After they had left, Bueralan pulled himself onto his horse and waited for Orlan. The cartographer’s pale-blue gaze had watched the others leave, following each into the marsh. He had stared into the trees long after they had gone. “It’ll be fine,” Bueralan said. “They worry about nothing.” “I ...
In his dreams, he had always been Mark Twain; awake, he had always been Samuel Clemens. It had been so since the day he had first used the pseudonym. At first, he thought of it as a warning, but the first dreams had been sweet like the Missouri summers of his childhood, be...
Aela Ren’s scarred fingers curled around the leather-bound grip of the war scout’s sword. Slowly, he began to withdraw it from his chest. Bueralan watched in horror as the small man pulled the blade out of himself inch by inch, the steel slippery with his blood, but not enough that, when his hand...