Graynelore. Stephen Moore

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Graynelore - Stephen  Moore

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Chapter Fifteen: The Secret Meet

      

       Part Four: The Faerie Riding

      

       Chapter Sixteen: The Changelings

      

       Chapter Seventeen: A Brief and Intimate Respite

      

       Chapter Eighteen: Upon the Threshold and a Dream

      

       Chapter Nineteen: The Gateway

      

       Chapter Twenty: The Faerie in the Tower

      

       Chapter Twenty-One: An Unexpected Murder

      

       Chapter Twenty-Two: The Eye Stone

      

       Chapter Twenty-Three: The Pain of Norda Elfwych

      

       Chapter Twenty-Four: As the Crow Flies

      

       Chapter Twenty-Five: The Debateable Land

      

       Chapter Twenty-Six: Night Sounds

      

       Part Five: The Great Riding

      

       Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Gibbet Tree

      

       Chapter Twenty-Eight: Rogrig the Wishard

      

       Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Gigant

      

       Chapter Thirty: The Illicit Agreement

      

       Chapter Thirty-One: The Quickening

      

       Chapter Thirty-Two: The Battle of the Withering

      

       Chapter Thirty-Three: A Cry Among the Mists

      

       Part Six: The Faerie Ring

      

       Chapter Thirty-Four: A Ring of Eight

      

       Chapter Thirty-Five: When the Dust Finally Settled

      

       Chapter Thirty-Six: The Eye of the World

      

       Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Faerie Isle

      

       Epilogue: Rogrig the Confessor

      

       Acknowledgements

      

       About the Author

      

       About the Publisher

       Prologue

       I am Rogrig, Rogrig Wishard by grayne. Though, I was always Rogrig Stone Heart by desire. This is my memoir and my testimony. What can I tell you about myself that will be believed? Not much, I fear. I am a poor fell-stockman and a worse farmer (that much is true). I am a fighting-man. I am a killer, a soldier-thief, and a blood-soaked reiver. I am a sometime liar and a coward. I have a cruel tongue, a foul temper, not to be crossed. And, I am – reliably informed – a pitiful dagger’s arse when blathering drunk.

       You can see, my friend, I am not well blessed.

       For all that, I am just an ordinary man of Graynelore. No different to any other man of my breed. (Ah, now we come to the nub of it. I must temper my words.)

      Rogrig is mostly an ordinary man. The emphasis is important. For if a tale really can hang, then it is from this single thread mine is suspended.

       Even now I hesitate, and fear my words will forever run in rings around the truth. Why? Put simply, I would have preferred it otherwise.

      Let me explain. I have told you that I am a Wishard. It is my family name…it is also something rather more. I say it again, Wish-ard, and not wizard. I do not craft spells. I do not brew potions or anything of

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