Arnoldir

“How long are you going to sit there smoking,” Zairaphel complained from the couch. She batted her hands in the air in an effort to disperse the coiling milky-blue clouds. Her golden hair hung loose, untidy, and she had not bothered to retie the collar of her dressing gown.  

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.”