The Distant Crown
The dream always began with the taste of iron and honey, a thick, cloying sweetness that coated the back of Sir Alistair’s tongue before the light even pierced the heavy velvet curtains of his chamber. In the dream, he was not a man of fifty winters, his joints stiff with the damp chill of the Scottish Highlands, but a young squire again, kneeling in the mud before the throne of King Edward....
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