A Distant Tomorrow

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VARTAN, LORD OF THE FIACRE and head of the Outlands High Council was dead. Treacherously slain in his own hall by his jealous younger brother, Adon, who coveted the lordship.

“Now I am the ruler over the Fiacre!” Adon boldly declared, his gaze sweeping the hall. “My brother was a weak fool, but I am not.”

Adon’s wife, Elin, smiled by his side, proud to have encouraged her mate to murder.

The lady Bera, mother of the brothers, fell to her knees cradling her firstborn, glassy-eyed with shock as she stared at the blood staining Vartan’s tunic. She began to wail her mourning. But Vartan’s wife, the half-faerie woman, Lara, called silently to her sword. Andraste flew from its place above the great hearth and into her waiting hand. Her fingers closed about the sword’s hilt, and the weapon began to sing in its deep voice a song of death.

“I am Andraste, and I drink the blood of the betrayer and his ilk!”

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