Shadow of Night (All Souls Trilogy, #2)

by Deborah Harkness

“Some spells begin with an idea, others with a question. There are many ways to think about what comes next: tying a knot, twisting a rope, even forging a chain like the one that you made between you and your wearh,” Goody Alsop said, her tone low and soothing. “Let the power move through you.”

The firedrake blinked back at me. Her eyes were sad and familiar—black, with silver irises rather than white.

“Thank you,” I whispered. The firedrake replied with a quiet moan of fire and song. Her silver-and-black eyes were ancient and wise as she studied me, her tail flicking back and forth pensively. She stretched her wings to their full extent before tightening them around her body and dematerializing. All that was left of the firedrake was a tingling sensation in my ribs that told me somehow she was inside me, waiting until I needed her.

“You do nothing by halves, Diana Roydon. First you are no ordinary witch but a weaver. And then you weave a forspell that called forth a rowan tree simply to tame a firedrake. Had I foreseen this, I would not have believed it.”

“That was no dragon,” Elizabeth said. “It had but two legs,” Marjorie explained. “That makes her not only a creature of fire but one of water, too, capable of moving between the elements. The firedrake is a union of opposites.” “What is true of the firedrake is true of the rowan tree as well,” Goody Alsop said with a proud smile. “It is not every day that a rowan tree pushes its branches into one world while leaving its roots in another.”

“There are witches—a very few witches—who can move between this world and the next.” “Time spinners,” I said with a nod. “Yes, I know. I’m one of them.” “Not between this time and the next, Diana, but between this world and the next.” Marjorie gestured at the branch by my feet. “Life—and death. You can be in both worlds. That is why the rowan chose you, not the alder or the birch.”

And so I discovered that the practice of magic was not unlike the practice of history. The trick to both wasn’t finding the correct answers but formulating better questions.

Time is, time was, time is past.’

My care is like my shadow in the sun / Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it, / Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done,’” Matthew said softly. “I am your Shadow, Majesty, and have no choice but to go where you lead.”

“It represents an old Flemish proverb: ‘The forest has eyes, and the woods have ears; therefore I will see, be silent, and hear.’”

“Šárka belongs to you. And today she has proved to be a worthy namesake of a great Bohemian warrior.” Matthew picked up the merlin, grouse and all, and held it up for the court to see. Šárka’s jesses swung freely, and her bells tinkled with sound as he circled her around. Unsure what their response should be, the courtiers waited for Rudolf to do something. I intervened instead. “Was this a female warrior, husband?” Matthew stopped in his rotation and grinned. “Why, yes, wife. The real Šárka was small and feisty, just like the emperor’s bird, and knew that a warrior’s greatest weapon lies between the ears.” He tapped his head to make sure everyone received the message. Rudolf not only received it, he looked nonplussed. “She sounds rather like the ladies of Malá Strana,” I said drily. “And what did Šárka do with her intelligence?” Before Matthew could answer, an unfamiliar young woman spoke. “Šárka took down a troop of soldiers,” she explained in fluid Latin with a heavy Czech accent. A white-bearded man I took to be her father looked at her approvingly, and she blushed. “Really?” I said, interested. “How?” “By pretending she needed rescuing and then inviting the soldiers to celebrate her freedom with too much wine.” Another woman, this one elderly with a beak of a nose to rival Augusta’s, snorted in disgust. “Men fall for that every time.” I burst out laughing. To her evident surprise, so did the beaky, aristocratic old lady.

‘And lo! from opening clouds, I saw emerge / The loveliest moon, that ever silver’d o’er / A shell for Neptune’s goblet.’” “You cannot use Keats!” I laughed. “He’s a Romantic poet—it’s three hundred years too soon.” “‘She did soar / So passionately bright, my dazzled soul / Commingling with her argent spheres did roll / Through clear and cloudy, even when she went / At last into a dark and vapoury tent,’” he exclaimed dramatically, pulling me into his arms.

“You were thinking like fire. Empathy is the secret to most things in life—including magic.

Traditionally, people celebrate Midsummer Eve by lighting fires: bone fires, wood fires, and mixed fires.

“You tell me that magic is just desire made real. Maybe spells are nothing more than words that you believe with all your heart,”

“Every weaving is as unique as the weaver who makes it. The goddess does not want us to imitate some ideal of perfection, but to be our true selves.”

“Nightmares are like Master Harriot’s star glass. They are a trick of the light, one that makes something distant seem closer and larger than it really is.”

A dream is a nightmare in reverse. If you dream of someone you love, that person will seem closer, even if far away.”