Narrow windows looked out over a slate-grey sea. The sun, in front of the Spire, hadn’t reached them and so the study she’d entered with such turbulent conviction was as dark as the corridor before it. A fresh fire licked gingerly across the coals and embers from the night before. They cast a red glow around the room.
‘Put it on the table and get out.’
The dark stone was smothered – floor, walls and ceiling – in gilded tapestries. The room itself was littered with dark furniture, dominated by a central desk. Zhira struggled to see who had spoken to her. Dorsk and the guard captain had been wrong. Graidon was already awake.
His quill was scratching in frantic motions over parchment. Even as she walked forward she lost the ability to speak. His clothes were expensive, patterned in shimmer
