Cathy McCullough

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The burning aspen seemed small, its flames sputtering. Walking around the sapling, the Pilgrim caressed its leaves as one caresses a lover before a long separation. His singsong rumble was nearly in unison with the hum of the twin waterfalls, which from this vantage point appeared to plunge directly on either side of the aspen, framing it. His words were inaudible, but chant-like. His joy-pierced tones were tinged with grief.
The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son, #1)
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