A Cast of Stones

I never knew a woman could be fierce and beautiful and smart before I met you. Every time I see you I think of a hawk, beautiful and deadly.

Maybe collecting bruises was the only way to learn how to fight.

A figure stood at the far end, cloaked in black and beckoning him.

Once Errol righted himself into some semblance of horsemanship, they set off at an easy canter. That is, the other horses set off at a canter, while Errol's horse settled into a teeth-shattering trot. After a hundred paces he could feel Horace's backbone through the saddle. The other riders pulled ahead without a backward glance, leaving him to his four-footed torture.

He pulled his hand back, aware now that sweat beaded on his forehead and that Rale watched him, his eyes dark, intense. Errol licked his lips. Did he want a drink? He hadn't gone more than two days in a row without a drink since he was...since...Warrel...the quarry...stone.

The next day, the villages came closer together until the beginnings and endings could no longer be discerned.

Some men are more easily broken by kindness than censure.

Never fight a battle that doesn't need to be fought.

Unless you have to, never fight a battle you now you're going to lose.

Why did people insist on starting journeys before the sun got warm? It couldn’t be healthy.