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As a wise man stated, ‘There are three kinds of people—the living, the dead, and those at sea.’”
“Our Witness—the Shard. As we told you. The Sithi have called to us here at the Site of Witness, asking of this Josua, and of the Great Swords. The Shard was long silent, but lately it has begun speaking to us again, for the first time in recent memory.”
“Do you see, our masters think the sword Minneyar never left Asu’a, and that is true. But the one who found the sword there beneath the castle, the one you call King John Prester, had it reforged and made new. Under the name of Bright-Nail, he carried it all across the world and back.”
“No good could have come from any of those witchlets surviving.” Binabik looked at him curiously. “The innocent can be molded, as those children were, but sometimes luck is granting that they can be molded back. I have little belief in evil beyond redeeming, Sludig.”
I need Pryrates, and I will use whatever I need to perform the grand task before me. Neither will he stab me in the back, for you see, he needs me, too. The alchemist uses me—or thinks he does.”
One thing Binabik had said that Simon remembered very well was that a person could go a long time without food, but could not survive a single night in the cold without shelter. For this reason, the troll always said, fire was very, very important.
I’ve touched dragon blood. I won a Sithi White Arrow. It all means something, doesn’t it?
I won’t die yet. I want to see Binabik again, and Josua . . . and Miriamele. And I want to see Pryrates and Elias suffer for what they did. I want a home again, a warm bed—oh, merciful Usires, if you really are real, let me have a home again!
“How did you find me?” “The mirror. Its song is very powerful.”
“You may be the Prince of Grass, Josua,” Isorn added, “but you are definitely not the King of Cakes.”
No mortal has ever walked in beneath this gate.”
“That is the way it is, you know,” Elias continued, lips spreading in a smile. “You can either grind down that which stands before you, or else be ground down yourself. There is no middle ground, friend Guthwulf.”
“The problem with being a ‘wise woman’ is that sometimes you know just enough to be truly afraid, while still not having any better answers than might the youngest child.
I have played games that were nothing but gossip and friendly mockery, and all strategies were turned to that end. Other games one can only win by almost losing. I have also experienced games where both players truly strove to lose—although it took years for one to succeed.”
“I did not forbid you to use the mirror, Seoman,” he said. “What is surprising is that you were able to see anything but natural reflection. That is odd.”
“Thorn now seems to think it is acceptable for a small troll to carry it.”
“No,” Binabik said shortly. “My people are not fond of running from a fight, but neither is it time for us to be singing Croohok death-songs and be going happily to glorious defeat. Our quest is not yet given over.”
“The manchildren, the mortals, have many ideas of what happens after they die, and wrangle about who is right and who is wrong. These disagreements often come to bloodshed, as if they wished to dispatch messengers who could discover the answer to their dispute. Such messengers, as far as I know of mortal philosophy, never return to give their brethren the taste of truth they yearn for.
