The woman waiting to greet them at the top of the steps stood at least six feet tall, with copper-coloured hair bound in tight braids. She wore a fur cloak against the wind, which parted with the frequent gusts to reveal a leather harness covering a frame of lean muscle and, Shamil noted as he tried vainly not to let his eyes linger, more than a few scars. She gave no response to Rignar’s panted greeting as they hauled themselves up the final step, her arms crossed in silent scrutiny. Her angular visage surveyed them each in turn, lingering briefly on Shamil, longer on Rignar, and longest of all on Lyvia. Her eyes narrowed in recognition as they roved the younger woman’s face, a faintly puzzled line bisecting the scar on her brow.
“The resemblance has been remarked upon many times . . .”
