Every year the bells tolled. Every year on the same day, the height of summer, when crops were just beginning to ripen under waves of heat that rolled across the fields. Through the tiny villages and hamlets, through the thatched roofs of cottages, the sound curling around the bedposts of children as they dreamt of what the booming toll could portend. The hollow tolling reached the town, echoing off stone walls and illuminating quiet corners of courtyard and castle. It was invasive. It took hold of the mind. Every dream of every dreamer was the sound of bells, calling out, reaching, seeking the one who could end the curse. The knights tossed and turned in their bunks as the sound of the bells posed an uncomfortable question. It pulled at their courage with every note, ebbing and flowing like a current of sound in the sea of dark. Every prince in every tiny kingdom was overwhelmed by the feeling. And, as always, a group of deep-hooded scholars sat awake in the citadel, wondering. What does it mean? What sorcery controls this madness and to what end? And, most importantly, who can make the bells stop?