In that remote epoch when the sunset glowed with prismatic extravagance, and the word “impossible” had yet to be minted, lived the ineffable land of Grimor Vale. There, under turrets of gilded basalt, a man named Peregrin Torsgate plied his trades: sometimes a broker of curios, at other times an adventurer of flexible morality. On a weather-smoothed granite quay overlooking the Vale’s perpetually saffron sea, Peregrin concluded a transaction with Sir Blanchard Drimble—an officious gentleman whose maroon whiskers and gold-embroidered sleeves fairly shrieked his rank. They spoke in hushed tones by the wavering lantern light: “Indeed,” whispered Drimble, flicking a damask kerchief across his jutting chin, “you have the artifact?” “I do,” replied Peregrin, resting a polished walnut chest upon the quay. He pressed a subtle catch, and the lid rose on cunning hinges. Within lay a small tapestry, intricately wrought in threads of shimmering onyx and coral. “The Tapestry of Jallah-Adren ha...