“If it means my death, I don't care, because even death will be a sort of freedom.”

“If it means my death, I don't care, because even death will be a sort of freedom.”

“And what would they be scared of? There's nothing to fear in a perfect world, is there?”

“Master, I'm afraid. I am, truly. This place scares me. At home, I know who I am, what to do. I'm the Warden's daughter, I know where I stand. But this is a dangerous place, full of pitfalls. All my life, I've known it was waiting for me, but now I'm not sure I can face it. They'll want to absorb me, make me one of them, and I won't change. I won't! I want to stay me."Jared sighed and she saw his dark gaze was fixed on the veiled window."Claudia, you're the bravest person I know. And no one will change you. You will rule here, though it won't be easy...”

“All my years to this momentAll my roads to this wall.All my words to this silenceAll my pride to this fall.-Songs of Sapphique”

“Walls have ears.Doors have eyes.Trees have voices.Beasts tell lies.Beware the rain.Beware the snow.Beware the manYou think you know.-Songs of Sapphique”

“Underground, the stars are legend.”

“I have walked a stair of swords,I have worn a coat of scars.I have vowed with hollow words,I have lied my way to the stars-Songs of Sapphique”

“I hate her." Merlin laughed, tossing the stick down. "Not so. You have forgotten how to love. That's a different sorrow.”

“The Art Magicke has rules. It means I have to teach you all my tricks. All the substitutions, the replications, the illusions. How to read minds and palms and leaves. How to disappear and reappear."How to saw people in half?""That too.""Nice.”

“:Paintings are easy to see," he said after a moment. "Open, presented flat to the eye. Words are not easy. Words have to be discovered, deep in their pages, deciphered, translated, read. Words are symbols to be encoded, their letters trees in a forest, enmeshed, their tangled meanings never finally picked apart.”

“When you draw, you copy the world don't you? You remake it on paper, but it isn't the same. It's yours. No one else could have created it just like that. When I make poems, I use the words we all use, but the order and the sound create a new power. This wood is someone's creation. We stumble through it's tendrils, as if we're crawling through the synapses of his mind.”