In the Forests of Serre

Words, he decided, were inadequate at best, impossible at worst. They meant too many things. Or they meant nothing at all.

I don't know you." "Then why did you do that for me?" "Because you are so full of wonder. After what I-- After--" He gestured, his eyes hidden; deep lines ran down his cheeks like claw marks. "That seems very precious to me now. How could I not give you such a small thing?

There's a difference,” he said, "between sorcery and magic. Magic is inherent everywhere, in everything; it cannot lie and it cannot be deceived. Sorcery can lie, can twist, can delude. It may be that you have a gift for one but not the other.

He fell to his knees, half-blind, every breath aching, a sound coming out of him like the keen of wood in the flames. Dimly, he heard the witch speak. "I'll take it back, if you don't want it. In return for a small favor, of course.” "No," he whispered, between breaths of fire, "I want it." "Why? Why would anyone want such a terrible thing?" "I don't know, but it is mine and I must take it. He got to his feet somehow; still racked, barely able to walk, he stumbled to the door. He tripped on the bone that was the witch's threshold, and fell headlong back into night. He lay there on the forest floor, dazed and half-dreaming, while his life pieced itself together with a needle as sharp as sorrow drawing threads of every color from gold to blood to bone. He gazed at every memory out of his heart's eye, relearned all the words he had forgotten, including wonder that such enormities could be contained in such small, brief sounds as love, grief, life, death. Such words grew out of the wordless, wild language of the heart. That, he realized finally, was what he had so carelessly given to the witch: without that wordless language, he had left himself mute.

I trust him with the princess," he said absently. "He would defend her with all his powers. I don't trust him with himself." Euan brought a thumb up, scratched at his forehead. "What does that mean?" Unciel gave him an oddly searching look. "Do you know yourself?

And why do you care if another man steals your life? You didn't want it anyway." "I don't― I didn't―" His thoughts tangled; he paused, speechless at having to explain himself to a witch who would have boiled his bones for stew. Then, as he looked back at what had led him to that inconceivable moment, words came. "What I wanted," he said, his voice raw with pain, "was a reason to want it.

Never underestimate the power of a tale. What you put aside as fantasy in one land can kill you in the next.

Then why did you do that for me?" "Because you are so full of wonder. After what I― After―" He gestured, his eyes hidden; deep lines ran down his cheeks like claw-marks. "That seems very precious to me now. How could I not give you such a small thing?

Euan sighed. "I don't understand anything." "Then you understand something very important.

Perhaps her powers resided in her reputation; she was more fearful in tales than in truth. Ronan had believed her dangerous and so, to him, she was. She had trapped him in the forest, he said. But home and marriage seemed the last things he wanted to return to. Perhaps, in some peculiar way, he had used her to trap himself.

He lay there on the forest floor, dazed and half-dreaming, while his life pieced itself together with a needle as sharp as sorrow drawing threads of every color from gold to blood to bone. He gazed at every memory out of his heart's eye, relearned all the words he had forgotten, including wonder that such enormities could be contained in such small, brief sounds as love, grief, life, death. Such words grew out of the wordless, wild language of the heart. That, he realized finally, was what he had so carelessly given to the witch: without that wordless language, he had left himself mute.

Some days you battle yourself and other monsters. Some days you just make soup.

Gyre did not comment. She glanced at him, found an odd open, rueful expression on his face, as if he were looking inside and found himself lacking. It was unusual, she thought; his confidence seemed always unassailable. "No one is unassailable," he said, shifting a branch in the fire with his bare hand. Then he turned his head quickly to meet her cold eye. "I'm sorry. My thoughts were drifting; they floated into yours.” "Anchor them," she suggested drily. “I will try.

His queen is a ghost of what she must once have been. A pale woman with a perpetual twilight in her eyes, who rarely speaks. But within her silence, she carries like a rich treasure the tales of Serre.

She closed her eyes, felt a long breath ease out of her, and realized then how much knowledge could weigh until it was shared.

Then go.” She held his eyes. "Just go and find her. Alone. Now. Because all I can tell your father, if you don't, is that you belong to Brume, you have never truly left her, and the King of Serre's only son and heir is still imprisoned in one of the witch's spells, still doing her bidding in spite of all your protests that you are free.

He seems to be fighting again. But whether he is battling memories or something real, I can't tell.

Then he was dragged out of flight, pulled again into the shrieking snarl of wind to stare into the empty eyes of the monster that saw nothing everywhere it looked, except when it looked at itself.

Sidonie drifted closer to hear. Her eyes were on Gyre, Ronan saw, but whatever inner compass she was following drew her to a stop beside Ronan. For some reason he thought of the owl and the little toad who had come to him for help. And the firebird. And now the princess, the stranger in his land, homing into his burly morning shadow as though she felt most comfortable there. For the first time in a very long time, he remembered what peace was, in that brief moment before they started back up the road.

Like water, tales find their own paths; they go where they are needed.