"A pen is to me as a beak is to a hen." ~J. R. R. Tolkien
This series is like the Lord of the Rings; each book is better than the last. You feel as if you are being pulled by the dandelion fire or by grey threads (if you read the books you will understand the references) into the book, and the farther in you get, the more impossible it is to put it down...
If death is sleep, Hamlet muses, then there will doubtlessly be dreams in that sleep. And if we have nightmares here, what is to stop death-dreams from being one everlasting horror that causes a cold sweat to break out on our cold brow and our lifeless heart to pound in terror for all eternity??
For about 100 pages, I felt justified in the pre-judgement of the book being a tragedy of a boy pining in prison. But the triumph of thinking so had come too late; I was already lost in the drama...
The Irregular Undómiel 