The Kingdom of Cockcrow looked prosperous and well-run, and its trouble did not announce itself, because its trouble was sitting on the throne doing the job perfectly.
The company stopped at a monastery there, and that night, while the others slept, a figure came to in a dream — soaked to the skin, water running off him onto the floor that never pooled, weeping — and told a story that the monk, half-asleep and frightened, took some time to understand was the story of a murder.
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