Frederic Remington The CowboyThomas Kinkade veniceThomas Kinkade HOMETOWN MEMORIESThomas Kinkade CHRISTMAS MEMORIES
than a locked room ceases to exist, but . . . locked.
"What is the first thing you can remember, my son?" said Vorbis, kindly.
"There was a bright light, and then someone hit me," said Brutha.
The three And so on.
He looked around the room.
Furnishing was not a priority in the Citadel. Shelves, stools, tables . . . There was a rumor among the novices that priests towards the top of the hierarchy had golden furniture, but there was no sign of it here. The room was as severe as anything in the novices' quarters although it had, perhaps, a more opulent severity; it wasn't the forced bareness of poverty, but the starkness of intent.
"My son?"men stared at him blankly. Then they turned to one another. Brutha, through the misery of his terror, heard snatches of whispering.". . . is there to lose? . . . "Foolishness and probably demonic . . ." "Stakes are high . . ." "One chance, and they will be expecting us . . ."
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