The blood-red light tearing across the back parlor ceiling did not flicker like a hearth flame; it cut through the coal smoke and vinegar steam with the rigid, geometric straightness of an imperial surveyor’s rule. Instantly the temperature in the narrow room plunged another ten degrees. The vinegar water in Elin’s porcelain basin filmed over with grey ice, and the breath coming from Sir Cael Ardent’s parted lips hung in a thick white cloud above the blood-soaked linen pad on his chest.
On the pine pallet, Cael’s surviving left hand clawed violently at the empty air above his sternum. Even though he had dropped the Returner Seal into the pewter-lined stone bowl of his own will five seconds earlier, his body was still wired by twelve cycles of habit to the subterranean spike beneath the floorboards. With the nerve-cord severed and the sudden, terrifying emptiness of ordinary mortality crashing down upon his ribs, the wounded soldier’s instincts revolted against his conscious mind.
“No!” Cael choked out, his back arching off the horse-blanket as his heels dug into the pine planks and his left fist struck the edge of the trestle table. “It is cold—my chest is empty! Give it back, Jon! I object! In the King’s name, I object to the claim!”
