17
Voran sat in a garden whose very existence was ridiculous. It seemed to be hanging from the clouds instead of being perched on the top of a walled turret in Karila’s highest tower. Flowers of every conceivable shape and size—bluebells, lilies of the valley, irises, roses, black-eyed Susans, forget-me-nots—filled every nook and cranny between shrubs of hawthorn and chokecherry, small apple and pear trees, and larger maples with dark purple leaves and trailing yellow flowers like Vasyllian temple rings.
In the middle of this gorgeous absurdity was a one-room hut made of large grey stones. The roof was nothing more than thatch, but it was evidently well maintained. Inside was a straw pallet on the floor—nothing else. There was no door. It was a prison that no prisoner would ever want to
