Red Sister (Book of the Ancestor, #1)

by Mark Lawrence

Beyond the walls the city woke, creaking and groaning like an old man leaving his bed, though it had hardly slept.

But we’re not like the fire, or the river, or the wind—we’re not a single tune, its variations played out forever, a game of numbers until the world dies. There’s a story written in us.

I’ve never understood people—not truly—not how to be at ease with them and make them be at ease with me.

Each creak and groan is a hunter stalking you, each flutter of wind its breath, close against your neck.

She had had few friends in her life and the bonds that bound her to them were more sacred to her than the Ancestor was to any nun. Friendship wasn’t something you gave up on or let slip: it wasn’t something to be done in small measure or cut in half.

“Of course, silly. You don’t think Clera’s your only friend, do you? People can be friends without saying so.”

Some people have a slow anger in them, that builds up a piece at a time so you won’t see it coming.

Your death has not been waiting for your arrival at the appointed hour; it has, for all the years of your life, been racing towards you with the fierce velocity of time’s arrow. It cannot be evaded; it cannot be bargained with, deflected or placated. All that is given to you is the choice: Meet it with open eyes and peace in your heart, go gentle to your reward. Or burn bright, take up arms, and fight the bitch.

She is still, but the energies that build within tremble across her, making the air shake and the light dance.

They expect her to run. They know she will run. And she does. But at them.

It spoke again, its voice frost-laden, abrading flesh—as if in place of ice it carried a million tiny throwing stars—and everyone ran for shelter.

Nona caught Leeni’s smile as the novice ran her hands up across her body from thighs to chest to face and somehow the night seemed to follow, her skin, usually nearly as pale as Bhenta’s, growing hard to see, as if the lanterns’ shuddering light could find no purchase on her.

The deep sea waits. Patient, hungry depths unknown to those who skid over its surface and think they know the whole. There are empty miles, dark places where light has never been, and man’s eyes will never know them. What wonders there . . .

a book is as dangerous as any journey you might take. The person who closes the back cover may not be the same one that opened the front one. Treat books with respect.”

These were the grey hours when mankind lay fast in slumber and the world stood open to the bold.

“Every star, turning in the black depth of heaven, burns for no better reason than that humanity raised its face to look. Every great deed needs to be witnessed. Go out there and do something great.”