Free solo climbing a stone tower in the middle of a city was not a skill every person possessed. But Dian Harroca was not every person. Nimble, experienced fingers found every nook and cranny in the stonework, every crumbling piece of mortar. His forearms and thighs ached, protested, but Dian found that small part of himself to retreat into, to ignore the strain and concentrate on moving ever up.
The city of Everhold stretched out far below him, a sprawling warren of streets and buildings of every shape and size. The glistening Ream River sparkled silver and blue to the east, curling and snaking into the distance, dotted with white sails. High above, the three moons stood proud in a clear, star-speckled sky.
Dian ignored it all. His target lay several stories above, and it would not do for him to lose his concentration now. Not when it was so far down. A nasty way to die, that. Old Beric has died that way, his skull cracked open on the cold, unforgiving concrete. The memory sometimes made Dian jolt awake at night.