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608 pages, Paperback
First published August 7, 1990
“Old cities and old stories were now part of his very life. It was strange how the future seemed tied inseparably to the past, so that both revolved through the present, like a great wheel...”
“Not everyone can stand up and be a hero, Princess,” he said quietly. “Some prefer to surrender to the inevitable and salve their consciences with the gift of survival.”
“Hope… is like the belly-strap on a king’s saddle—a slender thing, but if it snaps the world turns topside-down.”
“Too often it is that men think those who serve are doing it from inferiorness or weakness… Folk who have those beliefs should ride a mount like Qantaqa, who could eat them if she chose. They would then be learning humbleness.”
“Are you still my friend, Binabik?” he said at last.
The troll took the flute from his lips. “To death and beyond, Simon-friend.”
“Never make your home in a place… Make a home for yourself inside your own head. You’ll find what you need to furnish it—memory, friends you can trust, love of learning, and other such things. That way it will go with you wherever you journey.
“There was little inspiration in the crumbling ruins of Enki-e-Shao’saye. They seemed only to demonstrate that even the Sithi were bound within the sweep of time; that any work of hands, however exalted, must come at last to ignoble result.”
“Ineluki has changed… He has become something the world has not seen before, a smoldering ember of despair and hatred, surviving only to redress those things which long ago were injustices and mistakes and tragic underestimations, but now are simply facts. Like ourselves, Ineluki dwells in the realm of what was. But unlike his living kin, Ineluki is not content to wallow in memories of the past. He lives, or exists—here is a place the mortal language is too inexact—to see the present state of the world obliterated and the injustices made right, but his only window is anger. His justice will be cruel, his methods even more horrible. ”
“It has always been the same world, Prince Josua… It is only that in these troubled hours things are seen more clearly. The lamps of cities blur many shadows that are plain beneath the moon.”
Old cities and old stories were now part of his very life. It was strange how the future seemed tied inseparably to the past, so that both revolved through the present, like a great wheel
She had been almost a mother to the boy, had she not? Raised him—with the help of her chambermaids, of course—since his first hour, when his mother had died in childbirth despite all Doctor Morgenes’ attempts to save her. So shouldn’t Rachel know if he was truly gone? Shouldn’t she feel the final severing of the cord that had bound her to that stupid, addle-pated, gawky boy?
“It is just as well, I suppose, that I am not left to stand guard alone,” Strangyeard said. “My sight is not good, you know—and that is in my one remaining eye.” He chuckled apologetically. “There is nothing more frightening than to see the words in my beloved books growing fainter every day.”
“When we are safe, Strangyeard,” Deornoth began suddenly, “if you cannot read, I will come and read to you. My eyes are not as quick as yours, nor my mind, but I am stubborn as an unfed horse. I will grow better with practice. I will read to you.”
“Are you still my friend, Binabik?” he said at last.
The troll took the flute from his lips. “To death and beyond, Simon-friend.” He began to play once more.
“Why do they look so sad, Binabik?”
“We are having a saying on Mintahoq,” the little man explained, “—‘Mourning is for home.’ When we are losing one of our folk on the trail we bury them in that place, but we save our tears until we are safe in our caves once more. Nine of our folk died on Sikkihoq.”
“But you said ‘mourn at home.’ These people are not home yet.”
Binabik shook his head, then answered a quiet question from Sisqi before returning his attention to Simon. “These hunters and herders are making ready for the coming of the rest of Yiqanuc’s folk. The word is even now flying from one mountain to another: the highlands are not a place of safety and spring is not coming.” The little man smiled wearily. “They are home, Simon-friend.”
“We are very small,” Simon said between swallows. The kangkang seemed to be flowing in his veins like blood.
“So are the stars, kundë-mannë,” Sludig murmured. “But they each one burn as bright as they can.”
“Perhaps. But if we are not trying, then there is no chance of anything but this antlike crushing, so we must try. There is always something beyond even the worst of bad times. We may die, but the dying of some may mean living for others. That is not much to cling to, but it is a true thing in any case.”