The hills of Phyrwold are empty places. They are always empty, of life wild or domesticated to subservience, or of death pervasive in decaying roots and bleeding rivers – emptiness instead holds her pale, pliant hands around the sky, a terrarium of silent fog and silenter rain to paint the trees in silver. Empty roads carve straight lines through deserted wheat fields and barbarous fences; an empty hamlet lies in the valley of a long-dried tarn, where not even ice will fi...