Sometimes, it pains so much, Peridan has to leave the Anvard court, on any flimsy excuse he can contrive. None of these other pale, doughy Northerners understand but Peridan, who has Calormene heat and sand in his veins, sees the shrinking of Aravis of Calavar all too plainly. The cold of Archenland saps the colour from vibrant Southern blooms, banks the fire of swift desert horses, and smothers Tarkheenas in a gray, leaden shroud.