Sara Reinke - The Chronicles of Tiralainn 1 - Book of Thieves

This eBook is published by

Fictionwise Publications

www.fictionwise.com

Excellence in eBooks

Visit www.fictionwise.com to find more titles by this and other top authors in Science Fiction, Fantasy,

Horror, Mystery, and other genres.

This eBook copyrighted. See the first page of this book for full copyright information.

Double Dragon Publishing

double-dragon-ebooks.com

First published in Double Dragon Publishing, Inc., 2006

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies

of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email,

floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International

copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

Book of Thieves

United States by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc., Markham,

Ontario Canada.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic,

electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or

retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Double Dragon eBook

Published by

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Double Dragon Publishing, Inc.

PO Box 54016

1-5762 Highway 7 East

Markham, Ontario L3P 7Y4 Canada

www.double-dragon-ebooks.com

www.double-dragon-publishing.com

ISBN-10: 1-55404-396-4

ISBN-13: 978-1-55404-396-5

A DDP First Edition October 16, 2006

Book Layout and

Cover Art by Deron Douglas

www.derondouglas.com

BOOK OF THIEVES

BOOK TWO IN THE CHRONICLES OF TIRALAINN SERIES

By

Sara Reinke

PROLOGUE

The year 1748 of the Third Age

Rhyden Fabhcun stirred from sleep at the sound of heavy, urgent knocking. His eyelids fluttered open

and he blinked groggily at the ceiling above his bed. Dawn had yet to grace the horizon, and the waning

moon's pale illumination cast misshapen shadows of heavy tree boughs waving in faint breeze over his

head.

The rapping continued, growing louder and more insistent with each passing breath. It came from

beyond his bed chamber, from the main threshold of his flat, and the noise carried through the spacious

rooms, amplified between the vaulted ceilings and polished floors until it resounded like strikes against a

drum.

Rhyden groaned, sitting up in bed. His blond hair fell in thick sheafs over his shoulders and draped down

his back, spilling in a heavy tumble against the mattress. He tucked wayward strands behind the tapered

points of his ears. He was a full-blooded Gaeilge Elf, and to his preternaturally sensitive hearing, the

beating against the door sounded all the more resonant and thunderous.

He wondered why Peymus had not answered the door. Like Rhyden, Peymus Beith was Gaeilge, and

his room, a modest antechamber adjoining Rhyden's, was closer to the main parlor. If the clamor had

roused Rhyden from sound slumber, surely it had disturbed Peymus as well, and it was unlike the

steward to let such matters go unattended.

Rhyden swung his legs from beneath folds of blankets and coverlets, letting his feet settle against the

floor. He stood, taking his dressing robe in hand and slipping his arms into it as he shuffled toward his

chamber door.

He opened the door and peered out across the spread of shadow and moonlight that filled his parlor. To

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

his left, he could see Peymus’ door standing partially ajar, but of the steward, there was no sign.

"Pey?” Rhyden called out in a hoarse, quiet voice. The knocking continued in unabated and persistent

earnest. Tree limbs brushed against the towering windows framing the parlor, their leafy crowns

whispering against the glass panes in a sudden gust of wind. Rhyden's shadow pooled beneath his feet,

spreading slightly before him as he stepped toward the front door, walking across a splayed corner of

moonbeam.

"Pey?” Rhyden said again. He paused in Peymus’ doorway, peering beyond the threshold. He saw

Peymus’ bed was empty, his blankets folded to one side in a rumpled, hasty pile, as though Peymus had

clambered out of bed, abandoning them. There was no sign of the Elf in the chamber, or in the parlor

besides, and puzzled, Rhyden frowned.

He went to the front door. As he settled his palm against the brass handle, the heavy, resounding

knocking abruptly ceased. He arched his brow and canted his cheek toward the door, listening through

the wood.

"Who is there?” he said.

He heard a shuddering, hitching breath issue from the other side of the wood; a woman's fluttering voice,

struggling to contain sobs.

"Rhyden?” he heard the woman say, and his heart seized suddenly within his chest, his breath tangling

against the back of his throat. He recognized the voice, and he jerked the door open wide in startled,

bewildered alarm.

"Qynh...?” he gasped in utter disbelief.

"Oh ... Oh, Rhyden...” the woman, Qynh, said, staring at him. She was nearly as tall as he was, her

beautiful face most familiar to him. She gazed at him with enormous, tear-filled eyes the cerulean hue of a

calm sea at midmorrow, her long black hair spilling nearly to her waist in a cascade of glossy waves. Her

pale complexion and cream-hued flesh were nearly luminescent in the moonlight and her bottom lip

trembled as she tried not to weep.

"Qynh,” Rhyden whispered again, reaching for her. She stepped toward him, her arms sliding beneath

the edges of his robe, encircling his waist. She pressed herself against him, clutching at him, her cheek

against his chest, her face turned toward his shoulder, as she burst into tears.

"Qynh,” Rhyden breathed again, folding his arm about her narrow shoulders and pressing his palm

against her hair. “My Queen..."

He closed the door and led her to a chair in the parlor. She sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, her

fingers twining anxiously together as he struck flints to a lamp, offering a dim, golden glow to the room.

Only then did Rhyden realize that the Queen of Tiralainn somehow paid call to him in naught save her

linen nightgown; she sat before him as though she herself had only just risen from her bed at the royal

palace, with her hair somewhat askew, her feet bare.

Such circumstances were not possible and her presence completely baffled him. Qynh was many long,

hundreds of miles hence, across the Muir Fuar sea in Belgaeran, the island of Tiralainn's royal city.

Rhyden served as ambassador to the Torachan empire, on the mainland continent of the Morthir for

Qynh's husband, Kierken, the King of Tiralainn, and their neighboring territory, the Abhacan realm of

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Tirurnua. His flat was in the bustling heart of Torach, the capital city of Cneas, and Rhyden had called this

his home for thirteen years. It had been nearly five years in full since he had last been able to visit his

homeland and visit with Qynh in person.

Rhyden knelt before Qynh, reaching out and drawing her hands between his own. “Qynh,” he said,

drawing her gaze from the nest of her lap. “How did you get here?"

"I followed the moon,” Qynh said softly, closing her eyes as more tears spilled. “He ... he is going to kill

Kierken, Rhyden."

"What? No, Qynh. No one is going to kill Kierken."

"I heard him,” she said, opening her eyes and meeting his gaze. “He thinks I do not listen, but I do."

Her face was so filled with sorrow and fear that Rhyden's heart nearly cleaved. “Who, Qynh?” he

whispered, caressing her cheek, brushing his fingertips through her dark hair.

Qynh's head jerked, her eyes darting over her shoulder and flying wide in sudden, desperate fright. Her

breath caught in a quiet gasp and her hands latched against his wrist. “Oh, someone is coming...!” she

whimpered.

Rhyden followed her gaze across the parlor, but found only his bookshelves, his desk with its top laden

with ink vials and quills, opened tomes and strewn papers and parchments to greet his regard. “My lady,

there is no one here but us—” he began, his voice soft as he tried to soothe her, to assuage her fear.

"You must go to Iarnrod,” Qynh said, cutting off his proffered words of comfort. She stared at him,

desperate. “You must leave, Rhyden, at once. There is not much time. They will find it soon—it stirs

once more. It is awakening and it wants to be found."

"Qynh,” he said, bewildered. “I cannot leave. You know this. I have my duties here, my lady, to Kierken

and the Crown. I—"

"There will be no Crown if you do not,” she said. Her gaze danced over her shoulder once again, and

when she looked back at him, she spoke in a tremulous hush. “You must go to Iarnrod and warn them. If

they find it ... when they find it ... he will know of it. You must keep it from him."

"Qynh,” he said, helplessly. “I do not understand."

"Do you love your King, Rhyden?” Qynh asked.

He blinked at her, startled. “Of ... of course I do, Qynh. I serve Kierken loyally. I always have—"

"And your Queen?"

"My Queen?” he whispered. He was an Elf, and by such birthright, he could not lie, no matter how

fervently he might have wished for such ability. He could not lie, yet he could not bear to admit the truth,

not even to Qynh. “I ... I have never known a love that is greater, my lady,” he said softly, “than that I

hold for my Queen."

"Then help us, Rhyden,” she whispered to him. “Please ... by that love ... help me...” Her voice faded.

His fingers passed through hers as if through smoke and then Qynh was gone. Rhyden looked up in

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

dismay.

"Qynh!” he gasped.

He sat up in bed, the sound of his own breathless lament waking him. He blinked in absolute

bewilderment, disoriented and dazed, his covers drooped about his waist. He was in his bed chamber,

alone in the room save for the first dim glow of the new morrow's sunrise seeping through his window.

He looked all about him, confused, as though he had roused to find himself someplace new and

unfamiliar.

"Hoah,” he whispered, and he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyelids, spreading his fingers

through the thick crown of his hair. “It was only a dream."

He shoved aside the blankets and rose from the bed. He stumbled over to his washbasin and splashed

water against his face. He closed his eyes, feeling water run in thin, cool rivulets along the contours of his

forehead and temples, following the long line of his nose, the arches of his cheeks. “A dream,” he

murmured again to no one in particular.

Despite this quiet assertion, Rhyden could not disspell the peculiar sensation that what he had seen and

felt within his mind was far more than invented fancy, some articulation of his heart's most guarded—and

shameful—secret.

You must go to Iarnrod,Qynh had told him in the dream.You must leave, Rhyden, at once. There is

not much time. They will find it soon—it stirs once more. It is awakening and it wants to be found.

There had been a time not so long ago when the race of Elves had been able to communicate with one

another with their minds through dreams and telepathy, rapports and intuition. It was an ability called the

sight, one that was gone from the Elves now, stripped from them, though whether by magic or inevitable

divine purpose remained to be debated. It had been fifteen years since Rhyden had felt the presence of

another within his mind, and the dream had reminded him poignantly of that delicate sensation. More so

than any dream, it had felt to him as though his Queen had reached out to him, her mind finding his

somehow—

I followed the moon

—and beseeching him for aid.

Rhyden walked back toward his bedside, patting his face dry with a square of linen. He drew against the

bellpull to beckon Peymus and then lifted his robe from the folds of coverlets, drawing it over his

shoulders.

It took Peymus a few moments to respond to the bell; it was early yet, and Rhyden had roused him from

his bed. When the steward poked his head into Rhyden's room, his long, dark hair was disheveled, his

countenance drawn and bleary with drowsiness. His expression shifted into befuddlement as he observed

Rhyden sifting through his wardrobe, pulling out clothes and laying them aside upon his bed.

"What are you doing?” Peymus asked, running his hand through his hair, mopping it back along the

cleaved planes of his widow's peak from his high forehead.

"Did you not say that Captain Liam Murtagh and his ship came to port two days ago, Pey?” Rhyden

asked, glancing toward his steward as he draped a justicoat across the crook of his arm, meaning to add

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

it to the clothes he gathered on his mattress.

Peymus scratched his scalp and regarded Rhyden curiously. “Yes, theUrraim, ” he said. “Forgive me, I

did not expect you would be up so early this morrow.” He turned, meaning to go to the kitchen. “Let me

fetch you some tea."

"No, Pey, do not worry for it,” Rhyden told him, dropping three leines atop the justicoat on his arm.

“You could pen me a quick bidding, if you would not mind. Have it couriered post haste to Captain

Murtagh. I need him to take me to Tiralainn—to leave this morning if it can be arranged."

Peymus blinked in surprise. “Tiralainn?"

"Yes,” Rhyden said, nodding. He gazed into his wardrobe, his brows drawn thoughtfully. “Where is my

traveling trunk, Pey?"

"Beneath your bed,” Peymus replied. “Is your mother unwell?"

Rhyden dropped the clothes against the foot of his bed. He knelt and wrestled with the cumbersome

trunk. “No, she is fine as far as I know."

"Your father? Your brother and sister?"

Rhyden looked at him, puzzled. “What? No, Pey, they are all well, the last I heard."

"Yet you would depart for Tiralainn this morrow?” Peymus asked. “Forgive my intrigue, but this marks

the first mention I have heard of such plans."

"You will have to wake Calatin, too,” Rhyden told him as at last, he drew the trunk out from beneath his

bed, pulling it between his legs as he sat upon the floor. Calatin Nagealai was an Abhac—a Dwarf from

Tirurnua—and Rhyden's ambassadorial assistant. “Tell him I am sorry—he will need offer my apologies

to the emperor and Senate for leaving so abruptly."

"I will pack my bag and make ready to accompany you when I am finished rousing my Lord Nagealai,

then,” Peymus said, again pivoting to leave.

"No, Pey,” Rhyden shook his head, staying the steward. “It is a three-week voyage by sea to Tiralainn,

and I do not know how long I will remain once there. My calendar is in my desk, the top left drawer.

You and Calatin will need to go through it. Whatever he cannot attend, would you offer my regrets and

reschedule? Say I will be back in three months. That should be time enough, I think."

"Time enough for what, my lord?"

Rhyden met his gaze. “I do not know,” he murmured, his eyes troubled.

"I will send dispatch to his Majesty, Kierken, to let him know you are coming."

"No,” Rhyden shook his head, holding out his hand. “I am not going to Belgaeran, Pey ... at least not

straight away. I must go to Iarnrod."

"Grave business?” Pey asked.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Rhyden looked up from the trunk and found the steward regarding him with concern apparent in his

eyes. He was worrying Peymus, frightening him, and Rhyden's expression softened.

"I ... I do not know, Pey,” he said. “I would tell you if I did. You know that. I cannot explain it, and it

may be for naught. I will not know until I get there—and the sooner I get there, the better."

He thought of Qynh's words.

You must go to Iarnrod. You must leave, Rhyden, at once. There is not much time. They will find it

soon—it stirs once more. It is awakening and it wants to be found.

Help us ... please ... by that love ... help me

He drew his legs beneath him and stood, lugging the heavy trunk with him. “Come now, Pey, send word

to Captain Murtagh. I do not have much time. I only hope I am not already too late."

CHAPTER ONE

Kaevir Macleod was not having a good day.

It was not the worst day in Kaevir's memory, or the worst set of circumstances he had come to find

himself in, but it was fairly well rotten nonetheless, and as he sat on a damp, mildewed bench in the

Daevonshire village jail and considered matters, he realized that, as per usual, he had no one to thank or

blame for this latest turn of poor fortune except himself.

He had spent the evening—not to mention his week's wages—in Daevonshire's solitary pub, the

Laughing Dragon, over countless hands of dystanuir and pints of portar. This was not an unusual habit for

Kaevir. Too many pints and not enough winning cards had left Kaevir involved in a drunken little

push-and-shove that had eventually blossomed into a full-blown fracas, with every man and woman in the

tavern exchanging blows; again, not so unusual where Kaevir was concerned. He had wound up

arrested; expected and customary. What seemed odd to him in retrospect, as he nursed his aching head

in the cramped confines of a jail cell he shared with at least twenty other men, was that the melee at the

pub had been broken up by I'lar County soldiers. Usually such frays were handled by the village

constable, Ambrose Wellabeigh and his ragtag staff of deputies. County soldiers were relative rarities in

Daevonshire.

"Why were county riders in town?” he asked one of the men sitting next to him on the bench. “I thought

they only came during tax season."

The man shrugged, his eyelids purple and swollen from the fight, his nose as distended and bloated as an

overripe plum. “I heard tell the Baronmaster's son had them sent to these parts, delivering a prisoner or

some such."

"Lord Bran, the Mianach Elf?” Kaevir raised his brow.

The man nodded. “Someone told me he had a thief creeping about his house. Lord Bran caught him

squarely in the act."

"Rot the luck,” Kaevir muttered. “We might have all gotten away with things if the riders had not been

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

around."

"There is the truth,” the man said. “Constable Wellabeigh would have sent us all tottering home, drunk

and smacked around a bit—no worse than usual but none so for the show—if he had not been so busy

trying to impress the Baronmaster's county folk."

"Muise,” Kaevir said, glancing across the cell, agreeing with the man in Gaeilgen, the antiquated, native

tongue of the realm.Indeed . “Who is that?” He nodded toward a young man seated in the far corner

with his shoulders against the wall, his knees drawn toward his chest. “I do not recall that I have seen him

around the village before, have you?"

"Cannot say as I have,” the man replied. “Now how do you figure he walked out of that fracas without a

mark on him?"

Kaevir frowned thoughtfully. The young man obviously had not been among the patrons of the Laughing

Dragon brought into the jail; there was not a bruise or scrape on his face. And the lad had the sort of face

one would try to pummel deliberately in a fight; the sort of striking features that men would want to

purposefully mar with a well-aimed fist or two.

"I do not think he walked out at all,” Kaevir said. “I think he is your thief."

"Do you?” the man said, leaning forward with sudden interest.

"I do indeed,” Kaevir said.

"Rotted bastard,” the man said, frowning. “Someone ought go and thank him for the troubles he has

brought on us all tonight. It is his bloody fault we are penned up in here. Why, we could all be at home

curled up in our own beds were it not for him and his botched thievery."

Kaevir thought of pointing out that botched thievery or not, they all still would have had to contend with

bloody noses and battered faces resulting from the brawl, but in the end decided to hold his peace.

Unlike the man beside him, Kaevir had no bed of his own to long for; he tended to wander from mattress

to mattress, depending on the hospitality of the women who owned them, while calling none in particular

his home. He was currently between lovers, having incensed the last enough to boot him from her flat,

and having not yet charmed another long or well enough to coax an invitation for more than a passing

night.

To Kaevir's point of view, the bench beneath him seemed as suitable and inviting a bed as any he had

waiting for him outside of the jail, and he lay down against the wood, folding his arm beneath his head,

closing his eyes. He heard the man beside him move, rising to his feet and walking away. Kaevir thought

of lifting his head, telling him not to make mention of the thief to any of the other prisoners. Nothing would

come of it but trouble—and they had all had more than their fair portion of trouble for one night. But it

felt simply marvelous to rest his eyes for a moment, and in the end, Kaevir did not say a word. He let his

mind grow still and quiet, wandering slowly toward sleep.

He dreamed of sitting on the floor, cradling a gilded gold coffer in his lap. The box was magnificent in its

intricate design, surely the most elaborately crafted he had ever beheld, and in his dream, Kaevir

struggled to open it. Surely such a marvelous coffer contained some manner of treasure beyond even his

wildest and greediest of dreams, and he worked fervently and anxiously, wedging his lockpicking tools

into the narrow opening that fastened the coffer securely closed.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

It was frustrating work, because the box showed no inclination toward opening. Just as he had nearly

given up his efforts in aggravation, he felt the lock yield beneath the persistent pressure of the picks. The

tumblers snapped back, releasing their hold, and the lid of the coffer obligingly popped open on its little

golden hinges.

A waft of breeze pressed against his face, ruffling his hair as though emanating from inside the box.

Kaevir blinked down into the coffer, surprised by his sudden and unexpected good fortune, but found

nothing but darkness inside. He stared into the box and heard a voice within his mind, a soft and purring

whisper.

You are chosen.

"This is your doing—your fault—and by the Good Mother, you bloody bastard, I mean to see you

answer for it!"

This declaration, followed by an uproarious din as the other men in the cell began to howl and clap,

snapped Kaevir from asleep to awake in one startled moment. He sat up, blinking and bewildered, and

wondered why in the bloody duchan everyone had risen to their feet, standing with their backs to him as

they shouted and cheered.

He stumbled up and rose onto his toes, straining to peer around shoulders and over heads. He could see

nothing for the throng, but heard the sudden, unmistakable sound of knuckles plowing forcibly into flesh

and realized that the brawl had begun anew.

"Who is fighting?” he asked, hooking the nearest man by the sleeve to draw his attention. “Who is

fighting?” he said again, having to shout to be heard over the cries and bellows of the others.

"Janaois Southford,” the man yelled back. “You want to place a two-mark on him, boy?"

"Who is he up against?” Kaevir asked, again struggling to see. Never one to walk away from a wager

without good cause—if even then—he was curious to find out who had been brave—or stupid—enough

to have picked a fight with one of the largest and most ill-tempered men in Daevonshire.

"Some kid,” the man replied. “A little thief Lord Bran caught stealing from his manor house and sent this

way. He is why the county soldiers were in town tonight—and why the lot of us got locked up."

Kaevir blinked, startled, and then clapped his hand over his face to stifle a groan. He cursed himself

mentally for not telling his benchmate to keep his bloody mouth shut. Not that Kaevir cared one way or

the other for what happened to the would-be thief; he just knew that the racket the men were raising

would draw the constable and his deputies, and then they would all be in it the deeper.

"You in on a wager, Macleod?” the man shouted. “I have got three-to-one on Janaois."

A new, enthusiastic surge of yelling rolled through the crowd. “Cut him, Janaois!” someone cheered.

“Carve him up good!"

"Hoah, a knife,” the man said, balancing on his tiptoes and trying to catch a glimpse of the fight. “Make

that two-to-one on Janaois, then."

Kaevir frowned, not sharing in his cellmates’ delight over this turn of advantage. “Why does he need a

knife?” he asked. “He is as big as a bloody barn."

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

"Because this kid is a scrapper, I will give him that,” the man told him, grinning broadly. “Hoah, and

quick, too! Half Janaois’ size at least, and he has still landed a good swing or two, to his credit."

Kaevir's frown deepened. “Then Janaois is cheating,” he said. “He drew a knife—that is cheating."

"Cheating, my ass. I call it padding my purse,” the man said with a laugh. “Come, Macleod, you can give

me your marker, if you have no coins to wager. I—"

Kaevir shoved past him and into the crowd. He forced his way to the front of the group and saw Janaois

holding the thief pinned by the throat against the far wall of the cell. The younger man pawed helplessly at

Janaois’ hand.

"I think I will carve your pretty face first, thief,” Janaois said, and when the thief's brows furrowed and

he spat against the big man's face, his cellmates howled in outraged delight.

"Cut him up!” someone cried.

"Stop it,” Kaevir said, shouldering his way toward Janaois.

"Scar the bloody bastard, Janaois! Cut off his rot damn member!” someone shouted.

"I said stop it!” Kaevir yelled, drawing the circumference of men to sudden, uncertain silence. Janaois

glanced over his shoulder toward Kaevir, his brows raised in surprise. “Leave him alone, Janaois,”

Kaevir said.

Janois blinked at him and then shook his head, snorting with laughter. “Go away, little Lord Macleod,”

he said, offering mocking courtesy that made his fellows laugh. “Go back to your corner and sleep it off.

You have drunk yourself to madness tonight."

The men laughed all the harder, and Kaevir felt himself flush with sudden, bright, simmering rage. He

closed his hands slowly into fists, feeling the tension straining in his fingers, his arms, shivering through

him. “No,” he said, locking gazes with Janaois. “You have had your fun. Now leave him be."

The humor in Janaois’ face drained and his brows furrowed. He pivoted, swinging the knife toward

Kaevir. “Are you looking to bleed, Macleod—?” he began, and then something beyond Kaevir's

shoulder gave him immediate pause.

"What in the bloody duchan is going on in here?” Ambrose Wellabeigh, the constable shouted, and there

was a jangling of keys as he unlocked the cell gate and stomped into the room, accompanied by seven

strapping deputies. “What is all of this yelling about?"

The crowd of prisoners scurried apart. Janaois let the knife drop to the floor and scuttled backwards,

leaving the thief to slump against the wall, clutching at his throat as he gulped for breath.

"This bastard pup pulled a knife on me, Ambrose!” Janaois cried, jabbing his forefinger toward the

young thief.

"That is a lie!” Kaevir shouted. “Janaois, you rot damn bastard—it is your knife!"

"You shut up, Macleod!” Janaois snapped. “Or by my breath, I will—"

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Sara Reinke - The Chronicles of Tiralainn 1 - Book of Thieves

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: