The Pale Tower
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of the old quarter into slick mirrors reflecting the bruised sky, and in the high window of the Keep, where the wind whistled through the cracks in the ancient masonry, Elias Vane stood with his back to the door, watching the world dissolve into a watery blur of indistinct shapes, his hands resting on...
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