To my surprise, Joscelin rose. ‘Phedre-’ He began, then halted. Sitting below him, I watched him smile to himself, quiet and private. ‘Phedre yields with a willow’s grace,’ he said softly. ‘And endures with the strength of mountains. Without her, life would be calm; and yet lack all meaning.

One must gauge one's trust carefully.

My lord. It is too much, and not enough

For every victory there is a price.

But slight mistakes accumulate, and grow to gross errors if unchecked.

We pay for sins we do not remember, and seek to do a will we can scarce fathom. That is what it is, to be a god's chosen.

This is the secret that none dares tell who fights for a cause. Dying, we are all alike.