ON A WIND-SWEPT balcony at the summit of the Black Tower that sat on the Black Island, a white-haired man gazed out at the vista spread before him. The man had been and was now again the Chambelán of the Chamber of the Red Door.
The scene before him never failed to fascinate and frustrate. Below, the dark jungle reached to where the cobalt sand met the surrounding sea whose waters churned in a never-ending storm. Waters as light-devouring as the Nothing of which they were but one part.
But none of that held his attention. Instead, Beroald’s eyes were drawn, as they always were, across the impassable black sea to where a finger of silver-white radiance glowed on the horizon. Another island. Similar in many ways. Very different in others.
Beroald sighed. “So close…”
And yet so far? spoke
