It curls upon the gables of those two wonders of the world, the royal palaces of Achamar. The palace gardens are white and still; the square before the hall of the Dainmut is thickly carpeted and untrodden except by some cheeky fox or marten that has come to the city looking for food. It is the first day of the Ashmoon in the year 1177; it is the hour before dawn. No one is supposed to be awake, but furtive candles gleam here and there; lights can be seen flitting past the windows of the palaces. In the South Hall the kedran garrison have lit their fire, and the smoke rises up into the frosty air. A horse neighs and stamps by the open south gate and is hushed by its young rider. A knot of dark figures have gathered in the shadow of the gatehouse: a small procession is being formed. The gilded sleigh is laden, its burdens secured. A tall man says, “Whose idea was this?” Before his head is covered, he is given warm wine to drink. A woman begins to laugh, it spreads to the entire party.
