“I had hoped you were done with me,” he said. “Not quite yet,” she told him. “Burning your future? It will sorrow a great many, I think, when you die in the Blight.” “Burning my past,” he said, rising. “Burning memories. A nation. The Golden Crane will fly no more.” He started to kick dirt over the ashes, then hesitated and bent to scoop up damp soil and pour it out of his hands almost formally. “No one will sorrow for me when I die, because those who would are dead already. Besides, all men die.” “Only fools choose to die before they must. I want you to be my Warder, Lan Mandragoran.”
