CHAPTER THREE

Nothing ever happened round here.

That was the only conclusion Roriel Tamsillyn could reach, sat as he was clutching a mug of ale that he had to unstick from the table every time he took a swig. Nothing ever happened. Not in this part of Anahor, excluding the odd – frequent, even – scuffle between inebriated patrons. Sometimes they would escalate into brawls when one leery combatant swung and missed at his foe and hit another, unintended target. Some. . .

CHAPTER TWO

There was a coast where the young were taken to die.

It was far from cities, far from habitation, and it was a cold and bleak place. The skies were always dark and foreboding, steel and iron stirred into great dramatic arcs overhead. The land was a great wide swamp, treacherous and deceptive underfoot, and a dank mist hung heavy, too thick for the wind to disperse. Instead the water and the air conspired to conjure freakish illusions that entranced or terrified . . .