“Anon caria mirel baelorin. Yavanthy caeotin. Darisfeli em onore. Ezryn.” The words are choppy, labored. But I’d know them anywhere. “That is a language of Spring,” I tell her. She places her palm flat on my chest plate and stares at her spread fingers. “I know. You said that to me down in Cryptgarden.” “You remembered?” She reaches up to caress my helm. Her brown eyes shine as she holds my gaze. “The mountains told me your name. The forest sang your song. My heart has been searching for you since the first dawn.”
