Sigismund stood on the West Castle tower at midwinter, counting the numberless stars. He breathed in the snow-chilled air and felt it curl into his stomach; he released the cloud of his anger and watched it dissipate against the frosty black of the sky. Only then did he toss the glove back to his opponent, smiling faintly as their eyes met. He drew Quickthorn from the dragon scabbard and walked down the belvedere steps.
Now, thought Sigismund, we shall see . . .
from Chapter 16 — Quickthorn