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Her lady attendant sat near her, poking at a piece of embroidery with a needle as narrow as, though rather sharper than, her mind.
“And the Bastard grant us . . .”—dy Cabon’s voice, fallen into the soothing singsong of ceremony, stumbled for the first time, slowing—“in our direst need, the smallest gifts: the nail of the horseshoe, the pin of the axle, the feather at the pivot point, the pebble at the mountain’s peak, the kiss in despair, the one right word. In darkness, understanding.”
Possibly the most beautiful prayer I have ever read.
loyalty must run two ways, or else become betrayal in the egg.
“Most people fail to work miracles most of the time. Such a dereliction scarcely needs accounting for.”
“Welcome to my gates, Ista dy Chalion. I am the Mother of Jokona.”
Ista opened her jaws in a fierce grin, and took it in a gulp. “Welcome to mine, Joen of Jokona,” said Ista. “I am the Mouth of Hell.”
How fortunate for Us that We thirst for glorious souls rather than faultless ones,
