He can occasionally see to an enemy," she conceded. "If he manages to get his sword pointed in the right direction and the enemy does him the favor of falling upon it in precisely the right way.

Say me aye," he whispered against her mouth. "Say me aye." How could she say anything else?

He stopped and looked at her. "Your eyes are leaking." "It's the flowers. They make me sneeze." "Then let us be away from the garden. Open the door, love, if you will." She obeyed, then froze halfway over the threshold. "What did you call me?" "The first of countless endearments if you'll but stir yourself to hold our current course.

I could tell you a tale about something,' Miach offered, rubbing her hand absently. 'If you like.' She frowned thoughtfully. 'What sort of something?' 'Something that would soothe you,' he promised. 'I'm sure there would be swords involved. Bloodshed. Peril. That kind of thing.

She was sitting in a garden more beautiful than even her rampaging imagination could ever have conjured up, and she was being serenaded by trees.

Shut up," Morgan said, whirling on the woman and pointing the sword at her. "Shut up, you shrill harpy, before I aid you in doing so by means of a dozen ways you won't care for in the least." Adhémar's fiancée fell, blessedly, silent.

She looked at him gravely. "You cannot call back the river that has already flowed past you, Ruith. All you can do is be grateful for where you are in it.