The Best of the Realms, Book II

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It was the hour of the Casting of the Cloak, when the goddess Shar hurled her vast garment of purple darkness, all a-glitter with stars, across the sky. The last rosy embers of the day glimmered on the long hair of a lone rider who came out of the west, lengthening shadows creeping ahead of her. It had been a cool day, and the night promised to be clear and cold.

The woman looked around at the gathering nightdark as she rode. Her black, liquid eyes were startlingly large and framed by arched black brows—looks that betrayed a stern power and keen wits at odds with her demure beauty. Most men did not look past her regal figure and the warm, honey-brown tresses curling around her pert, bone-white face. Queens might lust after her proud beauty—one at least did, of a certainty. Yet as she rode along, her large eyes held no pride… only sadness. Wildfires had raged across all these lands in the spring, leaving behind legions of charred and blackened leafless spars instead of the lush green beauty she recalled. Such fond memories were all that was left of Halangorn Forest now.

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