Arnoldir

The air in the Lower Ward was a thick reek of stinging charcoal smoke, heady with the savoury perfume of roasted lamb. Amidst the rhythmic clink-clink-clink of hammers on anvils and the persistent braying of pack donkeys, the glare of whitewashed buildings against the deep azure sky struck the eye with a blinding brilliance. Nearby, merchants haggled with frantic desperation, their voices rising like heat off the paving tiles.

Khahaynd thought about Zairaphel and her frequent mentioning of handsome men; clearly that was her weakness on full display, and she wondered briefly if her brother Naraal was handsome enough to hold the Sorceress's favor, so that she could gain something by it. “You have a traitor to Prince Imrahil?” she said to her, raising her glass of wine in silent congratulation. “That is most unusual and useful.”