They traveled like ducks in a row, single-file, up the foggy river. All sails were down. The repetitive grinding of oars rotating in the rowlocks was music to Gunnar's ears, and the smacking of their paddles against the water echoed off the sandy, rock-studded riverbanks. It was a fond reminder of simpler times. Times when his father still lived, his brother was only just becoming a promising political player, and Gunnar was a lad with adventure on his mind-and two eyes in his ...