Iona Quotes

Ar trebui să se pună un grătar la intrarea în orice suflet. Ca să nu se bage nimeni în el cu cuțitul.

E strâmt aici, dar ai unde să-ți pierzi minţile.

Începe să fie târziu în mine. Uite, s-a făcut întuneric în mâna dreaptă și-n salcâmul din fața casei.

De ce oamenii își pierd timpul cu lucruri care nu le folosesc după moarte?

Mamă, [...] mai naşte-mă o dată! Prima viaţă nu prea mi-a ieşit. Cui nu i se poate întâmpla să nu trăiască după pofta inimii? Dar poate a doua oară... [...] Tu nu te speria numai din atâta şi naşte-mă mereu.

Ne scapă mereu câte ceva în viaţă, de aceea trebuie să ne naştem mereu.

Un sfert de viaţă îl pierdem făcând legături. Tot felul de legături între idei, între fluturi, între lucruri şi praf. Totul curge aşa de repede, şi noi tot mai facem legături între subiect şi predicat. Trebuie să-i dăm drum vieţii, aşa cum ne vine exact, să nu mai încercăm să facem legături care nu ţin. De când spun cuvinte fără şir, simt că-mi recuperez ani frumoşi din viaţă.

E prea mică lumea. Întâlnim la fiecare pas numai umbre.

Cum se numea drăcia aceea frumoasă şi minunată şi nenorocită şi caraghioasă, formată de ani, pe care am trăit-o eu?

Dacă aș avea mijloace, n-aș face nimic altceva decât o bancă de lemn în mijlocul mării. Construcție grandioasă de stejar geluit, să respire pe ea, în timpul furtunii, pescărușii mai lași. E destul de istovitor să tot împingi din spate valul, dându-i oarecare nebunie; vântul, el, mai degrabă, s-ar putea așeza acolo din când în când. Și să zică așa, gândindu-se la mine: ”N-a făcut nimic bun în viața lui decât această bancă de lemn, punându-i de jur împrejur marea.” M-am gândit bine, lucrul acesta l-aș face cu dragă inimă. Ar fi ca un locaș de stat cu capul în mâini în mijlocul sufletului.

Perhaps you could take only one book with you to read at the gardens. After all, you'll only be there for the afternoon." Hazel choked on her tea. "One book? One book? Now you're being absurd. What if I finish it? Or what if I find it impossibly dull, what then? What am I supposed to read if I either complete the book I brought or I otherwise discover it to be unreadable? It what if it no longer holds my attention? Someone could spill tea on it. There. Think of that. Someone could spill tea on my one book, and then I would be marooned. Honestly, Iona, you must use your head.

E strâmt aici, dar ai unde să-ți pierzi mințile.

Why do you taste like dessert?” Iona wanted to know. He deliberately let his eyes widen. “Because I’m awesome?

The only way to be guaranteed of failure, dear boy, is not to try,’ said Iona. ‘Love is the greatest risk of all, but a life without it is meaningless.

Dacă nu există ferestre, ele trebuie inventate.

It makes me furious that as men age, they gain gravitas. They become “silver foxes.” Women, however, become invisible. We cannot allow this to happen, my friends. We must all be more Iona. We all deserve, like Iona, to have a Triumphant Second Act.

If Iona's heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, but yet it is not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificant shell that one would not have found it with a candle by daylight....

De ce trebuie să se culce toţi oamenii la sfârşitul vieţii ?

Her mouth lifted from his, a few inches. “What makes you think…” Iona asked him quietly, “that I would let you die by any hand other than my own?

An I mo chridhe, I mo ghraidh. - In Iona that is my heart's desire, Iona that is my love.

Cărăbuşii au o groază de picioare, dar când se răstoarnă pe spate nu mai pot să-şi revină, sunt ca şi pe lumea cealaltă. Poate ar trebui să aibă o parte din picioare pe spate. Să-şi distribuie mai raţional picioarele.

You’ve been in the mating frenzy before.” Eric looked up at her, his eyes quiet. “Yes.” ”With Kirsten.” ”Yes.” Iona touched her hands together. “You must have loved her very much.” Eric nodded. “Yes. Very much.” ”Then why do you want another mate?” Eric pushed himself from the fireplace and came to her, the first flickers of fire shadowing his tall, naked body. He skimmed warm hands down her arms. ”Because I saw you.

Gata, Iona? Răzbim noi cumva la lumină!

Iona stared at me for a long time. “You are going to leave me a widow before I have a chance to become a bride.

You are cruel even in love," Iona whispers, "How can you make me feel this way? I ought to hate you. I wanted to hate you.

Please know, my dearest darling, how much I miss you — every moment — and how I'm longing to be back with you soon. Have courage, brave girl. In a world that is small enough for the same moon to hang over us both, we can't ever be too far apart.

Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage we did not take, Towards the door we never opened Into the rose garden–T.S. ELIOT

Ar fi ca un lăcaş de stat cu capul în mâini în mijlocul sufletului.

she just wanted to sit quietly and imagine herself in a world where she still mattered.

Bridges are burned, Iona reminded herself, for the chance to build new ones. Wherever they led--and they'd already brought her closer to who she was than any of the ones before.

Think about today, not tomorrow. Dance over the cracks so you don't fall into them. Drink champagne in the afternoons and invent ridiculous cocktails to make the ruined world glitter again. Keep going, one foot in front of the other. Don't look down.

E strâmt aici, dar ai unde să-i pierzi minţile. Nu e prea greu. - E chiar o nimica toată.

Your anxiety is the other side of the coin of your empathy.

Înainte, mă gândeam aproape tot timpul la soţia mea. Acum, cu cât trec zilele, soţia se întunecă parcă în minte şi mama se luminează. Ca la fântânile cu două găleţi. Una se scoboară, alta se înalţă. Acum nu se înalţă decât mama.

Sunt ca un dumnezeu care nu mai poate învia. I-au ieșit toate minunile, și venirea pe pământ, și viața, până și moartea - dar o dată ajuns aici, în mormânt, nu mai poate învia. Se dă cu capul de toți pereții, cheamă toate șiretlicurile minții și ale minunii, își face vânt în dumnezeire ca leul, la circ, în aureola lui de foc. Dar cade în mijlocul flăcărilor. De atâtea ori a sărit prin cerc, nici nu s-a gândit c-o să se poticnească tocmai la înviere!

But we must remind ourselves that we are never truly apart from those we love very much. We might not be able to see them or speak to them or hold them in our arms, but we carry them always in our hearts.

Daisy, Daisy, the coppers are after you, If they catch you they'll give you a month or two, They'll tie you up with wi-er Behind the Black Mari-er, So ring your bell And pedal like hell On a bicycle made for two.

But sometimes when you put two very different people together, a kind of magic, an alchemy, occurs. Bea said I was like eggs and sugar, and she was flour and butter, and when you mixed us together, we were more than just the combination of our ingredients, we were the whole damn cake.

One book? One book? Now you’re being absurd. What if I finish it? Or what if I find it impossibly dull, what then? What am I supposed to read if I either complete the book I brought or I otherwise discover it to be unreadable? Or what if it no longer holds my attention? Someone could spill tea on it. There. Think of that. Someone could spill tea on my one book, and then I would be marooned. Honestly, Iona, you must use your head.” “Two books then, miss.

If you can't go to Hollywood You don't have to cry; Clark Gable is good looking But so am I.

Al parecer, huir es poco glorioso. Lástima, porque es una sensación muy agradable. La huida proporc­iona la más formidable sensación de libertad que se pueda experim­entar. Te sientes más libre huyendo que si no tienes nada de lo que huir. [...] Uno debería tener siempre algo de lo que huir, para cultivar esa maravil­losa posibil­idad. De hecho, siempre hay algo de lo que huir. Aunque sólo sea de uno mismo.

Mother Goose will show newcomers to this world how astonishing, beautiful, capricious, dancy, eccentric, funny, goluptious, haphazard, intertwingled, joyous, kindly, loving, melodious, naughty, outrageous, pomsidillious, querimonious, romantic, silly, tremendous, unexpected, vertiginous, wonderful, x-citing, yo-heave-ho-ish, and zany it is.

It was on Iona years ago that I first became aware of the need to reclaim some of the features of ancient Christianity in the Celtic world as lost treasure for today. Part of that treasure is the much-cherished image of John the Evangelist, also known as John the Beloved, leaning against Jesus at the Last Supper. Celtic tradition holds that by doing this he heard the heartbeat of God. He became a symbol of the practice of listening—listening deep within ourselves, within one another, and within the body of the earth for the beat of the Sacred Presence.

I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping for something more dramatic. What’s the point of a knife fight if you’ve nothing to show for it?

You know, there’s a fabulous Buddhist saying that goes: When the pupil is ready, the teacher appears . . . ,” said Iona, with a loaded emphasis on teacher.

I am hers and she is mine. We have nothing to fear anymore. To love her is my fate and I will thank the stars every night for their intervention, Iona thinks to herself.

My dearest Lord, be thou a bright flame before me, a guiding star above me, a smooth path beneath me, a kindly shepherd behind me, today and for evermore. —St. Columba of Iona

Angústia enorme, que não conhece limites. Se estourasse o peito de Iona e a angústia se derramasse, ela inundaria, parece, o mundo inteiro

The only way to be guaranteed of failure, dear boy, is not to try,” said Iona. “Love is the greatest risk of all, but a life without it is meaningless.

You've walked the woods today. Tell me there isna something about this land that doesna take hold of you and sink into your verra soul." Her smile slowly faded. "It did. How did you know?" "You were born here, Iona. You were part of this land, just as it's a part of you. You've been gone a long time, but it still remembers you. You just needed to remember it.

Cum am sărutat prima fată -asta a fost demult-, n-am simțit decât un gust de carne. Un gust de mână. Parcă sărutasem o mână în plus. Abia după vreo două zile m-a apucat o fericire. Așa din senin.

Eu cred că există, în viaţa lumii, o clipă când toţi oamenii se gândesc la mama lor. Chiar şi morţii. Fiica la mamă, mama la bunică, bunica la mamă... până se ajunge la o singură mamă, una imensă...

You’ve good speed and agility, and endurance enough. But you’ve no killer in the blood, and so you’ll always be bested.” Iona rubbed her butt. “I never planned on killing anyone.” “Plans change,” Branna pointed out. “Fix those flowers now, as it’s your rump that crushed them.

Healing must always seek to give voice to suffering, and the greater the range of words and meanings we have at our disposal, the clearer the voice becomes. Iona Heath in BMJ 2000;320:125 ( 8 January) Review of the book Illness and Culture in the Postmodern Age by David Morris

I promised to love you forever, in a time when I didn’t know if I'd live to see the start of another week. Now it looks like forever is finally running out. I never stopped loving you. I tried, for the sake of my own sanity, but I never even got close, and I never stopped hoping either.

What kind of religion would celebrate its High Holidays by reading about a biblical figure as heartless as Abraham—a classic case of paranoid schizophrenia, in Iona’s opinion—who nearly killed his son because he heard voices in his head and was rescued from the dirty deed only by other voices?

Better we see them seeing us, because then we can all see together, but when not seeing them seeing us we might not see them seeing us doing what we are doing. MI5 agent Iona von Ustinov (father of actor Peter Ustinov) to MI6 agent Desmond Bristow about the PDVE (Portuguese Secret Police) in 1944.

- Am fost o dată pe un munte şi aerul era acolo atât de dens, încât m-am uitat la el. Se vedea. Am stat o jumătate de ceas şi m-am uitat la aer. I se zăreau toate celulele şi din cauza asta parcă era crăpat. - Aici nu eşti la munte, eşti la mare. - (Continuând primul gând.) Îţi venea să-ţi deschizi şi tu toţi porii. Îţi venea să-ţi deschizi chiar venele, să-l simţi năvălind prin toată suprafaţa ta. (Respiră adânc.) Aşa... (Îi e rău.) E aşa greu să respiri...

You guys used to walk through graveyards?” Iona asked, horrified. “It cut at least ten minutes off the walk to Tesco,” Harriet tried to reason. “I am so glad I go to Uni in the city,” Iona said, shaking her head. “A Tesco Metro on every second corner.” “And a Sainsbury’s Local on all the others,” Adam joked.

I love you. Iona Sheehan, I love you. Give me a bloody answer.” “It was yes as soon as you opened your mouth. I just wanted to hear it all. It was yes the minute you asked.” He blinked at her slowly, then narrowed his eyes. “It was yes? It’s yes?” “I love you. There’s nothing I want more than to marry you.” “Yes?

It's all I can do, Give him something he'll regret losing The villains in my head already told me, That you'd never be mine

Why had it taken her so long to see her train carriage as a fascinating portal into other people's stories, rather than just a way of getting from A to B?

One could never have too many pockets. Or daggers.

Everyone needs a friend who makes them want to shine when the darkness threatens to creep in.

Nu ştiu de ce mi s-a făcut dor de-un cărăbuş.

partially

If you’re going to get it wrong, Martha, make sure you get it wrong with PANACHE! Surely they’ll give you a mark for style, at least?

Be happy while ye're livin', for ye're a long time deid.' - Scottish proverb

Be happy while ye're livin', for ye're a long time deid." - Scottish proverb

The magic of acting is it takes you out of yourself. It allows you to try on other people’s clothes and inhabit different worlds. It’s the perfect therapy when real life is too hard.

What he needs to do,” Angus wheezed, “is travel south to Kintyre, turn back north and cross the Firth of Lorne to Mull so that he can scoot out to Iona, sail up to Skye, cross over to the mainland to Ullapool, back down to Inverness, pay his respects at Culloden, and from there, he can proceed south to Blair Castle, stopping in Grampian if he chooses so he can see how a proper bottle of whisky is made.

Your past experiences, she’d explained, are the foundations on which you build your future. Build them on pride, not shame. Denying your history leaves your house standing on sand, always in danger of collapsing.

Iona found herself at a loss as to the required etiquette. Her recent exchanges with Piers had served only as salutary reminders that engaging with strangers on the train was not a good idea at all. That’s why there was an unwritten law against it. But she and Sanjay had shared a moment. They were joined together, like it or not, by a brush with death. So, what were the rules now? God, it was difficult being British sometimes

Her latest editor had scheduled a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree appraisal, which sounded altogether too intimate. At her age (fifty-seven), one didn’t like to be appraised too closely, and certainly not from every angle.

Well, all of a sudden, a coble with a brown sail and a pair of fishers aboard of it, came flying round that corner of the isle, bound for Iona. I shouted out, and then fell on my knees on the rock and reached up my hands and prayed to them. They were near enough to hear — I could even see the colour of their hair; and there was no doubt but they observed me, for they cried out in the Gaelic tongue, and laughed. But the boat never turned aside, and flew on, right before my eyes, for Iona.

The literature of childhood abounds with evidence that the peaks of a child's experience are not visits to the cinema, or even family outings to the sea, but occasions when he escapes into places that are disused and overgrown and silent. To a child there is more joy in a rubbish tip than a flowery rockery, in a fallen tree than a piece of statuary, in a muddy track than a gravel path.

Thank you for coming with me.” She knew it was no small thing. Dom was Monarch of Iona now, the leader of an enclave shattered by war and betrayal. He should have been at home with his people, helping them restore what was nearly lost forever. Instead, he looked grimly down a sand dune, his clothes poorly suited to the climate, his appearance sticking sticking out of the desert like the sorest of thumbs. While so many things had changed, Dom’s ability to look out of place never did. He even wore his usual cloak, a twin to the one he lost months ago. The gray green had become a comfort like nothing else, just like the silhouette of his familiar form. He loomed always, never far from her side. It was enough to make Sorasa’s eyes sting, and turn her face to hide in her hood for a long moment. Dom paid it no notice, letting her recover. Instead, he fished an apple from his saddlebags and took a noisy bite. “I saved the realm,” he said, shrugging. The least I can do is try to see some of it.” Sorasa was used to Elder manners by now. Their distant ways, their inability to understand subtle hints. The side of her mouth raised against her hood, and she turned back to face him, smirking. “Thank you for coming with me,” she said again. “Oh,” he answered, shifting to look at her. The green of his eyes danced, bright against the desert. “Where else would I go?” Then he passed the rest of the apple over to her. She finished the rest without a thought. His hand lingered, though, scarred knuckles on a tattooed arm. She did not push him away. Instead, Sorasa leaned, so that her shoulder brushed his own, putting some of her weight on him. “Am I still a waste of arsenic?” he said, his eyes never moving from her face. Sorasa stopped short, blinking in confusion. “What?” “When we first met.” His own smirk unfurled. “You called me a waste of arsenic.” In a tavern in Byllskos, after I dumped poison in his cup, and watched him drink it all. Sorasa laughed at the memory, her voice echoing over the empty dunes. In that moment, she thought Domacridhan was her death, another assassin sent to kill her. Now she knew he was the opposite entirely. Slowly, she raised her arm and he did not flinch. It felt strange still, terrifying and thrilling in equal measure. His cheek was cool under under her hand, his scars familiar against her palm. Elders were less affected by the desert heat, a fact that Sorasa used to her full advantage. “No,” she answered, pulling his face down to her own. “I would waste all the arsenic in the world on you.” “Is that a compliment, Amhara?” Dom muttered against her lips. No, she tried to reply. On the golden sand, their shadows met, grain by grain, until there was no space left at all.

Copulating Cats and Holy Men The Story of the Creation of the Book of Kells   In the year 791 A.D an Irish monk named Connachtach brought together a team of the finest calligraphers the world has ever seen, on the island of Iona, a sliver of limestone rock off the northwest coast of Scotland. They came from Northumbria in England, from Constantinople, from Italy and from Ireland. All of them had worked on other illuminated manuscripts. But Connachtach, eminent scribe and abbot of Iona, as he is described in contemporary annals, wanted from them the most richly ornamented book ever created by man’s hand. It was to be more beautiful than the great book of Lindisfarne: more beautiful than the gospel-books made at the court of Charlemagne: more beautiful than all the Korans of Persia. It would be known as the Book of Kells. Eighth century Europe was in a state of cultural meltdown. Since the end of the Pax Romana, three centuries earlier, warring tribes had decimated the continent. From the East the Ostrogoths had blundered into the spears of the Germanic tribes to be overrun, in their turn, by the Huns. Their western cousins, the Visigoths, plundered along a confident north- east, southwest axis from Spain to Cologne. The Vandals did what vandals do. As though that wasn't enough, a blunt-faced raggle-taggle band of pirates and pyromaniacs came looting and raping their way out of the freezing seas of the North. For a Viking there was no tomorrow, culture something you stuffed into a hemp sack; happiness, a warm sword. Wherever they went they extorted protection money: the Danegeld. Fighting drunk on a mixture of animist religion and aquavit they threatened to plunge the house of Europe into total darkness. The Book of Kells was to be a rainbow-bridge of light thrown across the abyss of the Dark Ages. Its colors were to burn until the end of time.   #

Some would say too good to be true, but Iona had never believed that. Good should be true.

He thought Iona could have found a hundred more candles and still not achieved the light Branna O'Dwyer brought to his home.

One book? One book? Now you’re being absurd. What if I finish it? Or what if I find it impossibly dull, what then? What am I supposed to read if I either complete the book I brought or I otherwise discover it to be unreadable? Or what if it no longer holds my attention? Someone could spill tea on it. There. Think of that. Someone could spill tea on my one book, and then I would be marooned. Honestly, Iona, you must use your head.

know Iona and the others think I’m getting balmy in my old age,

Columba of Iona: “Be a bright flame before me, O God a guiding star above me. Be a smooth path below me, a kindly shepherd behind me today, tonight, and forever. Alone with none but you, my God,

But it’s a wound that can’t fully heal, isn’t it, not to have the full love of those who made you. The indifference of Iona’s parents, the full mess of Meara’s.” “Which is worse, do you think?

She tried to ignore the sensation, reminding herself that he was an obstinate and slightly arrogant immortal being whom she would be parting with soon. Who had eyes like a storm that threatened to sweep her away.

You have got to be kidding me, Isla thought, gritting her teeth. There was no way she was going to be the object of some testosterone-induced tug-of-war.

Long life, and may they reign forever

I know how deeply your compassion runs and how much you care for your people. How an entire village loves you enough to call you their own. I know you'll give up everything for those you love, and fight for those who cannot defend themselves.

Long live, and may they reign forever

Sophie: What do you mean by you almost drowned?! Me: Inconsequential. I’m exaggerating. I’m perfectly fine. Answer the question about his crotch.

Sanjay would have chosen an emerald for Emmie, to go with her eyes.

He’d tried to cajole her out of her office space with sweet talk of an extra hour in bed and more flexibility, and, when that didn’t work, had attempted to drive her out by making her do something awful called hot desking, which—she learned—was corporate speak for sharing

Iona shot from the ground like a star burning through the heavens, launching herself past the layers of the atmosphere until she was wading between primordial galaxies, star-flecked flickers swirling at the tips of her fingers.

The wind stirred his loose hair and Sorasa assessed him for the first time since her memory failed. Since the deck of the Tyri ship caught fire, and someone seized her around the middle, plunging them both into the dark waves. She did not need to guess to know who. Dom’s clothing was torn but long dry. He still wore the leather jerkin with the undershirt, but his borrowed cloak had been left to feed the sea serpents. The rest of him looked intact. He had only a few fresh cuts across the backs of his hands, like a terrible rope burn. Scales, Sorasa knew. The sea serpent coiled in her head, bigger than the mast, its scales flashing a dark rainbow. Her breath caught when she realized he wore no sword belt, nor sheath. Nor sword. “Dom,” she bit out, reaching between them. Only her instincts caught her, her hand freezing inches above his hip. His brow furrowed again, carving a line of concern. “Your sword.” The line deepened, and Sorasa understood. She mourned her own dagger, earned so many decades ago, now lost to a burning palace. She could not imagine what Dom felt for a blade centuries old. “It is done,” he finally said, fishing into his shirt. The collar pulled, showing a line of white flesh, the planes of hard muscle rippling beneath. Sorasa dropped her eyes, letting him fuss. Only when something soft touched her temple did she look up again. Her heart thumped. Dom did not meet her gaze, focused on his work, cleaning her wound with a length of cloth. It was the fabric that made her breath catch. Little more than a scrap of gray green. Thin but finely made by master hands. Embroidered with silver antlers. It was a piece of Dom’s old cloak, the last remnant of Iona. It survived a kraken, an undead army, a dragon, and the dungeons of a mad queen. But it would not survive Sorasa Sarn. She let him work, her skin aflame beneath his fingers. Until the last bits of blood were gone, and the last piece of his home tossed away. “Thank you,” she finally said to no reply.

It was not like her to lose her senses. The ability to drift was beaten from her long ago. But Sorasa drifted now, pacing the beach. She did not hear the shift of sand, or the heavy scuff of boots over the loose stones. There was only the wind. Until a strand of gold blew across her vision, joined by a warm unyielding palm against her shoulder. Her body jolted as she turned, nose to nose with Domacridhan of Iona. His green eyes glittered, his mouth open as he shouted something again, his voice swallowed up by the droning in her own head. “Sorasa.” It came to her slowly, as if through deep water. Her own name, over and over again. She could only stare back into the verdant green, lost in the fields of his eyes. In her chest, her heart stumbled. She expected her body to follow. Instead, her fist closed and her knuckles met cheekbone. Dom was good enough to turn his head, letting the blow glance off. Begrudgingly, Sorasa knew he had spared her a broken hand on top of everything else. “How dare you,” she forced out, trembling. Whatever concern he wore burned away in an instant. “How dare I what? Save your life?” he snarled, letting her go Sorasa swayed without his support. She clenched her own jaw, fighting to maintain her balance lest she fall to pieces entirely. “Is that another Amhara lesson?” he raged on, throwing up both arms. “When given the choice between death or indignity, choose death?!” Hissing, Sorasa looked back to the spot where she woke up. Heat crept up her face as she realized her body left a trail through the sand when he dragged her up from the tide line. A blind man would have noticed it. But not Sorasa in her fury and grief. “Oh,” was all she could manage. Her mouth flapped open, her mind spinning. Only the truth came, and that was far too embarrassing. “I did not see. I—” Her head throbbed again and she pressed a hand to her temple, wincing away from his stern glare. “I will feel better if you sit,” Dom said stiffly. Despite the pain, Sorasa loosed a growl. She wanted to stand just to spite him, but thought better of it. With a huff, she sank, cross-legged on the cool sand. Dom was quick to follow, almost blurring. It made her head spin again. “So you saved me from the shipwreck just to abandon me here?” Sorasa muttered as Dom opened his mouth to protest. “I don’t blame you. Time is of the essence now. A wounded mortal will only slow you down.” She expected him to bluster and lie. Instead, his brow furrowed, lines creasing between his still vivid eyes. The light off the ocean suited him. “Are you? Wounded?” he asked gently, his gaze raking over her. His focus snagged on her temple, and the gash there. “Anywhere else, I mean?” For the first time since she woke, Sorasa tried to still herself. Her breath slowed as she assessed herself, feeling her own body from toes to scalp. As her awareness traveled, she noted every blooming bruise and cut, every dull ache and shooting pain. Bruises ribs. A sprained wrist. Her tongue flicked in her mouth. Scowling, she spit out a broken tooth. “No, I’m not wounded,” she said aloud. Dom’s desperate smile broke wide. He went slack against the sand for an instant, falling back on his elbows to tip his face to the sky. His eyes fluttered shut only for a moment. Sorasa knew his gods were too far. He had said so himself. The gods of Glorian could not hear their children in this realm. Even so, Sorasa saw it on his face. Dom prayed anyway. In his gratitude or anger, she did not know. “Good,” he finally said, sitting back up.

Back home, a woman wearing red to someone else’s engagement announcement would start a scandal.” “Was that before or after the war?” Iona asked.

During the unbearable years of tyranny, the political prisoners of the Anchorite Hegemony made a solemn covenant: when the time came, they would cross the last miles to freedom on their feet. For reasons of youth and idiocy, Tishrel thought he would have a choice in the matter. The doors of his cell would open, and rather than flee into the sky, he would make the journey as he had made his way through the years in captivity: with what dignity he could, one foot after another.

Thousands of years ago, dragons made human sacrifices to the Divine. In these enlightened days the sacrifice is symbolic: ten figures cut out from rag paper, decorated and burned. Tishrel, watching from behind the temple’s carved columns, considers his own internal fires, his consciousness of the Divine. Even if he stays in human form for the rest of his life, those flames within him are banked, not quenched. Even after years of incarceration and torture, something inside him is still burning.

Do you ever think about our other covenant? Tishrel asks Cazerin, in another letter. The Tawnpar prisoners had given themselves another duty, to be discharged after they had made their way home. Getting revenge on everyone who hurt us? Too busy bringing peace and order to a frankly ungrateful populace, Cazerin writes back. If I ever get the time, I’ll let you know.

don’t care. I don’t need oxygen, I need Sierra.