Alasdair spent a night tormented by the comparisons between his own troubles and those of Thomas Rhymer. To be certain, it could be no coincidence that particular tale of his gran’s—out of ranks of thousands—had come to his lips last eve.
Had he condemned himself to seven years’ imprisonment in the land of Faerie with a single kiss? That it had been an embrace of rare power was beyond doubt, for the heat of Morgaine’s salute had fairly melted his bones.
And True Thomas, ’twas said, had believed himself gone only seven nights upon his return to Erceldoune, though truly seven years had passed. It had been but one day since Alasdair found himself in this fey world—at least to his mind.
Could an entire year have already passed in the land of mortals? Alasdair’s heart twisted that his gran s
