Cael walked slowly to the oak reading stand. Under the grey afternoon sky, the young knight looked ten years older than the bright, unscarred champion who had ridden across the river bridge on the first morning of the first loop. Dark purple hollows bruised the skin beneath his eyes; a livid red burn-scar from the Crown Furnace’s exhaust vents ran up the side of his…
