Andrew Peterson · 348 pages
Rating: (2.8K votes)
“He wanted to be alone, and he wanted to be found.”
“He means to make his subjects merciful and wise; sorrow and struggle bringeth both. We will, he tells me, grow by grieving, live by dying, love by losing. The heart itself is the field of battle and the garden green.”
“She turned around and said, "Is there anything I can do?"
It was the only thing she could have said that he couldn't answer with anger, which frustrated Janner even more. If she had asked what was wrong, he would have hurled a perfectly sassy reply right back at her. If she had told him to cheer up, he would have grouched something about how cheery he'd be if he had played with puppies all day. If she had tried to be silly to cheer him up, he would have barked that he was sorry he wasn't in the mood for games.
But "Is there anything I can do?" poured cool water on his fire. It told him that she cared. It told him that she saw he needed something, even if she didn't know what. It told him that she hurt with him.”
“Kalmar nodded. "I'm sorry, Papa. I wasn't strong enough."
"None of us are, lad. Me least of all." Esben smiled and took a rattling breath. "But it's weakness that the Maker turns to strength. Your fur is why you alone loved a dying cloven. You alone in all the world knew my need and ministered to my wounds." Esben pulled Kalmar closer and kissed him on the head. "And in my weakness, I alone know your need. Hear me, son. I loved you when you were born. I loved you when I wept in the Deeps of Throg. I loved you even as you sang the song that broke you. And I love you now in the glory of your humility. You're more fit to be the king than I ever was. Do you understand?"
Kalmar shook his head.
Esben smiled and shuddered with pain. "A good answer, my boy. Then do you believe that I love you?"
"Yes, sir. I believe you." Kalmar buried his face in his father's fur.
"Remember that in the days to come. Nia, Janner, Leeli - help him to remember.”
“Gnag bends things for breaking, and the Maker makes a flourish! Evil digs a pit, and the Maker makes a well! That is his way.”
“But I don't want to be the Throne Warden," Janner said with all the bitterness he could muster.
"I understand," Nia said. Janner had planned to send her over the edge with that comment, but she didn't seem surprised.
"Sometimes I don't want to be queen. But what I want doesn't change what I am.”
“Everywhere Janner looked, there were ropes, poles, platforms, and a thousand other ways to break an arm or a leg. It was beautiful.”
“Sorry, lass. Ye have to seize the teachable moments, you know. Carry on.”
“I'll put her in charge of the puppies. I've twelve this week that need tending. How does that suit you?"
Leeli's mouth hung open. She tried to say something but instead crumpled to the floor. She had fainted with joy.”
“Lad, I think we've got what we need for this page. Why don't you go have a look around? And keep out of trouble, or that Madam Sidler will scare you silly." Oskar put a hand to the side of his mouth and lowered his voice. "She's everywhere."
"Can I help you?" said Madam Sidler from the corner of the room. Oskar jumped with such violence that his spectacles clattered to the floor. "I heard you mention my name and thought I might be of assistance."
"Good heavens, woman!" Oskar exclaimed. "We're fine!”
“You can never want too much. That’s how they silence us,” I said. “They told us we were lucky to be in the penal colony instead of the æther. Lucky to be murdered with NiteKind, not the noose. Lucky to be alive, even if we weren’t free. They told us to stop wanting more than what they gave us, because what they gave us was more than we deserved.” I picked up my jacket. “You’re not a prisoner any more, Arcturus.” Warden looked at me in silence. I left him in that ruined hall with the music echoing above him.”
“Imagine what it would be like to have a bookshelf filled only with books that you really love. Isn’t that image spellbinding? For someone who loves books, what greater happiness could there be?”
“The government can catch a hare with an oxcart!”
“Creen los hurones, como todos los pueblos iroqueses, que el sueño transfigura las cosas más triviales y las convierte en símbolos al tocarlas con los dedos del deseo. Creen que el sueño es el lenguaje de los deseos no realizados y llaman "ondinnonk" a los secretos deseos del alma, que la vigilia ignora. Los "ondinnonk" asoman en los viajes que hace el alma mientras duerme el cuerpo.”
“It takes far less courage to cling to the past than it does to face the future".”
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