foreboding. It showed a man in a dark suit sitting on a wooden throne that looked like it had been carved out of an ancient tree. There was silver in his beard, and he was frowning out from the card, a heavy ebony cane in one hand. “It’s not bad,” Gwyn agreed, tapping the card. “It’s just, you know. Authority. Rules, structure . . .” “My father,” Rhys said, and Gwyn nodded, picking the card up.
