Raymond E. Feist - Conclave of Shadows 3 - Exile's Return

[Version 0.9—scanned by bodafon]

[Version 1.0—proofread and formatted by braven]

Raymond E. Feist

Exile’s Return

CHAPTER ONE

Captive

THE RIDERS CAME AT HIM.

Kaspar, who had until the day before held the title of Duke of Olasko, waited,

holding his chains ready. Moments before he had been deposited on this dusty plain

by a tall white-haired magician who, with only a few words of farewell, had vanished,

leaving the exiled nobleman to face an approaching band of nomads.

Kaspar had never felt this alive and vitalized. He grinned, took a deep breath and

flexed his knees. The riders were fanning out, and Kaspar knew they judged him a

risk even though he stood alone, barefoot and without any weapon save for heavy

chains with manacles and leggings attached to each end.

The riders slowed. Kaspar counted six of them. They wore alien garments, loose-

fitting outer robes of indigo over white blouses belted at the waist with whipcord;

ballooning trousers were tucked into black leather boots. Their heads were covered by

wrapped turbans, with a length of cloth left hanging on the right. Kaspar judged that

this could be quickly raised to cover mouth and nose against a sudden dust storm or to

hide identity. The clothing looked less like a uniform than tribal garb, he decided.

And they carried a variety of lethal-looking weapons.

The leader spoke in a language Kaspar didn't understand, though there was

something oddly familiar about it. Kaspar replied, 'I don't suppose there's the remotest

chance you speak Olaskon?'

The man Kaspar had identified as the leader said something to his companions,

made a gesture, then sat back to watch. Two men dismounted and approached Kaspar,

drawing weapons. A third behind them unwound a leather cord, with which he obvi-

ously intended to bind their new captive.

Kaspar let his chains drop slightly, and slumped his shoulders, as if

acknowledging the inevitability of his circumstances. From the manner in which they

approached, Kaspar knew two things: these were experienced fighting men—tough,

sunburned plainsmen who probably lived in tents—and they were not trained soldiers.

One glance gave Kaspar the one fact he needed to make his decision on how to act.

None of the three men still on horseback had drawn a bow.

Kaspar allowed the man with the leather bindings to approach, and then at the

last instant he kicked out, taking the man in the chest. That man was the least

dangerous of the three at hand. Kaspar then swung his chains, releasing an end at the

same instant, and the swordsman on his right who had judged himself out of Kaspar's

reach was slammed across the face with the makeshift weapon. Kaspar heard bone

crack. The man went down silently.

The other swordsman was quick to react, raising his sword and shouting

something—an insult, battle cry, or prayer to a god, Kaspar didn't know which. All

the former duke knew was that he had perhaps three or four seconds to live. Instead of

moving away from the attacker, Kaspar threw himself at the man, coming up hard

against him as the sword fell through empty air.

He got his shoulder under the man's armpit and the momentum of the missed

blow carried the nomad over Kaspar's shoulder. Kaspar's powerful arms pushed up

hard and the man spun through the air, landing hard upon the ground. The breath

seemed to explode out of his body and Kaspar suspected he might have cracked his

spine.

Kaspar sensed more than saw that two archers were unlimbering their bows, so

he sprang forward, and with a diving shoulder roll, came to his feet holding the

closest man's sword. The nomad who had held the binding leather was trying to come

to his feet and draw his own sword at the same time as Kaspar stepped by him,

smashing the man's head with the flat of the blade. The man fell over without a sound.

Kaspar might not be the swordsman Tal Hawkins had been, but he had trained as

a soldier most of his life, and now he was in his element, in-close brawling. He ran at

the three riders, two with bows and one with a slender lance, that man leveling his

weapon as he put his heels to his horse's barrel. The animal might not be a seasoned

warhorse but it was well trained. It leapt forward as if sprinting from the starting line

in a race and Kaspar barely avoided being trampled. He almost took the point of the

man's lance in the chest, but with a quick move to the left evaded it. Had the horse

started only a yard or two farther back, he would have been moving too fast for

Kaspar's next move, which was to continue twisting and reaching up with his left

hand, grab the rider by the back of his robe and yank him from the saddle.

Kaspar didn't wait to see the man hit the ground, but used his momentum to keep

turning until he was facing the closest rider, who was trying to draw his bow. Kaspar

reached out with his left hand and grabbed the man's ankle. He yanked it back and

then up and the bowman fell from the saddle.

Kaspar spun, looking for the last opponent, or to see if one of those he had

unhorsed had regained his footing. He turned twice before accepting his situation.

Slowly he stood up and let the sword fall from his fingers.

The last bowman had calmly moved his horse away a few yards, and now sat

quietly in the saddle, drawing a bead on Kaspar. It was hopeless. Unless he was a

terrible shot, Kaspar would never avoid the arrow pointing at his chest.

The man smiled and nodded, and said something that Kaspar took as 'good', then

flicked his gaze to someone behind Kaspar.

Suddenly one of the riders he had embarrassed smashed his forearm into the back

of Kaspar's neck, driving him to his knees. Kaspar tried to turn as he heard metal

clanking, and he realized someone was approaching with his discarded manacles.

Before he could get his head around, cold iron slammed into the point of his jaw.

Bright lights exploded behind his eyes for an instant before he lapsed into

unconsciousness.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Kaspar's jaw throbbed. His neck hurt and he felt sore all over his body. He was

disoriented for a moment, then remembered the confrontation with the nomads. He

blinked, trying to clear his vision, then realized it was night. From the variety of aches

he experienced when he tried to move, he assumed the riders had spent a fair amount

of time kicking him after he had been knocked unconscious, displaying their

displeasure at the manner in which he had received their request for him to surrender.

He judged it a good thing he hadn't killed any of them, for that would have

probably earned him a cut throat. He realized his chance of escaping that encounter

had been slim. He struggled upright, no mean feat with his hands bound behind him

with leather cords. But he also knew that a trained fighting man might stand a better

chance of survival amongst people like these compared to a common field-hand or

house-servant.

Looking around, he discovered he was secured behind a tent. His bindings were

tight around his wrists, and those in turn were tied by a tough rope to a tent stake. He

could move around a few feet, but there wasn't enough slack in the rope to enable him

to stand. A quick inspection of the stake revealed he could probably pull it out, but if

he did, he would bring down the tent, clearly informing his hosts of his attempted

departure.

He was dressed as he had been when taken. He did a quick physical inventory

and judged that nothing was broken or sprained too badly.

He sat quietly and considered things. His instincts about these people seemed

correct so far. From what little he could see beyond the tent, this was a small camp,

perhaps just the six riders and their families, maybe a few more. But he could see a

picket line for horses, and by rough estimation there were at least two or three mounts

for every person here.

On the other side of the tent he heard voices, speaking softly. He strained to

listen to the alien language. He sat back. A word here or there was tantalizing to him.

Kaspar had a quick grasp of languages. As heir to his father's throne, it had been

judged necessary for him to learn the educated speech of the surrounding nations, so

he spoke fluent, unaccented King's Tongue—the language of the Kingdom of the

Isles—as well as those languages related to his native Olaskon, all descended from

Roldemish. He also spoke flawless court Keshian and had taken the time to learn a

little Quegan, a variant on Keshian that had evolved on its own after the Quegan

Kingdom had successfully revolted from the Empire of Great Kesh nearly two

centuries earlier.

In his travels he had picked up patois and cants from half a dozen regions of

those foreign nations, and something about what he was now hearing sounded very

familiar. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander as he eavesdropped on the

conversation.

Then he heard a word: ak-kdwa. Acqua! The accent was thick, the emphasis

different, but it was Quegan for 'water'! They were talking about stopping somewhere

for water. He listened and let the words flow over him without trying to understand,

just allowing his ear to become used to the rhythms and tones, the patterns and

sounds.

For an hour he sat there, listening. At first he could recognize one word in a

hundred. Then perhaps one word in fifty. He was recognizing one word in a dozen

when he heard footsteps approaching. He slumped down and feigned uncon-

sciousness.

Kaspar heard two sets of footfalls draw near. In a low voice one man spoke.

Kaspar heard the words 'good' and 'strong' from one man. There followed a quick

conversation. From what Kaspar could judge, one man was arguing to kill him where

he lay because he might be more trouble than he was worth, but the other argued he

had value because he was strong and good at something, probably with a sword, since

it was the only skill Kaspar had demonstrated before being overwhelmed.

It took total control on Kaspar's part not to move when an ungentle boot prodded

him to see if he was truly unconscious. Then the two men departed.

Kaspar waited and when he was certain they were gone, he chanced a peek and

caught a glimpse of the men's backs as they walked around the tent.

He sat up.

He fought to keep his mind focused on what he was hearing, and started to

wrestle with his bindings. The danger would be to become so intent upon escaping he

wouldn't hear anyone approach. He knew his best chance for escape was this first

night, while they thought him still unconscious. He had very few advantages. They

probably knew the surrounding countryside and were experienced trackers.

His only edge was surprise. Kaspar was a skilled enough hunter to know what

cunning prey could do. He needed at least an hour's start on his captors, but first he

had to free himself of the leather bindings around his wrist.

He gave in to the unreasonable desire to test the bindings, and found them tight

enough to cause pain when he tried to pull his hands apart. He couldn't see, but they

felt like rawhide.

If he could get them wet they would stretch and he might be able to slip them off.

After a futile period of struggle, he turned his attention to the rope he could see.

He knew he would have little chance of getting the rope off the peg without bringing

down the entire tent, but he could think of no other option. He had to turn first one

way, then the other, to come to the conclusion that this was impossible with his hands

tied behind him.

Kaspar sat and waited. As the hours dragged by, the camp quietened. He heard

footsteps and once more feigned unconsciousness as someone came to check on him

before turning in for the night. He let minutes drag by until he was certain that those

inside the tent were asleep. Then he sat up. He glanced at the sky and was greeted

with a display of alien stars. Like most men of his ocean-going nation, he could

navigate by the stars, either on land or sea, but above him lay constellations unknown.

He would have to rely upon basic navigation skills until he became used to the

display above. He knew where the sun had set, marked in his mind by a spiral of rock

in the distance he had glimpsed just before sunset. Which meant he knew where north

was.

North and east was his most likely route home. Kaspar had read sufficiently to

know where the continent of Novindus lay, relative to Olasko. Depending on where

on this continent he found himself, his best chance to get to Olasko was to work his

way to a place called the City of the Serpent River. There was almost no trade

between this land and those on the other side of the world, but whatever trade there

was started in that city. From there he could find his way to the Sunset Isles, and from

there to Krondor. Once in the Kingdom of the Isles, he could walk home if he had to.

He knew he was almost certain to fail in the attempt, but whatever was to happen

to him, let it happen as he struggled to return home.

Home, he thought bitterly. A day earlier he had been home, ruling his nation,

before being taken captive in his own citadel, defeated by a former servant he had

thought as good as dead. He had spent the night in chains considering the dramatic

reversal of fortune that had overwhelmed him, and had fully expected to be hanged by

now.

Instead, Talwin Hawkins, his former servant, had forgiven him, and he had been

banished to this distant land. Kaspar was uncertain as to what exactly had transpired

over the previous few days. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if he had truly been

himself for the last few years.

He had heard guards talking outside his quarters while he had been awaiting

what he anticipated would be his execution. Leso Varen, his magician advisor, had

been killed in the battle for the citadel. The magician had first come to him years

earlier, promising great power in exchange for Kaspar's protection. His presence had

been only a minor distraction at first and he had from time to time provided useful

service.

Kaspar took a deep breath and returned his attention to gaining his freedom.

There would be time for more reflection on his past, assuming he lived long enough

to have a future.

Kaspar was a broad-shouldered man of unusual strength, but his looks were

deceptive. Unlike many men of his build, he kept himself limber. Expelling all the air

from his lungs and hunching his shoulders forward, he pulled his knees hard up

against his shoulders, sticking his head between his thighs, forcing his feet between

his bound wrists. He could feel ligaments protest as he stretched his arms as far as

possible, but he managed to get his hands in front of him.

And almost pulled the tent down in the process. He found himself able to lie

down, easing the tension on the rope and peg. He studied it. The bindings were indeed

of rawhide, and he set to them with his teeth. Using saliva, he got the simple knot wet,

gnawing at it until it loosened. For long minutes he worried at the loops of the knot,

then suddenly it came loose and his hands were free.

He flexed his fingers and rubbed his wrists as he slowly stood up. Forcing his

breathing to a slow, deep rate, he crept around to the front of the tent. He peered

around the edge of the tent and saw a single guard sitting with his back to the fire at

the other end of the camp.

Kaspar's mind raced. He knew one thing from years of experience: more harm

came from indecision than from bad choices. He could attempt to silence the guard,

thereby possibly gaining several hours on the pursuit that would certainly follow, or

he could simply leave, and hope the guard didn't come to check on him before dawn.

But whichever choice he made, he had to act now!

Without conscious effort, he took a step in the guard's direction. He trusted in his

instincts: the risk was worth the potential reward. The guard hummed a simple tune,

perhaps as a device to keep himself alert. Kaspar trod lightly on the balls of his feet

and came up behind the man.

Some change in the light as Kaspar stepped between the guard and the campfire,

a slight sound, or just intuition, made the man turn. Kaspar lashed out as hard as he

could and struck him behind the ear. The guard's knees wobbled and his eyes lost

focus and Kaspar struck him across the jaw. The man started to fall, and Kaspar

caught him.

He knew his freedom was measured in seconds as he stripped the guard of his

headcover, and sword. But the man had smaller feet than him and his boots were

useless to Kaspar.

He cursed the soldier who had taken his boots on the night of his capture. He

couldn't attempt an escape barefoot. He lacked the calluses of those who traveled

without boots and while he knew little of the terrain around him, what he had seen

told him it was rocky and unforgiving. He remembered a small copse of trees on a

distant hillside to the northeast, but doubted he could effectively hide there. What

other cover might be nearby was unknown to him; he had had no time to study his

surroundings between his arrival and the confrontation with his captors. His only

escape option would be to find a pair of boots and put as much distance between

himself and his captors before they awoke, climbing into the rocky ridge above them

where the horses couldn't follow.

He stood silently for a moment, then hurried quietly to the largest tent. Holding

the sword at the ready, he gently moved aside the tent flap. Inside he could hear

snoring. It sounded as if there were two sleepers, a man and a woman. In the gloom

he could see little, so he waited and let his eyes adjust. After a moment he saw a third

body near the left side of the tent, a child from the size of it.

Kaspar saw a pair of boots standing next to a small chest, where he imagined he'd

find the chieftain's personal treasure. Kaspar moved with the catlike stealth

uncharacteristic of a man so large. He quietly picked up the boots and saw they were

of a size he could wear, then moved back towards the tent flap. He paused.

Conflicting urges tugged at him. He was almost certain to be overtaken and

recaptured, perhaps killed this time, unless he could find an advantage. But what?

While he pondered, valuable moments passed, time never to be regained that would

count against him as he sought to distance himself from this place.

Indecision was not part of Kaspar's nature. He glanced about in the gloom and

saw the chieftain's weapons where he would expect them, close at hand in case of

trouble. He inched past the sleeping couple and took out the nomadic leader's dagger.

It was a long, broad-bladed thing designed with a single purpose, to gut a man at

close quarters. There was nothing dainty about it, and it put Kaspar in mind of the

daggers worn by the nomads of the Jal-Pur desert of Kesh. He wondered idly if these

people were somehow related. The language of the Jal-Pur was unrelated to Keshian,

but Quegan had been a dialect of Keshian, and these people's language bore a faint

resemblance.

Kaspar took the blade and crept closer to the tent flap. He peered in the gloom at

the child. In the dim light he couldn't see if it was a boy or girl, for the hair was

shoulder-length and the child's face was turned away. With a quick, downwards

thrust, Kaspar drove the dagger through the floor cover into the earth below. The

slight sound caused the child to stir, but not wake.

Kaspar left the tent. He glanced quickly around and saw what he needed, a filled

waterskin. He then looked longingly at the line of horses, but ignored them. A mount

would give him a better chance of survival, but trying to saddle one was likely to

wake someone, and whatever chance his warning in the tent might earn him, stealing

a horse from these people would certainly outweigh it.

Kaspar moved out of the village and towards the trees and the hills beyond. What

he had seen before his capture indicated that it was rocky terrain and perhaps these

horsemen might be disinclined to follow if the way was too harsh. Perhaps they had a

rendezvous to make, or perhaps Kaspar's message might give them pause.

For unless the chieftain was a fool he would understand what Kaspar had done.

The dagger next to his child would say, 'I could have killed you and your family while

you slept, but I spared you. Now, leave me alone.'

At least that's what Kaspar hoped the man would understand.

Dawn found Kaspar climbing over broken rocks, high into the hills. There was

almost no cover above the small copse of trees he had seen the day before, and he

struggled to find a place to hide.

He could still see the camp below, though by now it was a distant dotting of tents

on the floor of the wide valley. From his vantage he could see that this valley was a

choke point of a broad plain, flanked on his side by broken hills with a plateau

opposite. On the other side of the valley, a vast mountain range rose in the distance.

Snow-capped peaks suggested that these mountains would be difficult to cross. The

military man in him admired the defensibility of the location, should someone choose

to place a fortress where the nomad's camp was. But scanning the horizon, he realized

there was nothing to protect here.

The valley lacked apparent water. The trees he had passed through were a variety

unknown to him. They were scrawny, had tough black bark, thorns, and obviously

needed very little water to survive. Everywhere he looked he saw rocks and dust. The

valley below and the cut through the rocks told him that once a river had flowed

through here. Shifting land or a change in climate had caused it to dry up and now its

only function was to mark a quick passage for horsemen between one place and

another, both unknown to Kaspar.

Distant sounds informed him his escape had been discovered, and he returned his

efforts to climbing, feeling lightheaded and slightly weak. He had not eaten for at

least two days, depending how he calculated the time. He had been dragged before

Talwin Hawkins and his allies in chains at night and transported here instantly at

dawn. He must truly be on the other side of the world.

He needed rest and food. He had found some sort of dried meat and hard cracker

in a pouch on the side of the waterskin, and planned on devouring these when time

permitted, but for the moment he was content to put as much distance between

himself and the nomads as possible.

He reached a ridge, on top of which a narrow path ran. He pulled himself up off

the rocks and turned to look at the distant camp. Tents were being folded and the tiny

dots he took to be men and horses appeared to be moving at a sedate pace. There was

no sign of pursuit below him. Kaspar took a moment to catch his breath and regarded

the path.

It was wider than a game trail. He knelt and examined it. Someone had taken the

trouble to compact the earth beneath his feet. He followed it as it climbed, leading

him away from the area above the camp, and soon he found a rock face on his right

that showed marks made by tools. The sun was partially blocked by the rock face, so

he sat and ate the cracker and some of the dried meat. He drank about a third of the

water in the skin and rested.

He seemed to have escaped and it appeared that his message to the tribe's

chieftain had been understood. No riders fanned out in search, no trackers climbed the

hills below him. He was free of pursuit.

The air was dry. He reckoned his orientation from the rising sun. The trail he was

on had once been a military road, which appeared to have been abandoned for some

reason or another. The surrounding countryside was harsh and ungenerous, so there

seemed little reason to claim it. Perhaps it had once served as a highway for a nation

no longer claiming this region.

He knew the heat of the day would be punishing, so he sought out shelter. None

was evident. He decided to spend a while along this old military road, for if nothing

else it offered him a vantage point. He allowed himself one long sip of water, then

replaced the stopper in the waterskin. He had no idea how long it would be before he

found another supply.

The snatches of conversation he had overheard the night before led him to

believe water was a source of concern to his former captors. He assumed they would

be heading for a new source, so he decided to walk the trail in parallel to their course.

An hour went by and he noticed that the distance between himself and his captors

was growing. They walked their horses, but they were traversing flat terrain and he

was picking his way along broken stones. The roadbed was flat for a dozen yards or

more at a time, then would be interrupted by breaks, overturned stones and gaps due

to slides in the hillside below. Once he had to climb down half a dozen yards in order

to circumnavigate a collapsed section.

By midday he was exhausted. He removed his shirt and tied it around his head as

a rudimentary covering. He didn't know how he knew, but he vaguely remember as a

boy being told that the body could withstand sunburn as long as the head was shaded.

He drank another swallow of water and then chewed the jerked meat. It was tough

and with little fat, and very salty. He resisted the urge to drink more, determined to

permit himself just one more mouthful when he had finished the food.

It took a while to chew the meat, but at last he finished and he took that one long

drink. He sat regarding his surroundings.

Kaspar was a hunter. Perhaps not the hunter Talwin Hawkins had been, but he

had enough wilderness lore to know he was in dire circumstances. Whatever rain

visited this harsh countryside did so infrequently, for there were no signs of vegeta-

tion save the tough trees that scattered the landscape. The rocks he sat upon had no

grass pushing its way up between cracks, and when he turned a stone over, there was

no moss or lichen growing on the shaded side. This country was dry most of the time.

He let his eyes follow the ridge upon which he walked and he saw that it ran

towards the south. To the east he saw nothing but broken plains, and to the west the

arid valley. He decided he would take this trail for a while longer, and look for

anything that would keep him alive. The nomads were heading south, and if he didn't

know anything else, he knew that eventually they would be heading for water. And to

survive, he needed water.

For that was the task at hand: survival. Kaspar had many ambitions at the

moment, to return to Opardum and reclaim the throne of Olasko, and to visit

vengeance on his traitorous Captain Quentin Havrevulen and Talwin Hawkins,

formerly of his household. As he walked, a thought arose. The two men weren't

actually traitors, he guessed, as he had condemned both to imprisonment on the isle

known as the Fortress of Despair, but whatever the legal niceties were, he'd have

them both dead.

He'd probably have to rally forces loyal to him and seize the citadel from them.

Most likely Talwin had forced his sister Talia to marry him, to claim his throne, and

Havrevulen was almost certainly in command of the army. But he'd find men who

remembered who was the rightful ruler of Olasko, and he'd reward them handsomely

once he was back in power.

His mind churned and he advanced plan after plan as he trod the roadway, but

whatever plan presented itself he first had to overcome several significant obstacles,

starting with the fact that he was on the wrong side of the world. That meant he would

need a ship and crew, and that meant gold. And to get gold he would have to contrive

of a way to earn it or take it. And that meant finding civilization, or what passed for it

on this continent. And finding people meant he had to survive.

He glanced around as the sun reached its zenith, and decided that right now,

survival looked improbable. Nothing stirred in any direction he looked, save a small

cloud of dust marking the passage of the nomads who had captured him.

However, he considered, standing still only guaranteed his death, so he would

keep moving as long as he had the strength.

He marched on.

CHAPTER TWO

Survival

KASPAR LAY DYING.

He knew his time was short as he sheltered under an overhang from the afternoon

sun. He had been three days on the trail and his water had been used up at dawn. He

was lightheaded and disoriented and had stumbled down the side of the ridge to a

shaded area to wait out the heat.

He knew that if he didn't find water by nightfall, he most likely would not awake

tomorrow morning. His lips were cracked and his nose and cheeks peeled from

sunburn. Lying on his back, he ignored the pain from his blistered shoulders as they

rested against the rocks. He was too tired to allow the pain to bother him; besides, the

pain let him know he still lived. He would wait until the sun was low in the west, then

work his way down to the flat land below. The landscape was bleak and unforgiving:

broken rocks and hardpan lay in every direction. He realized that the magician who

had transported him here had given him little chance for survival; this was a desert by

any measure, even if it lacked the flowing sands he associated with that name.

The few trees he had encountered were lifeless and dry, and even the underside

of rocks were without a hint of moisture. One of his teachers had told him years ago

that water could sometimes be found below the surface in the desert, but Kaspar was

certain it wouldn't be at this elevation. Whatever streams had graced this landscape

ages before, any water was now long vanished; if any remained, it would be in those

gullies that were his goal, down below the cracked surface towards which he

staggered. For a brief moment he paused to catch his breath, which now labored; no

matter how deeply he inhaled, he couldn't seem to get enough air. He knew it was

another symptom of his plight.

Kaspar had never seen so bleak a place. The great sand ergs of the Jal-Pur of

northern Kesh had seemed exotic, a place of shifting forms, a veritable sea of sand.

He had been a boy with his father, and a lavish entourage of royal servants from the

Imperial Keshian court at his beck and call, amid a mobile village of colorful tents

and opulent pavilions. When his father hunted the legendary sand lizards of the Jal-

Pur, servants were always nearby with refreshing drinks—water scented with herbs or

fruit extracts, cleverly kept cool in boxes packed with snow from the mountains. Each

night was a royal feast, with chilled ales and spiced wine.

Just thinking of those drinks caused Kaspar near-physical pain. He turned his

fevered thoughts to his current surroundings.

Here there were colors, but nothing remotely attractive to the eye, just harsh

ochre, dingy yellow, the red of rusted iron, and a tan muted with gray. Everything was

covered by dust, and nowhere was there a hint of green or blue indicating water,

though he had noticed a shimmer to the northwest, which might be a reflection of

Raymond E. Feist - Conclave of Shadows 3 - Exile's Return

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: