“Fire will run like poetry through your blood.”

“Fire will run like poetry through your blood.”

“It is poor solace to speak of the passing of time and grief," the master said. His quiet voice had gone somehow bleak, though Araene could not decide where in his unchanging tone the difference lay. "We do not wish our grief to fade, for it marks the love and honor in which we held our lost kinsmen. Nevertheless, permit me to assure you that while you may find peace a barren desert, yet eventually it may bloom.”

“Fire will run like poetry through your blood.”

“A king who is renowned for mercy," said the Arobern, with heavy irony, "must also be renowned in equal measure for injustice.”

“The desert at night was black and a strange madder-tinted silver; the sky was black, and the great contorted cliffs, and the vast expanses of sand that stretched out in all directions. But the red moon cast a pale crimson-tinged luminescence over everything, and far above the stars were glittering points of silver.”