The Girl in the Tower

Every time you take one path, you must live with the memory of the other: of a life left unchosen. Decide as seems best, one course or the other; each way will have its bitter with its sweet.

Witch. The word drifted across his mind. We call such women so, because we have no other name.

Think of me sometimes," he returned. "When the snowdrops have bloomed and the snow has melted.

I did not know I was lonely, she thought, until I was no longer alone.

I carve things of wood because things made by effort are more real than things made by wishing.

But yes,” he said wearily. “As I could, I loved you. Now will you go? Live.” “I, too,” she said. “In a childish way, as girls love heroes that come in the night, I loved you.

You cannot take vengeance on a whole people because of the doings of a few wicked men.

Things are or they are not, Vasya,” he interrupted. “If you want something, it means you do not have it, it means that you do not believe it is there, which means it will never be there. The fire is or it is not. That which you call magic is simply not allowing the world to be other than as you will it.

The breath hitched in his throat. His hand caught hers, but he did not untangle her fingers. "Why are you here?" she asked him. For a moment she thought he would not answer, then he said, as though reluctant, "I heard you cry.

Many people say ‘Better to die’ until the time comes to do it,” Morozko returned.

There is no magic. Things are. Or they are not.

How? I am a demon and a nightmare; I die every spring, and I will live forever.

Only boys and fools think men are first in courage. We do not bear children.

Has the world run dry of warriors?' She asked. 'All out of brave lords? Are they sending out maidens these days to do the work of heroes?' 'There were no heroes,' said Vasya between her teeth. 'There was only me.

With that sapphire, he bound your strength to him, but the magic did what he did not intend; it made him strong but also pulled him closer and closer to mortality, so that he was hungry for life, more than a man and less a demon. So that he loved you, and did not know what to do.

That love of maidens for monsters, that does not fade with time.” He looked weary. “But the rest—I did not count on that.

Live,” she said. “You said you loved me. Live.

The more one knows, the sooner one grows old,” Midnight returned cheerfully.

I did not know I was to be outdone by a little magic boy and his tricks,” he said. “I salute you, magician.” He swept her a bow from horseback. Vasya did not return the bow. “To small minds,” she told him, spine very straight, “any skill must look like sorcery.

Close your eyes," he said into her ear. "Come with me." She did so, and suddenly she saw what he saw. She was the wind, the clouds gathering in the smoky sky, the thick snow of deep winter. She was nothing. She was everything. The power gathered somewhere in the space between them, between her flickers of awareness. There is no magic. Things are. Or they are not. She was beyond wanting anything. She didn't care whether she lived or died. She could only feel; the gathering storm, the breath of the wind.

I will see the world beyond this forest, and I will not count the cost.

That which you call magic is simply not allowing the world to be other than as you will it.

Sasha looked at his sister. He had never thought of her as girlish, but the last trace of softness was gone. The quick brain, the strong limbs were there: fiercely, almost defiantly present, though concealed beneath her encumbering dress. She was more feminine than she had ever been, and less. Witch. The word drifted across his mind. We call such women so, because we have no other name.

You cannot love and be immortal.

It is going to end, Vasya thought. One day. This world of wonders, where steam in a bathhouse can be a creature that speaks prophecy. One day, there will be only bells and processions. The chyerti will be fog and memory and stirrings in the summer barley.

Why carve things of wood,” she asked him, “if you can make marvelous things of ice with only your hands?” He glanced up. “I carve things of wood because things made by effort are more real than things made by wishing.

She hated him. She dreamed about him. None of it mattered. Might as well hate the sky - or desire it - and she hated that worst of all.

To small minds,” she told him, spine very straight, “any skill must look like sorcery.