Аннотация
Sword Sworn
Jennifer Roberson
PROLOGUE
THE SAND was very fine and very pale, like Del's hair. As her skin had been once; but first the Southron sun, followed by that of the sea voyage and its salt-laden wind—and our visit to the isle of Skandi—had collaborated insidiously to gild her to a delicate creamy peach. She was still too fair, too Northern, to withstand the concerted glare of this sun for any length of time without burning bright red, but definitely not as fair as she'd been when we first met.
Oh. That's right. I was talking about the sand.
Anyway, it was very fine, and very pale, and I had worked carefully to smooth it with a good-sized peeling of the skinny, tall, frond– and beard-bedecked palm tree overlooking the beach, the ocean beyond, the ship I'd hired in Skandi—and then I had ruined all that meticulous smoothness by drawing in it.
A circle.
A circle.
I had thought never to enter one again.
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