The tower is fashioned of gray stone, slick with spray that the wind has driven up from the sea. Through the narrow window set high in its walls, a woman sits at a small writing desk. Behind her, a boy stokes the fire that burns in the hearth. Satisfied with his work, the youth stands up and turns to his companion. "Will that be all?" he says.
"Yes," says the woman at the desk. "Go down to the kitchens and have some food, Davor, and see that I'm not interrupted before tomorrow. I have some work to do, and I need quiet." The boy nods and departs, and the woman turns back to the desk, dips her quill in the inkwell, and brings it to the paper.
Ten years, she begins to write. Ten years later and hundreds of miles away, but only now do I feel ready to write about what happened during that fateful year when Basileios led the Tribe of the Red Bear north from the Great Steppe. The full text will follow in time. For now, let me address the most important points, as I remember them, or as they were related to me in the years following my departure from the tribe.
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