was dark, and Sigismund was filled with doubt and a sense of danger. Thunder cracked in the distance and lightning severed the sky, illuminating the sword in his hand. It was long and straight, with a white gleam along the edge of the blade and a jewel, red as blood, set into the pommel. The sword was as compelling a presence as the brooding wood and the hedge of thorns, and Sigismund could sense its power, like lightning in his hand . . .

from Chapter 2 — The Enchanted Sleep