Grey Sister (Book of the Ancestor, #2)

by Mark Lawrence

THERE ARE MANY poisons that will induce madness but none perhaps quite so effective as love.

“Poisoner.” Kettle found the strength to raise a hand, running white fingers into the flame of Apple’s hair. She held her a moment. “Poison me.”

Stalagmites rose in small delicate forests, stalactites descended in curtains where the cave curved down, glistening with an iridescent sheen like the carapace of a beetle.

Kettle grew around her hurts and learned to laugh again—learned wickedness as they taught her scripture—learned the swiftness of her body and the sharpness of her mind. She grew into a woman and learned to love and to be loved.

We have failed to teach you about failure.

Nona is just built different

“You’re of particular value, chosen or not.”

“We always hope that other people will see past the skin and bones we wear, Regol. These masks we’ve been given. We hope they’ll see us. Some spark, some flame, something special, something that’s of worth.

But I never had a daughter. I would have been proud to call any of you my own.” She lifted her hands, forestalling any embrace. “You are my children, children of the Ancestor, daughters of the Rock of Faith, daughters of Sweet Mercy. I expect you to meet your enemy with ferocity and make a good account of yourselves.”