By Gail Z. Martin
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Extra info for Dark Ladys Chosen
He turned to look at the brooding outline of Lochlanimar, dark against the sunset. The outer wall was broken in many places, scorched by fire and pounded by trebuchets, catapults and magic. The tower on one corner was collapsed in a heap of rubble. Lochlanimar’s defenders still posed enough of a threat that a direct assault was likely to be a disaster. Time was running out, Tris knew. For him and for Curane. And nothing’s worse than an enemy with his back to the wall. Now, the army mobilized for battle just days after tending its wounded from the last encounter.
Most of them were meaningless outside of the court’s bureaucracy. Here in the field, early in the third month of a winter siege, little of the pomp and intrigue of court held any meaning. Tris signed the documents and replaced them in the courier pouch along with the sealed letter. “I can hope,” Tris murmured. “Perhaps something was lost when the brigands attacked,” Coalan suggested. ” Tris shook his head. “Doubtful. ” Coalan managed a wan smile. Ban Soterius’s nephew was only six years younger than the king.
His face was red with cold and he was rubbing his hands together. “You’re right, m’lady. There was a rock wedged in near the top of the chimney—fit well enough to let the smoke out, but covered enough to keep the bad air in. ” Kiara dusted herself off and motioned for Hothan to take her place at the hearth. “Thank you. There’s something stuck at this end, too. ” She handed him the poker. After a few minutes, Hothan gave a hard push and bits of rock fell to the ground. Kiara bent down and picked up one of the bits, turning it in her hands.