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flowed into the city to its left. It had been
built as a fortress, the countless levels,
battlements, and gates all designed to outlast
an enemy assault. The gray stones bore the
scars of just how many it had witnessed and
survived, none more so than the thick curtain
wall that encompassed the keep.
Intimidating, imposing, unforgiving—
Chaol had told her the keep had never been
built for beauty or pleasure. Indeed, no
colorful banners flapped in the wind. No scent
or spices drifted on it, either. Just chill, thick
dampness.
From the lichen-crusted upper towers,
Yrene knew that one could monitor any
movements on the lake or the plain, in the city
or the forest, even along the slopes of the
Fangs. How many hours had her husband
spent on the tower walkways, gazing toward
Rifthold, wishing he were anywhere but this