His gaze skimmed over her shawl, long tunic and makeshift trousers. He wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept. Martise had spent the remaining hours before dawn cutting down a skirt and sewing it into something resembling trews suitable for riding. Silhara wore his usual raiment of worn shirt, faded black breeches, and boots. His hair, free of its customary braid, fell straight and silky over his wide shoulders, framing a face sharpened by fatigue. Despite his shabby appearance and the weariness in his eyes, he had the air of an aristo—powerful, arrogant, sure of his place in the world. Martise
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