His eyes were an odd purple shade that drew stares his face determined. With the burnoose’s hood pushed back, everyone could see that the knight’s hair was copper, cut so it brushed his shoulders.
Most nobles dressed richly, but this knight wore well-traveled leather, covered with a white burnoose like those worn by the Bazhir of the Tortallan desert. The man-at-arms gave a tug on their packhorse’s lead rein, and the small party moved through the gates into the city. The guards, liking his reaction, fell silent.
Hearing them, the knight favored them with a broad grin. They wondered aloud if the youngster could hold his lance, let alone unseat an opponent with it. The guards hid their smiles as they looked the noble over-in size the beardless youth could as well have been a squire, with only a shield to reveal his higher rank. ON A MARCH AFTERNOON A KNIGHT AND A MAN-at-arms reached the gate of the Marenite city of Berat.
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