Throne Of Secrets Quotes

Dance with me, Celaena," he said again, his voice rough. When her eyes met his she forgot about the cold, and the moon, and the glass palace looming above them. The secret library and the king's plans and Mort and Elena faded into nothing. She took his hand and there was only the music and Chaol.

She realized that Rowan saw each of those thoughts and more as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a dagger. Her dagger. He extended it to her, it's long blade gleaming as if he'd been secretly polishing and caring for it these months. And when she grasped the dagger, it's weight lighter than she remembered, Rowan looked into her eyes, into her very core of her, and said, 'Fireheart'.

Celaena Sardothien wasn’t in league with Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. Celaena Sardothien was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir to the throne and rightful Queen of Terranes. Celaena was Aelin Galathynius, the greatest living threat to Adarlan, the one person who could raise an army capable of standing against the king. Now, she was also the one person who knew the secret source of the king’s power—and who sought a way to destroy it. And he had just sent her into the arms of her strongest potential allies: to the homeland of her mother, the kingdom of her cousin, and the domain of her aunt, Queen Maeve of the Fae. Celaena was the lost Queen of Terrasen. Chaol sank to his knees.

And when you have it, what then? Some secrets are safer kept hidden. Some secrets are too dangerous to share, even with those you love and trust.

Tell me your deepest secret," she said softly... After a long moment, he spoke. "The only secret I've borne my entire life is that I love you." He gave her a slight smile. "It was the one thing I believed I'd go to the grave without voicing." His eyes were so full of light that their loveliness almost stopped her heart.

Here is your flaw, Shaitan, Lord of the Dark, Lord of Envy, Lord of Nothing, here is why you fail. It was not about me. It’s never been about me.” It was about a woman, torn and beaten down, cast from her throne and made a puppet. A woman who had crawled when she had to. That woman still fought. It was about a man that love repeatedly forsook. A man who found relevance in a world that others would have let pass them by. A man who remembered stories and who took fool boys under his wing when the smarter move would have been to keep on walking. That man still fought. It was about a woman with a secret, a hope for the future. A woman who had hunted the truth before others could. A woman who had given her live, then had it returned. That woman still fought. It was about a man whose family was taken from him, but who stood tall in his sorrow and protected those he could. It was about a woman who refused to believe that she could not help, could not heal those who had been harmed. It was about a hero who insisted with every breath that he was anything but a hero. It was about a woman who would not bend her back while she was beaten, and who shown with a light for all who watched, including Rand. It was about them all. ~Rand al Thor

Aedion's heart stopped dead. "It's a sea dragon," he managed to say. Well, at least he now knew what secret form Lysandra had been working on.

I have loved in life and I have been loved. I have drunk the bowl of poison from the hands of love as nectar, and have been raised above life's joy and sorrow. My heart, aflame in love, set afire every heart that came in touch with it. My heart has been rent and joined again; My heart has been broken and again made whole; My heart has been wounded and healed again; A thousand deaths my heart has died, and thanks be to love, it lives yet. I went through hell and saw there love's raging fire, and I entered heaven illumined with the light of love. I wept in love and made all weep with me; I mourned in love and pierced the hearts of men; And when my fiery glance fell on the rocks, the rocks burst forth as volcanoes. The whole world sank in the flood caused by my one tear; With my deep sigh the earth trembled, and when I cried aloud the name of my beloved, I shook the throne of God in heaven. I bowed my head low in humility, and on my knees I begged of love, "Disclose to me, I pray thee, O love, thy secret." She took me gently by my arms and lifted me above the earth, and spoke softly in my ear, "My dear one, thou thyself art love, art lover, and thyself art the beloved whom thou hast adored.

The oak trees seemed as though they were playing instruments; here a gentle violin, over there two harps in harmony, flutes and other woodwinds joined the tree orchestra.

When evening in the Shire was grey his footsteps on the Hill were heard; before the dawn he went away on journey long without a word. From Wilderland to Western shore, from northern waste to southern hill, through dragon-lair and hidden door and darkling woods he walked at will. With Dwarf and Hobbit, Elves and Men, with mortal and immortal folk, with bird on bough and beast in den, in their own secret tongues he spoke. A deadly sword, a healing hand, a back that bent beneath its load; a trumpet-voice, a burning brand, a weary pilgrim on the road. A lord of wisdom throned he sat, swift in anger, quick to laugh; an old man in a battered hat who leaned upon a thorny staff. He stood upon the bridge alone and Fire and Shadow both defied; his staff was broken on the stone, in Khazad-dûm his wisdom died.

That sounds a lot like, ’ I have more secrets that I’m going to spring on you whenever I feel like stopping your heart dead in your chest.

If you are a monster, stand up. If you are a monster, a trickster, a fiend, If you’ve built a steam-powered wishing machine If you have a secret, a dark past, a scheme, If you kidnap maidens or dabble in dreams Come stand by me. If you have been broken, stand up. If you have been broken, abandoned, alone If you have been starving, a creature of bone If you live in a tower, a dungeon, a throne If you weep for wanting, to be held, to be known, Come stand by me. If you are a savage, stand up. If you are a witch, a dark queen, a black knight, If you are a mummer, a pixie, a sprite, If you are a pirate, a tomcat, a wright, If you swear by the moon and you fight the hard fight, Come stand by me. If you are a devil, stand up. If you are a villain, a madman, a beast, If you are a strowler, a prowler, a priest, If you are a dragon come sit at our feast, For we all have stripes, and we all have horns, We all have scales, tails, manes, claws and thorns And here in the dark is where new worlds are born. Come stand by me.

Love rules, but no one knows where it has its throne; in order to know that secret place, you must first submit to Love.

We would lie on coral sand, below sugary stars, watching Cassiopeia mount her throne and the Great Bear wash its paws in the South. I would say, "I have a secret to tell you." And, folding me in your arms, boyish and sly, you would answer: "Whisper it into my mouth.

God knows instantly and effortlessly all matter and all matters, all mind and every mind, all spirit and all spirits, all being and every being, all creaturehood and all creatures, every plurality and all pluralities, all law and every law, all relations, all causes, all thoughts, all mysteries, all enigmas, all feeling, all desires, every unuttered secret, all thrones and dominions, all personalities, all things visible and invisible in heaven and in earth, motion, space, time, life, death, good, evil, heaven, and hell.

Bow down: I am the emperor of dreams; I crown me with the million-colored sun Of secret worlds incredible, and take Their trailing skies for vestment when I soar, Throned on the mounting zenith, and illume The spaceward-flown horizons infinite.

When Sam had died, she had tucked him into her heart, tucked him alongside her other beloved dead, whose names she kept so secret she sometimes forgot them. But Nehemia—Nehemia wouldn't fit. It was as if her heart was too full of the dead, too full of those lives that had ended well before their time.

He had built up within himself a kind of sanctuary in which she throned among his secret thoughts and longings. Little by little it became the scene of his real life, of his only rational activities; thither he brought the books he read, the ideas and feelings which nourished him, his judgments and his visions. Outside it, in the scene of his actual life, he moved with a growing sense of unreality and insufficiency, blundering against familiar prejudices and traditional points of view as an absent-minded man goes on bumping into the furniture of his own room.

Your god, sir, is the World. In my eyes, you, too, if not an infidel, are an idolater. I conceive that you ignorantly worship: in all things you appear to me too superstitious. Sir, your god, your great Bel, your fish-tailed Dagon, rises before me as a demon. You, and such as you, have raised him to a throne, put on him a crown, given him a sceptre. Behold how hideously he governs! See him busied at the work he likes best -- making marriages. He binds the young to the old, the strong to the imbecile. He stretches out the arm of Mezentius and fetters the dead to the living. In his realm there is hatred -- secret hatred: there is disgust -- unspoken disgust: there is treachery -- family treachery: there is vice -- deep, deadly, domestic vice. In his dominions, children grow unloving between parents who have never loved: infants are nursed on deception from their very birth: they are reared in an atmosphere corrupt with lies ... All that surrounds him hastens to decay: all declines and degenerates under his sceptre. Your god is a masked Death.

Aedion fell to his knees in the sand as Wendlyn’s armada spread before them. I promise you that no matter how far I go, no matter the cost, when you call for my aid, I will come, Aelin had told him she’d sworn to Darrow. I’m going to call in old debts and promises. To raise an army of assassins and thieves and exiles and commoners. And she had. She had meant and accomplished every word of it. Rowan counted the ships that slid over the horizon. Counted the ships in their own armada. Added Rolfe’s—and the Mycenians he was rallying in the North. “Holy gods,” Dorian breathed as Wendlyn’s armada kept spreading wider and wider. Tears slid down Aedion’s face as he silently sobbed. Where are our allies, Aelin? Where are our armies? She had taken the criticism—taken it, because he knew she hadn’t wanted to disappoint them if she failed. Rowan put a hand on Aedion’s shoulder. All of it for Terrasen, she had said that day she’d revealed she’d schemed her way into getting Arobynn’s fortune. And Rowan knew that every step she had taken, every plan and calculation, every secret and desperate gamble … For Terrasen. For them. For a better world. Aelin

You have both been so busy learning tactics and studying battles, you have failed to see the truth of where thrones are won and lost. It is in the gossip, the words and letters passed in dark corners, the shadow alliances and the secret payments. You think I am worthless? I can do things you could never dream of.

And yet, that darkness, that violence and stark, honest way of looking at the world... There would be no secrets with her. No lies.

We’ll find that place, then,” he said quietly. “What?” Her brows narrowed. “I’ll go with you.” And though he hadn’t asked, they both knew those words held a question. He tried not to think of what she’d said last night—of the shame she’d felt holding him when he was a son of Adarlan and she was a daughter of Terrasen. “What about being Captain of the Guard?” “Perhaps my duties aren’t what I expected them to be.” The king kept things from him; there were so many secrets, and perhaps he was little more than a puppet, part of the illusion that he was starting to see through … “You love your country,” she said. “I can’t let you give all that up.” He caught the glimmer of pain and hope in her eyes, and before he knew what he was doing, he’d closed the distance between them, one hand on her waist and the other on her shoulder. “I would be the greatest fool in the world to let you go alone.

Some secrets are safer kept hidden. Some secrets are too dangerous to share with those you love and Trust Ned Stark

A pledge,” I say again. “To drive fear into those who will confront us.” Violetta hesitates—only for a moment. “To bind us together.” “I pledge myself to the Rose Society,” I begin. “Until the end of my days.” One by one, the others call out the same thing, murmurs at first that turn into firm words. “To use my eyes to see all that happens,” says Sergio. “My tongue to woo others to our side,” says Magiano, with his savage smile. “My ears to hear every secret,” Violetta continues. “My hands,” I finish. “To crush my enemies.” “I will do everything in my power to destroy all who stand in my way.” Right now, what I want is the throne. Enzo’s power. A perfect revenge. And all the Inquisitors, queens, and Daggers in the world won’t be able to stop me.

Do you know what they do with the dead queens, Sister? [...] They throw them in the Breccia for the island to eat. And may I tell you a secret? [...] They are tired of it.

Gentlemen of vice are especially nice, since their filthy tales contain an abundance of spice.

I thought you were the most devastating thing I'd ever seen. A comet speeding directly at me. And I was so lost to your splendor, I didn't care if you wiped me clean of the realm, so long as I got a chance to admire you, even from a distance.

Who'd you piss off to get the graveyard shift?" Aelin asked, wiping the sweat from her brow. Fenrys snorted and ran a hand through his hair. "Would you believe I volunteered for it?" She arched a brow. He shrugged, watching the field again, the mists still clinging to its farthest reaches. "I don't sleep well these days." He cut her a sidelong glance. "I don't suppose I'm the only one." She picked at the blister on her right hand, hissing. "We could start a secret society—for people who don't sleep well." "As long as Lorcan isn't invited, I'm in.

Murtaugh Allsbrook and his riders spread the news like wildfire. Down every road, over every river, to the north and south and west, through snow and rain and mist, their hooves churning up the dust of each kingdom. And for every town they told, every tavern and secret meeting, more riders went out. More and more, until there was not a road they had not covered, until there was not one soul who did not know that Aelin Galathynius was alive—and willing to stand against Adarlan. Across the White Fangs and the Ruhnns, all the way to the Western Wastes and the red-haired queen who ruled from a crumbling castle. To the Deserted Peninsula and the oasis-fortress of the Silent Assassins. Hooves, hooves, hooves, echoing through the continent, sparking against the cobblestones, all the way to Banjali and the river-front palace of the King and Queen of Eyllwe, still in their midnight mourning clothes. Hold on, the riders told the world. Hold on.

There are no love stories found upon the throne. Only secrets and schemes and spider-fingered kings.

Life is an island in an ocean of solitude and seclusion. Life is an island, rocks are its desires, trees its dreams, and flowers its loneliness, and it is in the middle of an ocean of solitude and seclusion. Your life, my friend, is an island separated from all other islands and continents. Regardless of how many boats you send to other shores, you yourself are an island separated by its own pains,secluded its happiness and far away in its compassion and hidden in its secrets and mysteries. I saw you, my friend, sitting upon a mound of gold, happy in your wealth and great in your riches and believing that a handful of gold is the secret chain that links the thoughts of the people with your own thoughts and links their feeling with your own. I saw you as a great conqueror leading a conquering army toward the fortress, then destroying and capturing it. On second glance I found beyond the wall of your treasures a heart trembling in its solitude and seclusion like the trembling of a thirsty man within a cage of gold and jewels, but without water. I saw you, my friend, sitting on a throne of glory surrounded by people extolling your charity, enumerating your gifts, gazing upon you as if they were in the presence of a prophet lifting their souls up into the planets and stars. I saw you looking at them, contentment and strength upon your face, as if you were to them as the soul is to the body. On the second look I saw your secluded self standing beside your throne, suffering in its seclusion and quaking in its loneliness. I saw that self stretching its hands as if begging from unseen ghosts. I saw it looking above the shoulders of the people to a far horizon, empty of everything except its solitude and seclusion. I saw you, my friend, passionately in love with a beautiful woman, filling her palms with your kisses as she looked at you with sympathy and affection in her eyes and sweetness of motherhood on her lips; I said, secretly, that love has erased his solitude and removed his seclusion and he is now within the eternal soul which draws toward itself, with love, those who were separated by solitude and seclusion. On the second look I saw behind your soul another lonely soul, like a fog, trying in vain to become a drop of tears in the palm of that woman. Your life, my friend, is a residence far away from any other residence and neighbors. Your inner soul is a home far away from other homes named after you. If this residence is dark, you cannot light it with your neighbor's lamp; if it is empty you cannot fill it with the riches of your neighbor; were it in the middle of a desert, you could not move it to a garden planted by someone else. Your inner soul, my friend, is surrounded with solitude and seclusion. Were it not for this solitude and this seclusion you would not be you and I would not be I. If it were not for that solitude and seclusion, I would, if I heard your voice, think myself to be speaking; yet, if I saw your face, i would imagine that I were looking into a mirror.

I'd once asked Jin if the sand sea was like the real sea. He'd given me that knowing smile he used to use when he knew something I didn't. Before I stripped all his secrets away and that smile became mine.

I am sorry for your girl, Ned. Truly. About the wolf, I mean. My son was lying, I’d stake my soul on it. My son … you love your children, don’t you?” “With all my heart,” Ned said. “Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once, I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that’s what I was made for. The sellsword king, how the singers would love me. You know what stops me? The thought of Joffrey on the throne, with Cersei standing behind him whispering in his ear. My son. How could I have made a son like that, Ned?” “He’s only a boy,” Ned said awkwardly. He had small liking for Prince Joffrey, but he could hear the pain in Robert’s voice. “Have you forgotten how wild you were at his age?” “It would not trouble me if the boy was wild, Ned. You don’t know him as I do.” He sighed and shook his head. “Ah, perhaps you are right. Jon despaired of me often enough, yet I grew into a good king.” Robert looked at Ned and scowled at his silence. “You might speak up and agree now, you know.” “Your Grace …” Ned began, carefully. Robert slapped Ned on the back. “Ah, say that I’m a better king than Aerys and be done with it. You never could lie for love nor honor, Ned Stark. I’m still young, and now that you’re here with me, things will be different. We’ll make this a reign to sing of, and damn the Lannisters to seven hells.

No doubt he was smiling. He smiled a lot, as if the world were a secret joke that only he was clever enough to understand.

Thus, I learned the great secret to winning battles: Make the other side believe you are crazier than they are.

You smell like a dead goat that’s been baking in the sun for days.” “That’s oddly specific. I’m sorry you’ve encountered that before.

Hello, Celaena,” he said as calmly as he could, well aware that two Fae males behind him could hear his thundering heart. Rolfe whipped his head toward him. Because it was Celaena who sat here—for whatever purpose, it was Celaena Sardothien in this room. She jerked her chin at Rolfe. “You’ve seen better days, but considering half your fleet has abandoned you, I’d say you look decent enough.” “Get out of my chair,” Rolfe said too quietly. Aelin did no such thing. She just gave Rowan a sultry sweep from foot to face. Rowan’s expression remained unreadable, eyes intent—near-glowing. And then Aelin said to Rowan with a secret smile, “You, I don’t know. But I’d like to.” Rowan’s lips tugged upward. “I’m not on the market, unfortunately.” “Pity,” Aelin said, cocking her head as she noticed a bowl of small emeralds on Rolfe’s desk. Don’t do it, don’t— Aelin swiped up the emeralds in a hand, picking them over as she glanced at Rowan beneath her lashes. “She must be a rare, staggering beauty to make you so faithful.” Gods save them all. He could have sworn Fenrys coughed behind him. Aelin chucked the emeralds into the metal dish as if they were bits of copper, their plunking the only sound. “She must be clever”—plunk—“and fascinating”—plunk—“and very, very talented.” Plunk, plunk, plunk went the emeralds. She examined the four gems remaining in her hand. “She must be the most wonderful person who ever existed.” Another cough from behind him—from Gavriel this time. But Aelin only had eyes for Rowan as the warrior said to her, “She is indeed that. And more.

I took his name, Erawan spat, writhing as the words flowed from his tongue under Damaris’s power. I wiped it away from existence. Yet he only remembered it once. Only once. The first time he beheld you. Tears slid down Dorian’s face at that unbearable truth. Perhaps his father had unknowingly hidden his name within him, a final kernel of defiance against Erawan. And had named his son for that defiance, a secret marker that the man within still fought. Had never stopped fighting. Dorian. His father’s name. Dorian let go of Damaris’s hilt. Yrene’s breathing turned ragged. Now—it had to be now. Even with the Valg king before him, something in Dorian’s chest eased. Healed over.

If you wish to be something, king-with-no-crown, then be it. That is the secret to the shifting. Be what you wish.

Said the wolf pretending to be a sheep.

I couldn’t stop the shocked laughter from spilling out. Leave it to the rake to flirt as several dragons closed in all around us.

In that cocoon of darkness, she bided her time, letting him think her gone, letting them do what they wanted to the mortal shell around her. It was in that cocoon where the shadowfire began to flicker, fueling her, feeding her. Long ago, when she was small and clean, flames of gold had crackled at her fingers, secret and hidden. Then they vanished, as all good things had vanished.

Failure just means you’re trying and there’s no shame in that. Don’t let anyone tell you who you are. Believe in yourself. It’s your life and you’ve got to live how you see fit. To hells with everything else.

He smiled a lot, as if the world were a secret joke that only he was clever enough to understand.

I needed an ice bath and a mental examination. Immediately.

If Cinderella considered her prince more wicked than charming at first, and wanted to unravel his darkest secrets and ruin him, this would be their twisted fairy tale…

(...) She just gave Rowan a sultry sweep from foot to face. Rowan's expression remained unreadable, eyes intense - near-glowing. And then Aelin said to Rowan with a secret smile, "You, I don't know. But I'd like to." Rowan's lip tugged upward. "I'm not on the market, unfortunately." "Pity," Aelin said (...) "She must be a rare, staggering beauty to make you so faithful. (...) She must be clever and fascinating and very, very talented. She must be the most wonderful person who ever existed." (...) Aelin only had eyes for Rowan as the warrior said to her, "She is indeed that. And more.

The two women look at each other and in both faces there is a glimpse of the girls that they were. A little smile warms Margaret’s face and Jacquetta’s eyes are filled with love. It is as if the years are no more than the mists of Barnet or the snows at Towton: they are gone, it is hard to believe they were ever there. Margaret puts out her hand, not to touch her friend but to make a gesture, a secret shared gesture, and, as we watch, Jacquetta mirrors the movement. Eyes fixed on each other they both raise their index finger and trace a circle in the air – that’s all they do. Then they smile to each other as if life itself is a joke, a jest that means nothing and a wise woman can laugh at it; then, without a word, Margaret passes silently into the darkness of the tower. "What was that?" Isabel exclaims. "It was the sign for the wheel of fortune," I whisper. ‘The wheel of fortune which put Margaret of Anjou on the throne of England, heiress to the kingdoms of Europe, and then threw her down to this. Jacquetta warned her of this long ago – they knew. The two of them knew long ago that fortune throws you up to greatness and down to disaster and all you can do is endure.

Sorscha returned to her work. She was certain he'd forgotten her name the moment he left. Dorian was heir to the mightiest empire in the world, and Sorscha was the daughter of two dead immigrants from a village in Fenharrow that had been burned to ash—a village that no one would ever remember. But that didn't stop her from loving him, as she still did, invisible and secret, ever since she'd first laid eyes on him six years ago.

You want to know the grand Crochan secret?” she went on. “Our great truth that we keep from you, that we guard with our lives? It is not where we hide, or how to break your curse. You have known all this time how to break it—you have known for five hundred years that your salvation lies in your hands alone. No, our great secret is that we pity you.

I know of nothing in all drama more incomparable from the point of view of art, nothing more suggestive in its subtlety of observation, than Shakespeare's drawing of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. They are Hamlet's college friends. They have been his companions. They bring with them memories of pleasant days together. At the moment when they come across him in the play he is staggering under the weight of a burden intolerable to one of his temperament. The dead have come armed out of the grave to impose on him a mission at once too great and too mean for him. He is a dreamer, and he is called upon to act. He has the nature of the poet, and he is asked to grapple with the common complexity of cause and effect, with life in its practical realisation, of which he knows nothing, not with life in its ideal essence, of which he knows so much. He has no conception of what to do, and his folly is to feign folly. Brutus used madness as a cloak to conceal the sword of his purpose, the dagger of his will, but the Hamlet madness is a mere mask for the hiding of weakness. In the making of fancies and jests he sees a chance of delay. He keeps playing with action as an artist plays with a theory. He makes himself the spy of his proper actions, and listening to his own words knows them to be but 'words, words, words.' Instead of trying to be the hero of his own history, he seeks to be the spectator of his own tragedy. He disbelieves in everything, including himself, and yet his doubt helps him not, as it comes not from scepticism but from a divided will. Of all this Guildenstern and Rosencrantz realise nothing. They bow and smirk and smile, and what the one says the other echoes with sickliest intonation. When, at last, by means of the play within the play, and the puppets in their dalliance, Hamlet 'catches the conscience' of the King, and drives the wretched man in terror from his throne, Guildenstern and Rosencrantz see no more in his conduct than a rather painful breach of Court etiquette. That is as far as they can attain to in 'the contemplation of the spectacle of life with appropriate emotions.' They are close to his very secret and know nothing of it. Nor would there be any use in telling them. They are the little cups that can hold so much and no more.

When my nephew passed beyond, Wilhelm comforted himself that a child in his innocence would be delivered speedily to heaven, and there be given an honored place. “In this small, simple throne,” Wilhelm said, and I said, “With secret compartments for his bird’s nests and smooth stones.” Wilhelm believed this. He had to believe this. I, too, repeated this conception to myself again and again, trying harder to harder to believe it. But a Creator who takes a child so small, so kind, so tender? What can be made of that? The tales we collected are not merciful. Villains are boiled in snake-filled oil, wicked Steifmutter-stepmothers-are made to dance into death in molten-hot shoes, and on and on. The tales are full of terrible punishments, yes, but they follow just cause. Goodness is rewarded; evil is not. The generous simpleton finds more happiness and coin than the greedy king. So why not mercy and justice to sweet youth from an omnipotent and benevolent Creator? There are only three answers. He is not omnipotent, or he is not benevolent, or-the dreariest possibility of all-he is inattentive. What if that was what happened to my nephew? That God’s gaze had merely strayed elsewhere?

Too often, our current model of obesity assumes that there is only one single true cause, and that all others are pretenders to the throne. Endless debates ensue. Too many calories cause obesity. No, too many carbohydrates. No, too much saturated fat. No, too much red meat. No, too much processed foods. No, too much high fat dairy. No, too much wheat. No, too much sugar. No, too much highly palatable foods. No, too much eating out. It goes on and on. They are all partially correct.

Since then there has been no farther communication between them, and he had built up within himself a kind of sanctuary in which she throned among his secret thoughts and longings

You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame: you made the hornèd god your own: You stood behind him on his throne: you called him by his secret name.

Miss Eden Everhart, House Gluttony: I believe that true love always finds a way. It might take time, it might take the fear of loss, but if it’s meant to be, it will work out.

Someone stole her from me once. And, unless she told me otherwise, she would be mine.

Lust swiped a glass of demonberry wine from a passing tray and saluted me. “To an eternity of blissful hate sex.

I wanted to launch myself over the wall, make sure the stupid, idiotic rake was indeed breathing. So I could throttle him myself when this was over.

You’re finally using that upper head; the pack wasn’t sure it worked.

You had me in our enemy’s castle; now I think I should have you on our other enemy’s throne,” she whispered. Fuck.

Love conquers all. Or so the philosophers and poets claimed. Love was the magic that crossed realms, breached worlds, and threaded them together.

I don't want the crown. I don't want the throne. I just want you alive.

She's going to castrate him,' Prince Envy said, swirling his signature cocktail, a Dark and Sinful, his expression one of mock contemplation as he sipped his blackberries sand bourbon.

Jaime reached for the flagon to refill his cup. “So many vows . . . they make you swear and swear. Defend the king. Obey the king. Keep his secrets. Do his bidding. Your life for his. But obey your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. Respect the gods. Obey the laws. It’s too much. No matter what you do, you’re forsaking one vow or the other.

I sing to him that rests below, And, since the grasses round me wave, I take the grasses of the grave, And make them pipes whereon to blow. The traveller hears me now and then, And sometimes harshly will he speak: `This fellow would make weakness weak, And melt the waxen hearts of men.' Another answers, `Let him be, He loves to make parade of pain That with his piping he may gain The praise that comes to constancy.' A third is wroth: `Is this an hour For private sorrow's barren song, When more and more the people throng The chairs and thrones of civil power? 'A time to sicken and to swoon, When Science reaches forth her arms To feel from world to world, and charms Her secret from the latest moon?' Behold, ye speak an idle thing: Ye never knew the sacred dust: I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing: And one is glad; her note is gay, For now her little ones have ranged; And one is sad; her note is changed, Because her brood is stol'n away.

Let me be accursed. Let me be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand. Joy everlasting fostereth The soul of all creation, It is her secret ferment fires The cup of life with flame. 'Tis at her beck the grass hath turned Each blade towards the light And solar systems have evolved From chaos and dark night, Filling the realms of boundless space Beyond the sage's sight. At bounteous Nature's kindly breast, All things that breathe drink Joy, And birds and beasts and creeping things All follow where She leads. Her gifts to man are friends in need, The wreath, the foaming must, To angels- vision of God's throne, To insects- sensual lust.

So let me get this straight,’ Sadie said. ‘We break into a heavily guarded Russian national museum, find the magicians’ secret headquarters, find a dangerous scroll and escape. Meanwhile, you will be eating chocolate.’ Bes nodded solemnly. ‘It’s a good plan. It might work. If something happens and I can’t meet you at the Chocolate Museum, our exit point is the Egyptian Bridge, to the south at the Fontanka River. Just turn on the –’ ‘Enough,’ Sadie said. ‘You will meet us at the chocolate shop. And you will provide me with a takeaway bag. That is final. Now, go!’ Bes gave her a lopsided smile. ‘You’re okay, girl.

La-Z-Boy type thing covered with bronze and silver gears. Kronos slashed, and I managed to jump straight up onto the seat. The throne whirred and hummed with secret mechanisms. Defense mode, it warned. Defense mode.

And when Aelin looked behind her, to the archway into her own world, she indeed could… feel them. As if the Wyrdmarks he’d secretly inked onto her were a rope. A tether home. A lifeline into eternity. One last deceit.

Even their contemporaries felt that the relationship of Elizabeth and Robert transcended the details on practicality. There had to be some explanation for their lifelong fidelity, and those contemporaries put it down to 'synaptia', a hidden conspiracy of the stars, whose power to rule human lives no-one doubted: 'a sympathy of spirits between them, occasioned perhaps by some secret constellation', in the words of the historian William Camden, writing at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Theirs was a relationship already rooted in history and mythology. And that moment when Elizabeth heard she had come to the throne encapsulated much about their story. If our well-loved picture of Elizabeth's accession is something of a fantasy - if the reality is on the whole more interesting - you might say the same about our traditional picture of her relationship with Robert Dudley.

Это просто, как кровь и пот: Царь — народу, царю — народ. Это ясно, как тайна двух: Двое рядом, а третий — Дух. Царь с небес на престол взведён: Это чисто, как снег и сон. Царь опять на престол взойдёт — Это свято, как кровь и пот. 7 мая 1918, 3-ий день Пасхи (а оставалось ему жить меньше трёх месяцев!) It is simple, as blood and sweat: Tsar and people - in destiny wed. It is clear, as a secret shared Between two, an the Spirit- the third. Heaven summoned the tsar to his throne: It is spotless, as sleep as snow. And the tsar shall regain his throne yet: It is sacred, as blood and sweat. 24th April 1918 3rd day of Easter (and he had - less than three months to live!)

My dreams are the only time I get to worship you. Do you have any idea how many careful lies of omission I’ve told over the years? The role I’ve played this last decade. All to hide the truth of how deeply, wholly lost I am to you?

Tyrion reflected as he watched her go. He had seldom seen such elegance and dignity in a whore. Though to be sure, she saw herself more as a kind of priestess. Perhaps that is the secret. It is not what we do, so much as why we do it.

The truth is, sweet nemesis”—I lowered my mouth to her ear—“I have not fucked a soul since the All-Sinners Ball. But I have made love to you a thousand times in my dreams. And I have never once yearned for anyone else to visit my bed.

it confirmed Mother’s secret conviction that the world had enough trouble without insisting all worship God the same way. There was room before the Throne for everyone who served Him—Baptists and the Hindus, Seventh Day Adventists, Muslims and Jews, as well as Catholics.

When Sam had died, she had tucked him into her heart, tucked him in alongside her other beloved dead, whose names she kept so secret she sometimes forgot them. But Nehemia—Nehemia wouldn’t fit. It was as if her heart was too full of the dead, too full of those lives that had ended well before their time. She couldn’t seal Nehemia away like that, not when that bloodstained bed and those ugly words still haunted her every step, every breath. So Celaena just hovered at the pianoforte, tracing her fingers over the keys again and again, and let the silence devour her.

Do you expect to suffer long nights of languishing and days of pain? O be not sad! That bed may become a throne to you. You little know how every pang that shoots through your body may be a refining fire to consume your dross--a beam of glory to light up the secret parts of your soul.

Now these were the days before the Andals came, and long before the women fled across the narrow sea from the cities of the Rhoyne, and the hundred kingdoms of those times were the kingdoms of the First Men, who had taken these lands from the children of the forest. Yet here and there in the fastness of the woods the children still lived in their wooden cities and hollow hills, and the faces in the trees kept watch. So as cold and death filled the earth, the last hero determined to seek out the children, in the hopes that their ancient magics could win back what the armies of men had lost. He set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions. For years he searched, until he despaired of ever finding the children of the forest in their secret cities. One by one his friends died, and his horse, and finally even his dog, and his sword froze so hard the blade snapped when he tried to use it. And the Others smelled the hot blood in him, and came silent on his trail, stalking him with packs of pale white spiders big as hounds—

And there came a second crack, loud and sharp as thunder, and the smoke stirred and whirled around her and the pyre shifted, the logs exploding as the fire touched their secret hearts. She heard the screams of frightened horses, and the voices of the Dothraki raised in shouts of fear and terror, and Ser Jorah calling her name and cursing. No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don’t you see? Don’t you SEE? With a belch of flame and smoke that reached thirty feet into the sky, the pyre collapsed and came down around her. Unafraid, Dany stepped forward into the firestorm, calling to her children.

Wylan—and the obliging Kuwei—will get the weevil working,” Kaz continued. “Once we have Inej, we can move on Van Eck’s silos.” Nina rolled her eyes. “Good thing this is all about getting our money and not about saving Inej. Definitely not about that.” “If you don’t care about money, Nina dear, call it by its other names.” “Kruge? Scrub? Kaz’s one true love?” “Freedom, security, retribution.” “You can’t put a price on those things.” “No? I bet Jesper can. It’s the price of the lien on his father’s farm.” The sharpshooter looked at the toes of his boots. “What about you, Wylan? Can you put a price on the chance to walk away from Ketterdam and live your own life? And Nina, I suspect you and your Fjerdan may want something more to subsist on than patriotism and longing glances. Inej might have a number in mind too. It’s the price of a future, and it’s Van Eck’s turn to pay.” Matthias was not fooled. Kaz always spoke logic, but that didn’t mean he always told truth. “The Wraith’s life is worth more than that,” said Matthias. “To all of us.” “We get Inej. We get our money. It’s as simple as that.” “Simple as that,” said Nina. “Did you know I’m next in line for the Fjerdan throne? They call me Princess Ilse of Engelsberg.” “There is no princess of Engelsberg,” said Matthias. “It’s a fishing town.” Nina shrugged. “If we’re going to lie to ourselves, we might as well be grand about it.” Kaz ignored her, spreading a map of the city over the table, and Matthias heard Wylan murmur to Jesper, “Why won’t he just say he wants her back?” “You’ve met Kaz, right?” “But she’s one of us.” Jesper’s brows rose again. “One of us? Does that mean she knows the secret handshake? Does that mean you’re ready to get a tattoo?” He ran a finger up Wylan’s forearm, and Wylan flushed a vibrant pink. Matthias couldn’t help but sympathize with the boy. He knew what it was to be out of your depth, and he sometimes suspected they could forgo all of Kaz’s planning and simply let Jesper and Nina flirt the entirety of Ketterdam into submission. Wylan pulled his sleeve down self-consciously. “Inej is part of the crew.” “Just don’t push it.” “Why not?” “Because the practical thing would be for Kaz to auction Kuwei to the highest bidder and forget about Inej entirely.” “He wouldn’t—” Wylan broke off abruptly, doubt creeping over his features. None of them really knew what Kaz would or wouldn’t do. Sometimes Matthias wondered if even Kaz was sure. “Okay, Kaz,” said Nina, slipping off her shoes and wiggling her toes. “Since this is about the almighty plan, how about you stop meditating over that map and tell us just what we’re in for.

Look to your khal and see what life is worth, when all the rest is gone.” Dany called out for the men of her khas and bid them take Mirri Maz Duur and bind her hand and foot, but the maegi smiled at her as they carried her off, as if they shared a secret. A word, and Dany could have her head off . . . yet then what would she have? A head? If life was worthless, what was death?

Since then, we have begun to see why our Oppressor was so secretive. His throne depends on the secret. Members of His faction have frequently admitted that if ever we came to understand what He means by Love, the war would be over and we should re-enter Heaven. And there lies the great task. We know that He cannot really love: nobody can: it doesn't make sense. If we could only find out what He is really up to!

During the closing decades of the eighteenth century, and the opening decades of the nineteenth, a constellation of literary and scientific luminaries appeared in the European sky which indicated and inaugurated the Age of Reason. God was dethroned and Reason became the throned sovereign of philosophy. Now science receives our highest worship. The scientist is the pope of today and sits in the Vatican of world authority. We

Then there was the kingdom of Judah, a kingdom that had once known God and yet had now fallen so low that the land was filled with altars to foreign gods, covered with the blood of its children. Its judgment was decreed. But then a righteous man named Josiah ascended the throne. King Josiah attempted to reverse Israel’s spiritual descent. He banned the pagan practices, destroyed the idols, smashed the altars, and sought to restore the nation to God.

While she had no regrets about freeing those two hundred slaves from Skull’s Bay, she had betrayed Arobynn in doing it. Perhaps hurting her had been his way of coping with the pain of that. And even though there was no excuse in this world for what he had done, Arobynn was all she had. The history that lay between them, dark and twisted and full of secrets, was forged by more than just gold. And if she left him, if she paid off her debts right now and never saw him again …

While Paine was endeavoring to make the movement in France peaceful, Burke fomented the league of monarchs against France which maddened its people, and brought on the Reign of Terror. While Paine was endeavoring to preserve the French throne ("phantom” though he believed it), to prevent bloodshed, Burke was secretly writing to the Queen of France, entreating her not to compromise, and to “trust to the support of foreign armies” ("Histoire de France depuis 1789.” Henri Martin, i., 151).

I was not there to save my mate when she was murdered, either,” Rowan said at last. Dorian straightened. Aelin had told him plenty of the prince’s history, but not this. He supposed it wasn’t her secret, her sorrow to share. “I’m sorry,” Dorian said. His magic had felt the bond between Aelin and Rowan—the bond that went deeper than blood, than their magic, and he’d assumed it was just that they were mates, and hadn’t announced it to anyone. But if Rowan already had a mate, and had lost her…

At the time, I paid no heed to the emblem above the door of a compass crossed with a square; the library had been founded by Masons. There, in the quiet shadows, I read for hours from the books that the kind librarian allowed me to take from the shelves: fairy tales, adventure stories, adaptations of classics for children, and dictionaries of symbols. One day while browsing among the shelves I ran across a yellowed volume: Les Tarots by Eteilla. All my efforts to read it were in vain. The letters looked strange and the words were incomprehensible. I began to worry that I had forgotten how to read. When I communicated my anguish to the librarian, he began to laugh. “But how could you understand it; it’s written in French, my young friend! I can’t understand it either!” Oh, how I felt drawn to those mysterious pages! I flipped through them, seeing many numbers, sums, the frequent occurrence of the word Thot, some geometric shapes . . . but what fascinated me most was a rectangle inside which a princess, wearing a three-pointed crown and seated on a throne, was caressing a lion that was resting its head on her knees. The animal had an expression of profound intelligence combined with an extreme gentleness. Such a placid creature! I liked the image so much that I committed a transgression that I still have not repented: I tore out the page and brought it home to my room. Concealed beneath a floorboard, the card “STRENGTH” became my secret treasure. In the strength of my innocence, I fell in love with the princess.

Modina lowered her voice and said, “I’ll tell you a secret—it’s not me at all, really. Sure, on occasion, I come up with something intelligent—and I am usually surprised by it myself—but the real genius behind my throne is Nimbus. Amilia deserves everything this empire can give her for hiring him. The man is a wonder: quiet, unassuming, but utterly brilliant. If he had a mind to, he could replace me in a heartbeat. I am convinced he could organize a perfectly lovely coup, but he has no aspirations for power at all.

There was a not-quite-secret stairway in the back of the library building that led up to a balcony bordered by delicately arched windows. These looked out over a small courtyard lined with sour-orange trees. Across from this were the royal baths- which connected directly to the audience chamber, banquet hall, and eventually the throne room itself. That had sounded strange until Jasmine explained to Aladdin that sultans often entertained foreign guests and consulted with top advisers while enjoying a pleasant mint-scented sweat in the steam rooms.

O Lord, how many are Your works! In wisdom You have made them all.… —Psalm 104:24 (NAS) In her intriguing book What’s Your God Language? Dr. Myra Perrine explains how, in our relationship with Jesus, we know Him through our various “spiritual temperaments,” such as intellectual, activist, caregiver, traditionalist, and contemplative. I am drawn to naturalist, described as “loving God through experiencing Him outdoors.” Yesterday, on my bicycle, I passed a tom turkey and his hen in a sprouting cornfield. Suddenly, he fanned his feathers in a beautiful courting display. I thought how Jesus had given me His own show of love in surprising me with that wondrous sight. I walked by this same field one wintry day before dawn and heard an unexpected huff. I had startled a deer. It was glorious to hear that small, secret sound, almost as if we held a shared pleasure in the untouched morning. Visiting my daughter once when she lived well north of the Arctic Circle in Alaska, I can still see the dark silhouettes of the caribou and hear the midnight crunch of their hooves in the snow. I’d watched brilliant green northern lights flash across the sky and was reminded of the emerald rainbow around Christ’s heavenly throne (Revelation 4:3). On another Alaskan visit, a full moon setting appeared to slide into the volcanic slope of Mount Iliamna, crowning the snow-covered peak with a halo of pink in the emerging light. I erupted in praise to the triune God for the grandeur of creation. Traipsing down a dirt road in Minnesota, a bloom of tiny goldfinches lifted off yellow flowers growing there, looking like the petals had taken flight. I stopped, mesmerized, filled with the joy of Jesus. Jesus, today on Earth Day, I rejoice in the language of You. —Carol Knapp Digging Deeper: Pss 24:1, 145:5; Hb 2:14

If your existence is merely light then why did you said I created Adam in his own image. If we are just created from drops of sperm how was our father created. If you are not to be seen or felt why did you called your beloved on the night of ascension. If your existence is merely light on the day of judgement why will you show shin to us to prostrate you ? If your existence is merely light then who sits on the throne upon water you created after creating creation? You are no more a hidden treasure to me, you have been unveiled when your love arrived. Blessed is Ayaz who's master has secret within to be explored more. I am his dog at his feet eats and live what he feeds and content.

Kunti asked Yudhishthira to perform the rituals for Karna as well. When Yudhishthira expressed his surprise, she confessed to the real lineage of Karna. Everyone was shocked at this startling revelation. Yudhishthira could not believe that he had been instrumental in murdering his own brother for the throne of Hastinapura. He fell into a deep swoon and after coming out of it he refused to be the King of Hastinapura and prepared to leave for the forest. It required lot of effort for days together on the part of Maharishi Vyasa, Narada and Shri Krishna to finally persuade him to desist from doing so. But in sheer agony, Yudhishthira cursed all women that thenceforth they would not be able to keep any secret for long.

Oh, and you must not forget the Kris Kringle. The child must believe in him until she reaches the age of six." "Mother, I know there are no ghosts or fairies. I would be teaching the child foolish lies." Mary spoke sharply. "You do not know whether there are not ghosts on earth or angels in heaven." "I know there is no Santa Claus." "Yet you must teach the child that these things are so." "Why? When I, myself, do not believe?" "Because," explained Mary Rommely simply, "the child must have a valuable thing which is called imagination. The child must have a secret world in which live things that never were. It is necessary that she believe. She must start out by believing in things not of this world. Then when the world becomes too ugly for living in, the child can reach back and live in her imagination. I, myself, even in this day and age, have great need of recalling the miraculous lives of the Saints and the great miracles that have come to pass one arty. Only by having these things in my mind can I live beyond what I have to live for." "The child will grow up and find out things for herself. She will know that I lied. She will be disappointed." "This is what is called learning the truth. It is a good thing to learn the truth one's self. To first believe with all your heart, and then not to believe, is good too. It fattens the emotions and makes them stretch. When as a woman life and people disappoint her, she will have had practice in disappointment and it will not come so hard. In teaching your child, do not forget that suffering is good too. It makes a person rich in character." "If that is so," commented Katie bitterly, "then we Rommelys are rich." "We are poor yes. We suffer. Our way is very hard. But we are better people because we know of the things I have told you. I could not read but I told you of all of the things I learned from living. You must tell them to your child and add on to them such things as ou will learn as you grow older." "What more must I teach the child?" "The child must be made to believe in heaven. A heaven, not filled with flying angels with God on a throne...but a heaven which means a wondrous place that people may dream of--as of a place where desires come true. This is probably a different kind of religion. I do not know.

In the name of Him Who created and sustains the world, the Sage Who endowed tongue with speech. He attains no honor who turns the face from the doer of His mercy. The kings of the earth prostate themselves before Him in supplication. He seizes not in haste the disobedient, nor drives away the penitent with violence. The two worlds are as a drop of water in the ocean of His knowledge. He withholds not His bounty though His servants sin; upon the surface of the earth has He spread a feast, in which both friend and foe may share. Peerless He is, and His kingdom is eternal. Upon the head of one He placed a crown another he hurled from the throne to the ground. The fire of His friend He turned into a flower garden; through the water of the Nile He sended His foes to perdition. Behind the veil He sees all, and conceal ed our faults with His own goodness. He is near to them that are downcast, and accepts the prayers of them that lament. He knows of the things that exist not, of secrets that are untold. He causes the moon and the sun to revolve, and spreads water upon the earth. In the heart of a stone hath He placed a jewel; from nothing had He created all that is. Who can reveal the secret of His qualities; what eye can see the limits of His beauty? The bird of thought cannot soar to the height of His presence, nor the hand of understanding reach to the skirt of His praise. Think not, O Saadi, that one can walk in the road of purity except in the footsteps of Mohammed (Peace and Blessings be Upon Him)

When evening in the Shire was grey his footsteps on the hill were heard; before the dawn he went away on journey long without a word. From Wilderland to Western shore, from northern waste to southern hill, through dragon-lair and hidden door and darkling woods he walked at will. With Dwarf and Hobbit, Elves and Men, with mortal and immortal folk, with bird on bough and beast in den, in their own secret tongues he spoke. A deadly sword, a healing hand, a back that bent beneath its load; a trumpet-voice, a burning brand, a weary pilgrim on the road. A lord of wisdom throned he sat, swift in anger; quick to laugh; an old man in a battered hat who leaned upon a thorny staff. He stood upon the bridge alone and Fire and Shadow both defied; his staff was broken on the stone, in Khazad-dûm his wisdom died.

So there are no dirges in Terrasen that are sung in a different language?” “No,” he said, drawing out the word as he pondered. “But I once heard that in the high court of Terrasen, when the nobility died, they sang their laments in the language of the Fae.” Chaol’s blood froze and he almost tripped, but he managed to keep walking and say, “Would these songs have been known by everyone—not just the nobility?” “Oh, no,” Sensel said, only half-listening as he recited whatever history was in his head. “Those songs were sacred to the court. Only those of noble blood ever learned or sang them. They were taught and sung in secret, their dead buried by the light of the moon, when no other ears could hear them. At least, that’s what rumor claimed. I’ll admit to my own morbid curiosity in that I’d hoped to hear them ten years ago, but by the time the slaughter had ended, there was no one left in those noble houses to sing them.” No one, except … You will always be my enemy.

You have criminals?” “Of course.” But the mere fact that Quin responded in this way caused Orolo to jump to a new leaf of the questionnaire. “How do you know?” “What?!” “You say of course there are criminals, but if you look at a particular person, how do you know whether or not he is a criminal? Are criminals branded? Tattooed? Locked up? Who decides who is and isn’t a criminal? Does a woman with shaved eyebrows say ‘you are a criminal’ and ring a silver bell? Or is it rather a man in a wig who strikes a block of wood with a hammer? Do you thrust the accused through a doughnut-shaped magnet? Or use a forked stick that twitches when it is brought near evil? Does an Emperor hand down the decision from his throne written in vermilion ink and sealed with black wax, or is it rather that the accused must walk barefoot across a griddle? Perhaps there is ubiquitous moving picture praxis—what you’d call speelycaptors—that know all, but their secrets may only be unlocked by a court of eunuchs each of whom has memorized part of a long number. Or perhaps a mob shows up and throws rocks at the suspect until he’s dead.

Dear Bride to Be Come to me, Dear Bride to be, And kneel before My Throne And I will share My heart with you And make your house a home. Listen well, lean closely There are secrets at My feet— The marriage you will soon begin This Bridegroom will complete. The man with whom you'll journey Is your wedding gift from me To teach you things beyond this world… A precious mystery. Bearing all these things in mind You'll never lack for wealth For through your union I will choose To teach you of Myself. Let him hold you tightly And keep you safe from harm Until I'll one day hold you In My everlasting arms. Let him wipe your tears away And trust him with your pain Until I wipe them all away And Heaven is your gain. Pray to love his tender touch And want his gentle kiss I grant you both my blessing And ask you not to miss The reason why I've chosen For two halves to become one— That you might see the Bride of Christ, Sweet Daughter and Dear Son. So make his home a refuge He's to love you as I do Until your mansion is complete... A place prepared for you. And if I should choose to leave you here When I have called him home Trust I'll be your husband near... You'll never be alone.

For all their laughter, ghouls are a dull lot. Hunger is the fire in which they burn, and it burns hotter than the hunger for power over men or for knowledge of the gods in a crazed mortal. It vaporizes delicacy and leaves behind only a slag of anger and lust. They see their fellows as impediments to feeding, to be mauled and shrieked at when the mourners go home. They are seldom alone, not through love of one another’s company, but because a lone ghoul is suspected of concealing food. Their copulation is so hasty that distinctions of sex and identity are often ignored. Just as she had once yearned to know the secrets of the grave, Meryphillia now longed to penetrate the mysteries of friendship and love. Mostly she wanted to know about love. She believed that it must transcend her bony collisions with Arthrax, least unfeeling of all the male ghouls, whom she untypically clove to. 'Why are you crying?' he once asked while their coupling rattled the slats of a newly emptied coffin. 'It’s nothing. Dust in my eyes.' 'That happens.' His question and comment were the nearest a ghoul could come to sympathy, but it fell so far short of the standard she imagined to be human that she wept all the more. --"Meryphillia

I saw… …Amar slumped onto his throne, refusing to look at the empty seat on his left. Gupta was at his side, his face pinched, skin sallow. “Go over every birth record, every horoscope until we find her again. I want--” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I need her back. I made a mistake.” “How will I know it’s her?” “The stars will not lie,” said Amar. “A girl partnered with Death, a marriage that puts her on the brink of destruction and peace, horror and happiness, dark and light. Find her.” “But even if you bring her back, how will she know--” “I have taken care of that,” he said sharply. In his hand was a small branch and a fledgling candle. “I have preserved every memory in the heart of Naraka.” “A fitting place,” said Gupta in a small voice, but he frowned. “But then what? Mortals cannot receive such divine information. It destroys them. Not even you can break those sacred boundaries.” “There is a way,” said Amar, breathing deeply. “I cannot tell them to a mortal. But if she becomes immortal…” “Ah…clever,” said Gupta. “The Otherworld may stop you from divulging those secrets, but a mortal that does not pass through the halls of the dead would eventually be deathless.” Amar nodded. “Sixty turns of the moon. A handful of weeks in our halls. And then I can reveal the memories of her past life. Her powers will be restored. She will be a queen once more. But until then, she needs protection. Nritti will no doubt try to find her. She knows she has gone missing. She can feel it, and it fuels her destructiveness. Nritti can never know where she is. Or who she was.

Hear me out. Stannis is no friend of yours, nor of mine. Even his brothers can scarcely stomach him. The man is iron, hard and unyielding. He’ll give us a new Hand and a new council, for a certainty. No doubt he’ll thank you for handing him the crown, but he won’t love you for it. And his ascent will mean war. Stannis cannot rest easy on the throne until Cersei and her bastards are dead. Do you think Lord Tywin will sit idly while his daughter’s head is measured for a spike? Casterly Rock will rise, and not alone. Robert found it in him to pardon men who served King Aerys, so long as they did him fealty. Stannis is less forgiving. He will not have forgotten the siege of Storm’s End, and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dare not. Every man who fought beneath the dragon banner or rose with Balon Greyjoy will have good cause to fear. Seat Stannis on the Iron Throne and I promise you, the realm will bleed. “Now look at the other side of the coin. Joffrey is but twelve, and Robert gave you the regency, my lord. You are the Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm. The power is yours, Lord Stark. All you need do is reach out and take it. Make your peace with the Lannisters. Release the Imp. Wed Joffrey to your Sansa. Wed your younger girl to Prince Tommen, and your heir to Myrcella. It will be four years before Joffrey comes of age. By then he will look to you as a second father, and if not, well … four years is a good long while, my lord. Long enough to dispose of Lord Stannis. Then, should Joffrey prove troublesome, we can reveal his little secret and put Lord Renly on the throne.

Admonished by his ear, and straight was known The Arch-Angel Uriel, one of the seven Who in God’s presence, nearest to his throne, Stand ready at command, and are his eyes That run through all the Heavens, or down to the Earth Bear his swift errands over moist and dry, O’er sea and land: him Satan thus accosts. “Uriel, for thou of those seven Spirits that stand In sight of God’s high throne, gloriously bright, The first art wont his great authentic will Interpreter through highest Heaven to bring, Where all his sons thy embassy attend; And here art likeliest by supreme decree Like honour to obtain, and as his eye To visit oft this new creation round; Unspeakable desire to see, and know All these his wonderous works, but chiefly Man, His chief delight and favour, him for whom All these his works so wonderous he ordained, Hath brought me from the quires of Cherubim Alone thus wandering. Brightest Seraph, tell In which of all these shining orbs hath Man His fixed seat, or fixed seat hath none, But all these shining orbs his choice to dwell; That I may find him, and with secret gaze Or open admiration him behold, On whom the great Creator hath bestowed Worlds, and on whom hath all these graces poured; That both in him and all things, as is meet, The universal Maker we may praise; Who justly hath driven out his rebel foes To deepest Hell, and, to repair that loss, Created this new happy race of Men To serve him better: Wise are all his ways.” So spake the false dissembler unperceived; For neither Man nor Angel can discern Hypocrisy, the only evil that walks Invisible, except to God alone,

At this time, Paris formed, for a man like Aristide Saccard, a most interesting spectacle. The Empire had just been proclaimed, after that famous journey during which the Prince President had succeeded in arousing the enthusiasm of some Bonapartist departments. Silence reigned both at the tribune and in the press. Society, saved once more, was congratulating itself and indolently resting, now that a strong government was protecting it and relieving it even of the trouble of thinking and of attending to its own business. The great preoccupation of society was to know in what way it should kill time. As Eugène Rougon so happily expressed it, Paris was dining and anticipating no end of pleasure at dessert. Politics produced an universal scare, like some dangerous drug. The wearied minds turned to pleasure and money-making. Those who had any of the latter brought it out, and those who had none sought in all the out-of-the-way places for forgotten treasures. A secret quiver seemed to run through the multitude, accompanied by a nascent jingling of five-franc pieces, by the rippling laughter of women, and the yet faint clatter of crockery and murmur of kisses. Amidst the great silence of the reign of order, the profound peacefulness brought by the change of government, there arose all sorts of pleasant rumours, gilded and voluptuous promises. It was as though one were passing in front of one of those little houses, the carefully drawn curtains of which reveal no more than the shadows of women, and where one can overhear the jingling of gold on the marble mantelpieces. The Empire was about to turn Paris into the bagnio of Europe. The handful of adventurers who had just stolen a throne needed a reign of adventure, of shadowy business transactions, of consciences sold, of women bought, of furious and universal intoxication. And, in the city where the blood of December was scarcely wiped away, there slowly uprose, timidly as yet, that mad desire for enjoyment which was destined to bring the country to the lowest dregs of corrupt and dishonoured nations.

I make this bond to you in blood, not flowers,” he said. “Come with me and you shall be an empress with the moon for your throne and constellations to wear in your hair. Come with me and I promise you that we will always be equals.” My mouth went dry. A blood oath was no trifling undertaking. Vassals swore it to lords, priests to the gods. But husbands to wives? Unthinkable. Still, Bharata’s court had taught me one thing: the greater the offer, the greater the compromise. And I had neither dowry nor influence from Bharata, nothing to give but the jewels I wore. “You’re offering me the world, and you ask for nothing in return.” “I ask only for your trust and patience.” “Trust?” I repeated. “Trust is won in years. Not words. And I don’t know anything about you--” “I will tell you everything,” he cut in, his voice fierce. “But we must wait until the new moon. The kingdom’s close ties to the Otherworld make it dangerous grounds for the curious.” In my stories to Gauri, the new moon weakened the other realms. Starlight thinned their borders and the inhabitants lay glutted and sleepy on moonbeams. The thing is, I had always made that part up. “Why that long?” “Because that is when my realm is at its weakest,” said Amar, confirming my imagination and sending shivers across my arms. “Until then, the hold of the other realms binds me into silence.” The night before the wedding ceremony, there was no moon in the sky. I would have to wait a whole cycle. “And in the meantime, you expect me to go away with you?” “Yes,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Do you accept me?” He held out his hand to me, the cut on his palm bright and swollen. Against the glow of the bazaar, Amar’s form cut a silhouette of night. I looked past him to the glittering secrets of the Otherworld. The Night Bazaar gleamed beneath its split sky--an invitation to be more than what Bharata expected, a challenge to rise beyond the ranks of the nameless, dreamless harem women. All I needed to do was slip my hand in his. I was reaching for him before I knew it and the warmth of his hands jolted me. “I accept.

Hours later, the King of Adarlan stood at the back of the dungeon chamber as his secret guards dragged Rena Goldsmith forward. The butcher’s block at the center of the room was already soaked with blood. Her companion’s headless corpse lay a few feet away, his blood trickling toward the drain in the floor. Perrington and Roland stood silent beside the king, watching, waiting. The guards shoved the singer to her knees before the stained stone. One of them grabbed a fistful of her red-gold hair and yanked, forcing her to look at the king as he stepped forward. “It is punishable by death to speak of or to encourage magic. It is an affront to the gods, and an affront to me that you sang such a song in my hall.” Rena Goldsmith just stared at him, her eyes bright. She hadn’t struggled when his men grabbed her after the performance or even screamed when they’d beheaded her companion. As if she’d been expecting this. “Any last words?” A queer, calm rage settled over her lined face, and she lifted her chin. “I have worked for ten years to become famous enough to gain an invitation to this castle. Ten years, so I could come here to sing the songs of magic that you tried to wipe out. So I could sing those songs, and you would know that we are still here—that you may outlaw magic, that you may slaughter thousands, but we who keep the old ways still remember.” Behind him, Roland snorted. “Enough,” the king said, and snapped his fingers. The guards shoved her head down on the block. “My daughter was sixteen,” she went on. Tears ran over the bridge of her nose and onto the block, but her voice remained strong and loud. “Sixteen, when you burned her. Her name was Kaleen, and she had eyes like thunderclouds. I still hear her voice in my dreams.” The king jerked his chin to the executioner, who stepped forward. “My sister was thirty-six. Her name was Liessa, and she had two boys who were her joy.” The executioner raised his ax. “My neighbor and his wife were seventy. Their names were Jon and Estrel. They were killed because they dared try to protect my daughter when your men came for her.” Rena Goldsmith was still reciting her list of the dead when the ax fell.

you need only believe that everything is a lie. If the world is not real, if everything we see is a simulation or a game, then the fictions we append to it are no different from the ones which come to us through our senses. And it is true: the odds, overwhelmingly, tell us that we exist inside a computer. Any universe that can support technological life probably will, given enough time. Any technological civilisation will develop modelling, and will in a comparatively insignificant span be able to model everything a planet-bound species could expect to encounter. That being the case, the simulation will rapidly reach the point where it contains simulated computers with the ability to simulate likewise everything a planet-bound species could expect to encounter, and so on and so on in an infinite regress limited only by computing power. That might seem like a hard limit, but processing power still doubles every twelve to eighteen months, and doubling is more extraordinary than people understand. There’s a story that the Emperor of China once lost his throne gambling with a peasant, because he agreed if he lost to pay a single grain of rice on the first square of a chess board and double the amount on each square on the next until he had covered the board. His debt for the final square was eighteen and a half million trillion grains. It is almost impossible to imagine the capabilities of a machine that much more powerful than the ones we have today, but I think we can accept it could hold quite a lot of simulations of our world. The odds, therefore, are negligible that we live in the origin universe, and considerable that we are quite a few steps down the layers of reality. Everything you know, everything you have ever seen or experienced, is probably not what it appears to be. The most alarming notion is that someone – or everyone – you know might be an avatar of someone a level up: they might know that you’re a game piece, that you’re invented and they are real. Perhaps that explains your sense of unfulfilled potential: you truly are incomplete, a semi-autonomous reflection of something vast. And yet, if so, what does that say about those vast ones beyond? Are they just replicating a truth they secretly recognise about themselves? Russian dolls, one inside the other, until the smallest doll embraces the outermost and everything begins again? Who really inhabits whom, and who is in control?

You talk about illnesses as if they were living creatures.” “They are, to some degree,” Yrene said. “With their own secrets and temperaments. You sometimes have to outsmart them, just as you would any foe.

Like a secret they each wanted to let out, but speaking it would only make it real. And the more real it was, the more it would hurt them both.

The truth he sought might very well be waiting for him on the ancient island fortress of House Targaryen. And when you have it, what then? Some secrets are safer kept hidden. Some secrets are too dangerous to share, even with those you love and trust.

We learned that to lie to a machine, you don't need to be a perfect writer: rather, you need only believe that everything is a lie. If the world is not real, if everything we see is a simulation or a game, then the fictions we append to it are no different from the ones which come to us through our senses. And it is true: the odds, overwhelmingly, tell us that we exist inside a computer. Any universe that can support technological life probably will, given enough time. Any technological civilisation will develop modelling, and will in a comparatively insignificant span be able to model everything a planet-bound species could expect to encounter. That being the case, the simulation will rapidly reach the point where it contains simulated computers with the ability to simulate likewise everything a planet-bound species could expect to encounter, and so on and so on in an infinite regress limited only by computing power. That might seem like a hard limit, but processing power still doubles every twelve to eighteen months, and doubling is more extraordinary than people understand. There’s a story that the Emperor of China once lost his throne gambling with a peasant, because he agreed if he lost to pay a single grain of rice on the first square of a chess board and double the amount on each square on the next until he had covered the board. His debt for the final square was eighteen and a half million trillion grains. It is almost impossible to imagine the capabilities of a machine that much more powerful than the ones we have today, but I think we can accept it could hold quite a lot of simulations of our world. The odds, therefore, are negligible that we live in the origin universe, and considerable that we are quite a few steps down the layers of reality. Everything you know, everything you have ever seen or experienced, is probably not what it appears to be. The most alarming notion is that someone – or everyone – you know might be an avatar of someone a level up: they might know that you’re a game piece, that you’re invented and they are real. Perhaps that explains your sense of unfulfilled potential: you truly are incomplete, a semi-autonomous reflection of something vast. And yet, if so, what does that say about those vast ones beyond? Are they just replicating a truth they secretly recognise about themselves? Russian dolls, one inside the other, until the smallest doll embraces the outermost and everything begins again? Who really inhabits whom, and who is in control? None of this is as it appears.

We learned that to lie to a machine, you don't need to be a perfect liar: rather, you need only believe that everything is a lie. If the world is not real, if everything we see is a simulation or a game, then the fictions we append to it are no different from the ones which come to us through our senses. And it is true: the odds, overwhelmingly, tell us that we exist inside a computer. Any universe that can support technological life probably will, given enough time. Any technological civilisation will develop modelling, and will in a comparatively insignificant span be able to model everything a planet-bound species could expect to encounter. That being the case, the simulation will rapidly reach the point where it contains simulated computers with the ability to simulate likewise everything a planet-bound species could expect to encounter, and so on and so on in an infinite regress limited only by computing power. That might seem like a hard limit, but processing power still doubles every twelve to eighteen months, and doubling is more extraordinary than people understand. There’s a story that the Emperor of China once lost his throne gambling with a peasant, because he agreed if he lost to pay a single grain of rice on the first square of a chess board and double the amount on each square on the next until he had covered the board. His debt for the final square was eighteen and a half million trillion grains. It is almost impossible to imagine the capabilities of a machine that much more powerful than the ones we have today, but I think we can accept it could hold quite a lot of simulations of our world. The odds, therefore, are negligible that we live in the origin universe, and considerable that we are quite a few steps down the layers of reality. Everything you know, everything you have ever seen or experienced, is probably not what it appears to be. The most alarming notion is that someone – or everyone – you know might be an avatar of someone a level up: they might know that you’re a game piece, that you’re invented and they are real. Perhaps that explains your sense of unfulfilled potential: you truly are incomplete, a semi-autonomous reflection of something vast. And yet, if so, what does that say about those vast ones beyond? Are they just replicating a truth they secretly recognise about themselves? Russian dolls, one inside the other, until the smallest doll embraces the outermost and everything begins again? Who really inhabits whom, and who is in control? None of this is as it appears.

I know the secret Jon Arryn was murdered to protect. Robert will leave no trueborn son behind him. Joffrey and Tommen are Jaime Lannister’s bastards, (...) .” Littlefinger lifted an eyebrow. “Shocking,” he said in a tone that suggested he was not shocked at all.

Your mom asked me to come and see if I could help you with-” “Why did you say no to Darius?” he blurted, his brow lowering as he gazed at the black rings in my eyes. “I know he was an asshole to you and he did a lot of things that he shouldn’t have but that was all about power, the throne, the fucking crown. And I didn’t think you cared that much about any of that.” “I don’t. Or I guess, I didn’t. Being Fae kind of goes hand in hand with claiming power though, doesn’t it?” I asked, tightening my jaw as I refused to balk at the subject. “Fine. Whatever. I get that side of it. But what I don’t understand is how you could have said no to loving him. Because when I saw the two of you together I could see how much you liked each other. Even when you were denying it or fighting or whatever, it was still there. And I just don’t get how you could stand there beneath the stars, look him in the eyes and say no. Why would you curse him like that? Why would you curse yourself?” I wanted to shrug off his question, but the accusation in his dark eyes demanded an answer and I blew out a breath as I gave it to him. “Because all I’ve ever wanted is to be loved like that but I was afraid that if I let myself love him, he’d use it to hurt me. Too much has happened between us and…I just don’t trust him.” I raised my chin as the two of them looked at me like my words caused them physical pain. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about Darius. I came here for you.” ... “What are you doing?” Catalina gasped. “Do you trust me, Xavier?” I asked. “Why?” he countered suspiciously “Because I’m going to set you free. Come here.” I beckoned and he got up, walking towards me cautiously as I pulled my Atlas from my pocket and set it recording. “This is Xavier Acrux and he’s got something fucking amazing to show you,” I said, smirking at him as I raised my other hand. “Do I?” he asked in confusion. “Fuck yes. His Order just Emerged and he’s something way cooler than a big old lizard – no offence to Dragons, I’m sure your scaly balls are great and all but it’s just not as badass as being a fucking Pegasus.” Xavier’s eyes widened in horror as I flicked my fingers at him and threw him straight out of the tower window with a gust of wind. We were on the ninth floor so he had plenty of time for fear to shock his Order form from his flesh and spread his wings way before he could hit the ground, but I was ready to catch him with my magic if he didn’t manage it for any reason. Xavier cried out as he fell but his screams suddenly became whinnies as the huge, lilac Pegasus burst from his skin, shredding through his clothes as his wings unfurled and caught on an updraft. I caught it all on camera, laughing excitedly as he levelled out then beat his wings and started flying up and up and up towards the clouds which were lined with silver as the moon shone through them. Catalina rushed forward like she meant to rip my Atlas from my hands, but as her gaze fell on her son out of the window, her lips parted and a beautiful smile graced her mouth. Xavier shot into the clouds and out of sight and I finally ended the recording. I typed out a FaeBook post with the video attached and glanced up at Catalina with my thumb hovering over the post button. I had over a million followers on there now, and if I hit that button, the word would be well and truly out. “The only reason Lionel maintains his hold over him is because it’s a secret. Pegasuses are one of the most common Order forms there are. Unless Lionel wants to alienate all of them, he’ll have to come out in support of his son. The only power he holds here is in keeping it a secret. Once it’s out, it’s out.” “He’ll kill you for exposing this,” she breathed, her eyes wide with fear. (Tory POV)

For thou hast maintained my right and my cause; Thou sittest in the throne judging righteously.” (Psalm 9:4)

When evening in the Shire was grey his [Gandalf] footsteps on the Hill were heard; before the dawn he went away on journey long without a word. From Wilderland to Western shore, from northern waste to southern hill, through dragon-lair and hidden door and darkling woods he walked at will. With Dwarf and Hobbit, Elves and Men, with mortal and immortal folk, with bird on bough and beast in den, in their own secret tongues he spoke. A deadly sword, a healing hand, a back that bent beneath its load; a trumpet-voice, a burning brand, a weary pilgrim on the road. A lord of wisdom throned he sat, swift in anger, quick to laugh; an old man in a battered hat who leaned upon a thorny staff. He stood upon the bridge alone and Fire and Shadow both defied; his staff was broken on the stone, in Khazad-dûm his wisdom died.

An exasperated Mark Bolland, trying to spin some positive press in the midst of all this, found himself reluctantly pulled in to broker a secret détente between the butler and the heir to the throne. Fortuitously, Charles fell off his horse playing polo and went to the hospital instead.

Maybe it’s time we get candid,” I suggested. Lady Death sighed. “Rune, it's not as if we have orientation materials for new Arcana. There’s not a training module titled Shit We Keep Secret.

But he was dangerous for a far different reason. She sensed he could unleash in her all she’d kept locked away, hidden. And the idea of him unravelling her secrets was no longer as frightening as it should be.

And yet, that darkness, that violence and stark, honest way of looking at the world … There would be no secrets with her. No lies.

I have also sent as many of our dear Tiberian Rat friends as I could to my father before they could be taken for inquisition.” “Is he helping them?” I whispered hopefully and she nodded. “He is leading them to secret burrows in the north,” she whispered though the silencing bubble would stop anyone from hearing anyway. “As well as creating a network of friends and allies to our great

But I sent you to Wendlyn for the healing. And so you would … find him. The one who had been waiting so long for you.” Aelin’s heart cracked. “Rowan.” Elena nodded. “He was a voice in the void, a secret, silent dreamer. And so were his companions. But the Fae Prince, he was …” Aelin reined in her sob. “I know. I’ve known for a long time.” “I wanted you to know that joy, too,” Elena whispered. “However briefly.

Rumor had it they met over some magical operation and it was love at first blood. She wanted to keep him, and I’ve heard it said they actually were married in a secret ceremony. But he wasn’t interested in the throne of Kashfa, though he was the only one she might have been willing to see on it. He traveled a lot, was away for long stretches of time. I’ve heard it said that he was responsible for the Days of Darkness, and that he died in a great battle between Chaos and Amber at that time, at the hands of his kinsmen.

THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING "Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life." "Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger." "Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes." "Hey dol! merry dol! ring a dong dillo! Ring a dong! hop along! fal lal the willow! Tom Bom, jolly Tom, Tom Bombadillo!" "No black man shall pass my doors, while I can stand on my legs." "All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring; Renewed shall be blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king." "One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the Darkness bind them." "A deadly sword, a healing hand, a back that bent beneath its load; a trumpet-voice, a burning brand, a weary pilgrim on the road. A lord of wisdom throned he sat, swift in anger, quick to laugh; an old man in a battered hat who leaned upon a thorny staff.” "The Balrog reached the bridge. Gandalf stood in the middle of the span, leaning on the staff in his left hand, but in his other hand Glamdring gleamed, cold and white. His enemy halted again, facing him, and the shadow about it reached out like two vast wings. It raised the whip, and the thongs whined and cracked. Fire came from its nostrils. But Gandalf stood firm. ‘You cannot pass,’ he said. The orcs stood still, and a dead silence fell. ‘I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass.’ The Balrog made no answer. The fire in it seemed to die, but the darkness grew. It stepped forward slowly on to the bridge, and suddenly it drew itself up to a great height, and its wings were spread from wall to wall; but still Gandalf could be seen, glimmering in the gloom; he seemed small, and altogether alone: grey and bent, like a wizened tree before the onset of a storm. From out of the shadow a red sword leaped flaming. Glamdring glittered white in answer. There was a ringing clash and a stab of white fire. The Balrog fell back, and its sword flew up in molten fragments. The wizard swayed on the bridge, stepped back a pace, and then again stood still. ‘You cannot pass!’ he said. With a bound the Balrog leaped full upon the bridge. Its whip whirled and hissed. ‘He cannot stand alone!’ cried Aragorn suddenly and ran back along the bridge. ‘Elendil!’ he shouted. ‘I am with you, Gandalf!’ ‘Gondor!’ cried Boromir and leaped after him. At that moment Gandalf lifted his staff, and crying aloud he smote the bridge before him. The staff broke asunder and fell from his hand. A blinding sheet of white flame sprang up. The bridge cracked. Right at the Balrog’s feet it broke, and the stone upon which it stood crashed into the gulf, while the rest remained, poised, quivering like a tongue of rock thrust out into emptiness. With a terrible cry the Balrog fell forward, and its shadow plunged down and vanished. But even as it fell it swung its whip, and the thongs lashed and curled about the wizard’s knees, dragging him to the brink. He staggered and fell, grasped vainly at the stone, and slid into the abyss. ‘Fly, you fools!’ he cried, and was gone.

A Lodge inaugurated under the auspices of Rousseau, the fanatic of Geneva, became the center of the revolutionary movement in France, and a Prince of the blood-royal went thither to swear the destruction of the successors of Philippe le Bel on the tomb of Jacques de Molai. The registers of the Order of Templars attest that the Regent, the Duc d'Orleans, was Grand Master of that formidable Secret Society, and that his successors were the Duc de Maine, the Prince of Bourbon-Conde, and the Duc de Cosse-Briassac. The Templars comprotmitted the King; they saved him from the rage of the People, to exasperate that rage and bring on the catastrophe prepared for centuries; it was a scaffold that the vengeance of the Templars demanded. The secret movers of the French Revolution had sworn to overturn the Throne and the Altar upon the Tomb of Jacques de Molai. When Louis XVI. was executed, half the work was done; and thenceforward the Army of the Temple was to direct all its efforts against the Pope.

Promised that there would be no more secrets between them. Promised and lied. Promised and deceived her.

Anyone who thinks that the Communist regimes of Central Europe are exclusively the work of criminals is overlooking a basic truth: the criminal regimes were made not by criminals but by enthusiasts convinced they had discovered the only road to paradise. They defended that road so valiantly that they were forced to execute many people. Later it became clear that there was no paradise, that the enthusiasts were therefore murderers. Then everyone took to shouting at the Communists: You're the ones responsible for our country's misfortunes (it had grown poor and desolate), for its loss of independence (it had fallen into the hands of the Russians), for its judicial murders! And the accused responded: 'We didn't know! We were deceived! We were true believers! Deep in our hearts we are innocent!' In the end, the dispute narrowed down to a single question: Did they really not know or were they merely making believe? Tomas followed the dispute closely (as did his ten million fellow Czechs) and was of the opinion that while there had definitely been Communists who were not completely unaware of the atrocities (they could not have been ignorant of the horrors that had been perpetrated and were still being perpetrated in postrevolutionary Russia), it was probable that the majority of the Communists had not in fact known of them. But, he said to himself, whether they knew or didn't know is not the main issue; the main issue is whether a man is innocent because he didn't know. Is a fool on the throne relieved of all responsibility merely because he is a fool? Let us concede that a Czech public prosecutor in the early fifties who called for the death of an innocent man was deceived by the Russian secret police and the government of his own country. But now that we all know the accusations to have been absurd and the executed to have been innocent, how can that selfsame public prosecutor defend his purity of heart by beating himself on the chest and proclaiming, My conscience is clear! I didn't know! I was a believer! Isn't his 'I didn't know! I was a believer!' at the very root of his irreparable guilt?

You have experience—you are needed here. You are the only person who can give the demi-Fae a chance of surviving; you are trusted and respected. So I am staying. Because you are needed, and because I will follow you to whatever end.” And if the creatures devoured her body and soul, then she would not mind. She had earned that fate. For a long moment, he said nothing. But his brows narrowed slightly. “To whatever end?” She nodded. He had not needed to mention the massacres, had not needed to try to console her. He knew—he understood without her having to say a word—what it was like. Her magic thrummed in her blood, wanting out, wanting more. But it would wait—it had to wait until it was time. Until she had Narrok and his creatures in her sight. She realized that Rowan saw each of those thoughts and more as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a dagger. Her dagger. He extended it to her, its long blade gleaming as if he’d been secretly polishing and caring for it these months. And when she grasped the dagger, its weight lighter than she remembered, Rowan looked into her eyes, into the very core of her, and said, “Fireheart.

Murtaugh Allsbrook and his riders spread the news like wildfire. Down every road, over every river, to the north and south and west, through snow and rain and mist, their hooves churning up the dust of each kingdom. And for every town they told, every tavern and secret meeting, more riders went out. More and more, until there was not a road they had not covered, until there was not one soul who did not know that Aelin Galathynius was alive—and willing to stand against Adarlan.

I never realized how convenient it would be for Fleetfoot,” she said of the secret, private garden.

New court, new traditions, you said. Even for you. Starting with fewer schemes and secrets that take years off my life every time you do a grand reveal. Though I certainly enjoyed that new trick with the ash. Very artistic.

She just gave Rowan a sultry sweep from foot to face. Rowan’s expression remained unreadable, eyes intent—near-glowing. And then Aelin said to Rowan with a secret smile, “You, I don’t know. But I’d like to.” Rowan’s lips tugged upward. “I’m not on the market, unfortunately.” “Pity,” Aelin said, cocking her head as she noticed a bowl of small emeralds on Rolfe’s desk. Don’t do it, don’t— Aelin swiped up the emeralds in a hand, picking them over as she glanced at Rowan beneath her lashes. “She must be a rare, staggering beauty you make you so faithful.” Gods save them all. He could have sworn Fenrys coughed behind him. Aelin chucked the emeralds into the metal dish as if they were bits of copper, their plunking the only sound. “She must be clever”—plunk—“and fascinating”—plunk—“and very, very talented.” Plunk, plunk, plunk went the emeralds. “She must be the most wonderful person who ever existed.” Another cough from behind him—from Gavriel this time. But Aelin only had eyes for Rowan as the warrior said to her, “She is indeed that. And more.” “Hmmm,” Aelin said, rolling the emeralds in her scarred palm with expert ease.

And what about you then? How about we make a deal: you tell me all your deep, dark secrets, Yrene Towers, and I’ll tell you mine.” Indignation lit those remarkable eyes as she glared at him. He glared right back. Finally, Yrene snorted, smiling faintly. “You’re as stubborn as an ass.” “I’ve been called worse,” he countered, the beginnings of a smile tugging on his mouth. “I’m not surprised.

So this was your room. And that was the secret passage.” “You don’t sound impressed.” “After all your stories, it just seems so… ordinary.” “Most people would hardly call this castle ordinary.

And you assume fighting and blades are for you?” A look crossed his features, one I had not seen on him before. He wasn’t scolding me by any means, but it was as if he knew a secret I didn’t, and I was close to finding it.

He was a voice in the void, a secret, silent dreamer. And so were his companions.

After building many thrones and falling from all of them, man looked around; he wondered whether he had accidentally ben generated in a blind and purposeless cosmic process, and he strove to salvage some sort of purpose

Aelin had tracked the Wyrdhounds to their secret entrance—the one that fed right to the clock tower—and now that she’d tricked Lorcan into killing them all for her, the way would be clear for him and Aedion to plant the vats, set the fuses, and use their Fae swiftness to get the hell out before the tower exploded.

Her magic thrummed in her blood, wanting out, wanting more. But it would wait—it had to wait until it was time. Until she had Narrok and his creatures in her sight. She realized that Rowan saw each of those thoughts and more as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a dagger. Her dagger. He extended it to her, its long blade gleaming as if he’d been secretly polishing it and caring for it these months. And when she grasped the dagger, its weight lighter than she remembered, Rowan looked into her eyes, into the very core of her, and said, “Fireheart.

And then Aelin said to Rowan with a secret smile, “You, I don’t know. But I’d like to.” Rowan’s lips tugged upward. “I’m not on the market, unfortunately.

What and when and how?” he asked. “Rowan’s working on the first leg of it.” “That sounds a lot like, ‘I have more secrets that I’m going to spring on you whenever I feel like stopping your heart dead in your chest’.

I don’t want you to think I’m agreeing to keep it secret because I’m ashamed in any way.” “Who said anything about shame?” She gestured down to her naked body, even though it was covered by the blanket. “Honestly, I’m surprised you’re not strutting about, boasting to everyone. I certainly would be if I’d tumbled me.” “Does your love for yourself know no bounds?” “Absolutely none.

You never told me,” she said, “what you were praying to Mala for that morning before we entered Doranelle.” For a moment, it looked like he wouldn’t tell her. But then he quietly said, “I prayed for two things. I asked her to ensure you survive the encounter with Maeve—to guide you and give you the strength you needed.” “And the second?” “It was a selfish wish, and a fool’s hope.” She read the rest of it in his eyes. But it came true. “Dangerous, for a prince of ice and wind to pray for the Fire-Bringer,” she managed to say. Rowan shrugged, a secret smile on his face as he wiped away the tear that escaped down her cheek. “For some reason, Mala likes me, and agreed that you and I make a formidable pair.

Yes, you do.” Neverra met my gaze. “Think of the one place you would feel safe. Where we all would be safe.” Logan nodded, and I got the impression that they were having a secret conversation. “Think of home.” “And quickly, please,” Neverra added.

Many elements of the Imperium believe they hold the ultimate power: the Spacing Guild with their monopoly on interstellar travel, CHOAM with its economic stranglehold, the Bene Gesserit with their secrets, the Mentats with their control of mental processes, House Corrino with their throne, the Great and Minor Houses of the Landsraad with their extensive holdings. Woe to us on the day that one of those factions decides to prove the point.

But that didn’t stop her from loving him, as she still did, invisible and secret, ever since she’d first laid eyes on him six years ago.

Unfortunately, I had no choice. I’d have to travel two hundred miles through the desert to some isolated oasis and find one needle of a scroll in a haystack of mummies. I didn’t see how we could accomplish this in the time we had left. Worse, I hadn’t yet told Carter my last bit of information about Zia’s village. I could just keep my mouth shut. That would be the selfish thing. It might even be the right thing, as I needed his help, and I couldn’t afford to have him distracted. But I couldn’t keep it from him. I’d invaded his mind and learned his secret name. The least I could do was be honest with him. “Carter…there’s something else. Set wanted you to know. Zia’s village was named al-Hamrah Makan.” Carter turned a bit green again. “You just forgot to mention this?” “Remember, Set is a liar,” I said. “He wasn’t being helpful. He volunteered the information because he wanted to cause chaos between us.” I could already tell I was losing him. His mind was caught in a strong current that had been pulling him along since January—the idea that he could save Zia. Now that

He was a voice in the void, a secret, silent dreamer. And so were his companions. But the Fae Prince, he was …

You are Nehemia,” she said. The princess whirled, her hunting leathers stained and damp, the gold tips on her braided hair clinking. An assessing look with eyes that were too old for barely eighteen; eyes that had stared long into the darkness between the stars and yearned to know its secrets. “And you are Elena.

Krishna sees her looking at him and Draupadi nods slightly at him and then looks back at the pyres, for she has understood a small, insidious truth. She remembers their precipitous flight from the camp in the middle of the night while her sons and brothers were left behind to be murdered in their sleep. There is no Vrishni pyre at this mass funeral and while all the major clans of the river valleys are laid low, Krishna's clansmen are unscathed. Moreover, the only heir with a claim to the throne of Hastinapur to have survived is the secret that Uttara hides in her frail body. So Krishna's nephew is dead but through his hastily arranged marriage to Uttara, the clan of the Vrishnis finally has a claim to kingship and the eternal kingmakers will at last be rajas.

I don’t care,” Dorian said, staring them down as he walked out. “I will carry your secrets to the grave—but I want no part of them.” He ripped his cold magic from the air and turned it inward, wrapping it around his heart.

Celaena Sardothien wasn’t in league with Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. Celaena Sardothien was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir to the throne and rightful Queen of Terranes. Celaena was Aelin Galathynius, the greatest living threat to Adarlan, the one person who could raise an army capable of standing against the king. Now, she was also the one person who knew the secret source of the king’s power—and who sought a way to destroy it. And he had just sent her into the arms of her strongest potential allies: to the homeland of her mother, the kingdom of her cousin, and the domain of her aunt, Queen Maeve of the Fae.

stand before you today to speak of a grave matter that has come to my attention recently," Father called as the crowd quieted to listen to him. "A matter which I know has been concerning Fae all over the country for quite some time. Of course, I am speaking about the lack of midnight amethyst stones in our great kingdom." I fought the urge to arch a brow as I tore my gaze away from Roxy to look at my father. What the fuck was he talking about? Who gave a shit about midnight amethyst being hard to come by recently? I mean, yeah, there had been a bunch of stories about how the stones which were the luckiest objects in Solaria had been dwindling in numbers over the last ten years or so, but I'd never really paid those stories much attention. Less powerful Fae relied on things like lucky stones to get them through life, but I preferred to chart my own path. Besides, it seemed fairly obvious to me that if enough people really believed that those rare stones might change their lives then they'd be in high demand. Fae who owned them would be secretive about them and guard them carefully. Plus they were damn rare in the first place. "It has come to my attention that a conspiracy has been taking place beneath our very noses," Father growled, allowing smoke to slip from his lips to showcase his Dragon for the crowd and cameras watching him. "A group of Fae have been stealing these precious stones and hoarding them away to make sure that their kind are the only ones to benefit from owning them. This group of Fae are all of one specific Order. A prey Order. The kind to seem inconspicuous, innocent, harmless even. And yet many members of their kind - if not all members of their kind have been quietly stealing these stones and using them to gain power and influence in their communities while robbing hard working, more powerful Fae of their rightful places above them." The crowd began to boo and shout for answers and I glanced beyond Roxy to Xavier, wondering if he had any idea what the fuck was happening here because I was getting the horrible feeling that I might just know, and I really didn't want to be right. My brother's eyes widened a fraction and he gave me the hint of a shrug as I turned my gaze back to watching my father as he riled up the crowd. "These Fae - no, these Rats, have been working to gather midnight amethysts for years. Slowly increasing their power and influence despite the fact that their very nature demands they stay at the bottom of the pecking order. And to prove to you that I am correct in this discovery, I have brought their leader here for you to see.

We are starting an uprising, Darcy. In the name of the rightful queens. The A.S.S. will unite and cast an unstoppable wind through this academy that will drive out the turds.” I snorted a laugh, but realised she was deadly serious and that analogy hadn’t been intentional. “Well obviously I’m up for any kind of Asscrux rebellion.” “We are stockpiling weapons, my lady. I have many an A.S.S. collecting Griffin droppings in the early morn, and I have taken a chaos crystal or two from the potions lab.” She grinned widely. “Leave it all with me, I shall build an underground army ready to follow you and Tory into the depths of hell and back again. I have also sent as many of our dear Tiberian Rat friends as I could to my father before they could be taken for inquisition.” “Is he helping them?” I whispered hopefully and she nodded. “He is leading them to secret burrows in the north,” she whispered though the silencing bubble would stop anyone from hearing anyway. “As well as creating a network of friends and allies to our great and noble cause who will be at your back the moment you are ready to make your play for the crown.

Ansel laughed. “Don’t worry,” she said, nestling down on her cloak. “I’ll tell you a valuable secret: the only way to kill a witch is to cut off her head. Besides, I don’t think an Ironteeth witch stands much of a chance against us.

Why are you so certain?” “Because you are his father,” he said. “And no matter what might lie between you, Aedion will always want to forgive you.” There it was, his own secret shame, still warring within him after all his father had done. Even after the trunk full of his mother’s letters. “And Aedion will realize, in his own way, that you went to save Aelin not for her sake or Rowan’s, but for his. And that you stayed with them, and march in this army, for his sake too.

Those songs were sacred to the court. Only those of noble blood ever learned or sang them. They were taught and sung in secret, their dead buried by the light of the moon, when no other ears could hear them.

We could start a secret society—for people who don’t sleep well.” “As long as Lorcan isn’t invited, I’m in.” Aelin huffed a laugh. “Let it go.” His face turned stony. “I said I would.” “You clearly haven’t.” “I’ll let it go when you stop running yourself ragged at dawn.” “I’m not running myself ragged. Rowan is overseeing it.” “Rowan is the only reason you’re not limping everywhere.

All beautiful grew, subtle and high and strange. Here on a boulder carved like a huge throne A Woman sat in gold and purple sheen, Armed with the trident and the thunderbolt, Her feet upon a couchant lion’s back. A formidable smile curved round her lips, Heaven-fire laughed in the corners of her eyes; Her body a mass of courage and heavenly strength, She menaced the triumph of the nether gods. A halo of lightnings flamed around her head And sovereignty a great cestus zoned her robe And majesty and victory sat with her Guarding in the wide cosmic battle-field Against the flat equality of Death And the all-levelling insurgent Night The hierarchy of the ordered Powers, The high changeless values, the peaked eminences, The privileged aristocracy of Truth, And in the governing Ideal’s sun The triumvirate of wisdom, love and bliss And the sole autocracy of the absolute Light. August on her seat in the inner world of Mind, The Mother of Might looked down on passing things, Listened to the advancing tread of Time, Saw the irresistible wheeling of the suns And heard the thunder of the march of God. 07.04_123:003-007

Celaena Sardothien wasn’t in league with Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. Celaena Sardothien was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir to the throne and rightful Queen of Terrasen. Celaena was Aelin Galathynius, the greatest living threat to Adarlan, the one person who could raise an army capable of standing against the king. Now, she was also the one person who knew the secret source of the king’s power—and who sought a way to destroy it. And he had just sent her into the arms of her strongest potential allies: to the homeland of her mother, the kingdom of her cousin, and the domain of her aunt, Queen Maeve of the Fae. Celaena was the lost Queen of Terrasen. Chaol sank to his knees.

- Can you keep secrets? - Yesss. - We are going to make one of the biggest coffeeshops in Barcelona with my boss, Adam. - Realllllly? - This Adam guy is kind of my friend and kind of my boss, but I don't trust him; he is a bad guy. “Bad to the bone.” His father is an even darker figure. I am pretty sure that both have killed before, hired to kill people. - I am from Buenos Airessss. - I understand honey but you don’t know this kind of people, these f…g desert roses. - There are Jewish people in Argentina too. - I am sure, baby, but these are not regular Jewish people, not regular Israeli people. These people are dark. Hocus-pocus. Criminal minds. Do you understand? - I guessss. - There are a lot of criminals in this town. They will try to take our club away, just like the Camorra is taking away other people's clubs. Just like that. Do you understand? - Yessss. - I know them; they are one of my clients. If there is anyone in the world who could make a deal with them, it would be me and Adam. He cannot cross me and I cannot cross him either. I would never do that. I am not sure about him though what is on his mind, I can tell there is something he is orchestrating I just don’t know what exactly, but he is as fishy as Sabrina. The problem is that only my ex-girlfriend knows about my signature on the non-profit organization, which is the base of the coffeeshop, the marijuana grow and the smoker club. Do you understand? - Yesssss. - We are talking about millions of Euros monthly cashflow. Do you understand? - Yesssss. - By telling you everything now, you are becoming my trusted; your life is in danger too if they manage to find a gap between us. Do you understand? - Yesssss. - I'm not sure what they're up to. They owe me already more money than anyone in this town would murder for. Do you understand? - Yesssss. - Now you know about it, too. Sabrina didn't care; she didn't think I would make it happen. She doesn’t know about the place. Only you know about it and us. But she will figure it out somehow; she will try to take your position, slipping between the criminals. Do you know how to play chess? - Not really. - OK then. Imagine this as a throne, these chairs you are sitting on top of. OK. No one can remove you from this throne being my girlfriend, no one can stand between us. No one can take the club away from us. They have no chance. Understand? - Yesss. - As long as you stick with me, she cannot do anything; no one can mess with us. Do you understand? - Yes. Everyone in the world would try to take your place, being my girlfriend, and they will try to push you out from this position, which only me I can give you, with Love. They will tell you lies about me and about themselves who’s club is it. Do you understand? - Yes. But why? - Because Rachel and Tom, the other two founding members of the club, Golan, I signed up with, are Adam's puppets. I don't trust any one of them. If they kill me, they never have to pay me what they owe me already, plus they can keep the 33% of the club which belongs to me. 100% Adam would keep. Do you understand now? - Yessss. - We will pull all the trash out and remodel the place without any permit, under the rug, in secret. - I sssseeee. (Eye. See.)

- Can you keep secrets? - Yesss. - We are going to make one of the biggest coffeeshops in Barcelona with my boss, Adam. - Realllllly? - This Adam guy is kind of my friend and kind of my boss, but I don't trust him; he is a bad guy. “Bad to the bone.” His father is an even darker figure. I am pretty sure that both have killed before, hired to kill people. - I am from Buenos Airessss. - I understand honey but you don’t know this kind of people, these f…g desert roses. - There are Jewish people in Argentina too. - I am sure, baby, but these are not regular Jewish people, not regular Israeli people. These people are dark. Hocus-pocus. Criminal minds. Do you understand? - I guessss. - There are a lot of criminals in this town. They will try to take our club away, just like the Camorra is taking away other people's clubs. Just like that. Do you understand? - Yessss. - I know them; they are one of my clients. If there is anyone in the world who could make a deal with them, it would be me and Adam. He cannot cross me and I cannot cross him either. I would never do that. I am not sure about him though what is on his mind, I can tell there is something he is orchestrating I just don’t know what exactly, but he is as fishy as Sabrina. The problem is that only my ex-girlfriend knows about my signature on the non-profit organization, which is the base of the coffeeshop, the marijuana grow and the smoker club. Do you understand? - Yesssss. - We are talking about millions of Euros monthly cashflow. Do you understand? - Yesssss. - By telling you everything now, you are becoming my trusted; your life is in danger too if they manage to find a gap between us. Do you understand? - Yesssss. - I'm not sure what they're up to. They owe me already more money than anyone in this town would murder for. Do you understand? - Yesssss. - Now you know about it, too. Sabrina didn't care; she didn't think I would make it happen. She doesn’t know about the place. Only you know about it and us. But she will figure it out somehow; she will try to take your position, slipping between the criminals. Do you know how to play chess? - Not really. - OK then. Imagine this as a throne, these chairs you are sitting on top of. OK. No one can remove you from this throne being my girlfriend, no one can stand between us. No one can take the club away from us. They have no chance. Understand? - Yesss. - As long as you stick with me, she cannot do anything; no one can mess with us. Do you understand? - Yesss. - Everyone in the world would try to take your place, being my girlfriend, and they will try to push you out from this position, which only me I can give you, with Love. They will tell you lies about me and about themselves who’s club is it. Do you understand? - Yes. But why? - Because Rachel and Tom, the other two founding members of the club, Golan, I signed up with, are Adam's puppets. I don't trust any one of them. If they kill me, they never have to pay me what they owe me already, plus they can keep the 33% of the club which belongs to me. 100% Adam would keep. Do you understand now? - Yessss. - We will pull all the trash out and remodel the place without any permit, under the rug, in secret. - I sssseeee. (Eye. See.)

Ocean eyes ghost over skin like the darkness of night. Pure artistry in the form of my broken pieces. Secrets and lies. Another tormented life. Her beauty is sacred, worthy of worship. A true empress of light to face endless depths of black. Will she come out victorious? Live a life upon the throne? Can her perfection survive the wrath of a devil in disguise? Or will her beauty be the devil’s demise? Can she be mine? A soul who is not worthy of redemption, With fingers riddled in blood and sin. Who stands stoic behind the gates of hell. Only to be brought to his knees by the kiss of an angel.

Thus, when the documents of 1483 and 1484 refer to Edward IV’s ‘precontract’ with Eleanor Talbot, they definitely mean his contract of marriage (which later became ‘pre-’ due to his bigamy with Elizabeth Woodville). As we have seen, the way in which Richard, Duke of Gloucester, handled the astonishing revelation made by Bishop Stillington was absolutely open and above-board. Nothing was done in secret. Since a formal Parliament had not yet been opened, the evidence was presented to ‘the three estates of the realm’, namely those members of the lords spiritual and temporal and the commons who had already gathered in London to form the projected 1483 Parliament at its planned opening. After considering the evidence, the three estates of the realm set aside Edward V as king on the grounds of his illegitimacy, and offered the throne to the next Prince of the Blood in the legal line of succession, namely Richard, Duke of Gloucester. This was how Gloucester became King Richard III. Moreover, the decision of the three estates was subsequently endorsed by a full Parliament. It is extremely difficult to see how this can possibly be described as a ‘usurpation’.

We could start a secret society--for people who don't sleep well.

Tell me what’s going on,” I said. “I’ll not risk being branded a traitor as well as a magic carrier.” The Captain put his elbow on the table and rested his chin against the heel of his palm. He spoke through his fingers, his voice a muffled growl. “I’ll tell you what you need to know. But I can’t do it alone. We keep a council.” Be wary, the Nightmare said, stringing his words like spider silk in my ears. The yew tree is cunning, its shadow unknown. It bends without breaking, its secrets its own. Look past twisting branches, dig deep to its bones. Is it Providence Cards he seeks—or is it the throne? I turned to Ravyn, emboldened. “You must tell me everything.” He raised a brow, glaring down his long nose at me. “There are things I have to do—” “You want my magic?” I said, cutting off the Captain of the Destriers. “Call your council. I want the truth. Now.

Yew, the trees said together. The pale alder shifted closer to Ravyn. The yew tree is cunning, its shadow unknown. It bends without breaking, its secrets its own. Look past twisting branches, the dark alder called, dig deep to its bones. Is it the Twin Alders you seek—or is it the throne? The Nightmare’s hands were rigid, clawlike, at his sides. “Answer them,” he told Ravyn. Ravyn pulled in ragged breaths. “I seek the Twin Alders Card to unite the Deck.” To lift the mist, said the dark alder. To heal the infection, said the other. Ravyn nodded. Then you must ask the Spirit herself for

two brief, classic prayers written by Thomas Cranmer for the Church of England’s first Book of Common Prayer: Almighty and most merciful Father, we have erred and strayed from Your ways, like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devises and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against Your holy laws. We have left undone those things that we ought to have done, and we have done those things that we ought not to have done, and there is no health in us. But You, O Lord, have mercy upon us miserable offenders. Spare those, O God, who confess their faults! Restore those who are penitent according to Your promises declared to mankind in Christ Jesus our Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for His sake, that we may hereafter live godly, righteous, and sober lives to the glory of Your holy name. Amen. Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid: cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of Your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love You and worthily magnify Your holy name through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Even on the highest throne in the world, we are still sitting on our ass. —Michel de Montaigne O

Murtaugh Allsbrook and his riders spread the news like wildfire. Down every road, over every river, to the north and south and west, through snow and rain and mist, their hooves churning up the dust of each kingdom. And for every town they told, every tavern and secret meeting, more riders went out. More and more, until there was not a road they had not covered, until there was not one soul who did not know that Aelin Galathynius was alive—and willing to stand against Adarlan. Across the White Fangs and the Ruhnns, all the way to the Western Wastes and the red-haired queen who ruled from a crumbling castle. To the Deserted Peninsula and the oasis-fortress of the Silent Assassins. Hooves, hooves, hooves, echoing through the continent, sparking against cobblestones, all the way to Banjali and the riverfront palace of the King and Queen of Eyllwe, still in their midnight mourning clothes. Hold on, the riders told the world. Hold on.

Aedion shifted on his pallet of moldy hay and bit back his bark of agony at the pain exploding along his ribs. Worse—worse by the day. His diluted Fae blood was the only thing that had kept him alive this long, trying desperately to heal him, but soon even the immortal grace in his veins would bow to the infection. It would be such a relief—such a blessed relief to know he couldn’t be used against her, and that he would soon see those he had secretly harbored in his shredded heart all these years. So he bore down on every spike of fever, every roiling fit of nausea and pain. Soon—soon Death would come to greet him. Aedion just hoped Death arrived before Aelin did.

By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named Night, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule— From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of Space—out of Time. Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover … For the spirit that walks in shadow ’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not—dare not openly view it; Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eyes unclosed; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

I knelt in front of the throne as the crown was lowered onto my head. The crowd that filled the royal courtyard gave a half-hearted cheer. I could sense their pain and confusion. They had not been given enough time to mourn—none of us had. My mother’s death had come too soon, and nobody had been prepared.

At the end, he insists in both cases on secrecy. He’s reached the point where it’s vital that word doesn’t leak out. If his kingdom-mission is becoming more explicitly a Messiah-mission, this really is dangerous. He must do what he has to do swiftly and secretly. In between, both stories tell of a two-stage process of illumination. The blind man sees people, but they look like trees walking about; the crowds see Jesus, but they think he’s just a prophet. (If you want to get a good picture of how Jesus appeared to his contemporaries, forget ‘gentle Jesus, meek and mild’ and read the stories of John the Baptist, Elijah and the other great prophets: fearless men of God who spoke out against evil and injustice, and brought hope to God’s puzzled and suffering people.) Then, as it were with a second touch, Jesus faces the disciples themselves with the question. Now at last their eyes are opened. They have understood about the loaves, and all the other signs. ‘You’re the Messiah!’ Peter speaks for them all. It’s vital for us to be clear at this point. Calling Jesus ‘Messiah’ doesn’t mean calling him ‘divine’, let alone ‘the second person of the Trinity’. Mark believes Jesus was and is divine, and will eventually show us why; but this moment in the gospel story is about something else. It’s about the politically dangerous and theologically risky claim that Jesus is the true King of Israel, the final heir to the throne of David, the one before whom Herod Antipas and all other would-be Jewish princelings are just shabby little impostors. The disciples weren’t expecting a divine redeemer; they were longing for a king. And they thought they’d found one. Nor was it only Herod who might be suspicious. In Jesus’ day there was a prominent temple in Caesarea Philippi to the newest pagan ‘god’ – the Roman Emperor himself. A Messiah announcing God’s kingdom was a challenge to Rome itself. As

He lifted himself again, peering into her eyes. “I don’t want you to think I’m agreeing to keep it secret because I’m ashamed in any way.” “Who said anything about shame?” She gestured down to her naked body, even though it was covered by the blanket. “Honestly, I’m surprised you’re not strutting about, boasting to everyone. I certainly would be if I’d tumbled me.” “Does your love for yourself know no bounds?” “Absolutely none.

She touched the ancient strands, marveling at the hue, so deep that it seemed to swallow her fingers in its darkness. The hair on the back of her neck rose, and Celaena put a hand on her dagger as she pulled the tapestry aside. She swore. And swore again. Another secret door greeted her.

She gritted her teeth. “You have experience—you are needed here. You are the only person who can give the demi-Fae a chance of surviving; you are trusted and respected. So I am staying. Because you are needed, and because I will follow you to whatever end.” And if the creatures devoured her body and soul, then she would not mind. She had earned that fate. For a long moment, he said nothing. But his brows narrowed slightly. “To whatever end?” She nodded. He had not needed to mention the massacres, had not needed to try to console her. He knew—he understood without her having to say a word—what it was like. Her magic thrummed in her blood, wanting out, wanting more. But it would wait—it had to wait until it was time. Until she had Narrok and his creatures in her sight. She realized that Rowan saw each of those thoughts and more as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a dagger. Her dagger. He extended it to her, its long blade gleaming as if he’d been secretly polishing and caring for it these months. And when she grasped the dagger, its weight lighter than she remembered, Rowan looked into her eyes, into the very core of her, and said, “Fireheart.

[From our side] our relation to God is unrighteous. Secretly we are ourselves the masters in this relationship. We are not concerned with God, but with our own requirements, to which God must adjust Himself. Our arrogance demands that, in addition to everything else, some super-world should also be known and accessible to us. Our conduct calls for some deeper sanction, some approbation and remuneration from another world. Our well-regulated, pleasurable life longs for some hours of devotion, some prolongation into infinity. And so, when we set God upon the throne of the world, we mean by God ourselves. In “believing” on Him, we justify, enjoy, and adore ourselves.

even I know that she’s conniving. As much as I wish I could trust her word at face value, her actions my entire life won’t allow me to be that naive. “If

of the birthright of Lord Rudra’s successors.’ Shiva was getting increasingly uncomfortable. ‘Now that Lord Rudra’s successor is here, it is time for him to ascend the throne of Kashi,’ continued Athithigva. ‘It will be my honour to serve you, My Lord.’ Shiva almost choked on a combination of

King Tiernan scowled at the mess his father had gotten him into...all because the heartless man had to die. Hawk fae kings were to immediately marry as soon as they were seated on the throne and a suitable bride could be found... Legend had it that the queen always met an early death - ordered by the king himself, although it was said that a secret order of assassins was given the task. Why? Because two sons or a son and a daughter could fight over ruling the kingdom. Civil war could ensue. So best to ensure the queen only had one offspring. And then, she no longer was needed.

Which Sofia is probably already referring to as the first-born male heir to the throne.”  She snorted and scuffed at the sidewalk with the toe of one knee-high boot.  “Like I care if I don’t inherit Dad’s business.  I want to be a forensic psychologist, that’s why I’m going to university.  I’m not a bloody Kardashian, living off my father’s fame.”  “I doubt there’s a Kardashian who can even spell the word ‘psychologist,’” Kira said, in an attempt at dry humor to lighten Emily’s mood.  She shot a sideways glance at her friend and noted with some triumph – going by the smile that curled Emily’s bowed lips – it had worked.  She tossed her head.  “Come on.  Let’s head over to The Kiosk and get some coffee.  I’ll share my notes from class so you’re all caught up.” “Ta,” Emily said.  “And thanks for letting me bitch about my stepmother and my father’s joke of a marriage to that beastly woman.

Secrets, like tyrants, have influence that extends far beyond their own thrones. To silence their oppressive powers, they must be uncrowned.

then the Israelite’s secret weapon was brought to the fore of the lines: The Ark of the Covenant. The gold plated box glittered in the sun. It was carried on its poles by priests and accompanied by the high priest Eleazer. Caleb rose and Eleazer pronounced a benediction on him. “Caleb ben Jephunneh, Yahweh is with you! Yahweh is with Israel! Trust in him with all your heart and lean not on your own strength, but upon the Spirit of Yahweh Elohim! He will fight for you! Be strong and courageous! Do not fear this Seed of the Serpent!” Caleb turned to address the soldiers with Othniel proudly by his side. “Let all of Israel stand in awe and wonder, for our god will deliver us!” The men cheered. They believed him for the moment, as all good soldiers do. “Shout to the Lord and praise his name before the shadow of thine enemies!” The army of Yahweh responded with a shout that rang throughout the valley in such thunderous unison that it was now the Anakim’s turn to have their confidence shaken. It was a predetermined praise of Yahweh that they had been taught. And it almost sounded like the indomitable voices of the Seraphim before the throne of Yahweh, the sound of many voices as one.

The Son of Man leaned close, giving more counsel to Enoch It amounted to revealing the mystery of good news that would be hidden for ages until the end of days. This secret held the answer to the Accuser’s charge. Enoch then realized that the Accuser’s final trick was more than rhetoric, he was trying to force Yahweh Elohim’s hand to reveal the mystery. So that is what this was all about, he thought. The Watchers and all their principalities and powers in the heavenly places were trying to use a legal maneuver to draw out Yahweh Elohim’s secret in order to defend himself. If this secret were unveiled, they hoped to have the means by which they could defeat the Seed of Eve. This Accuser is cunning indeed. Enoch stood at the bar. He knew this would require the utmost of his highest apkallu skills. How to answer the Accuser’s charge without revealing the mystery of ages before its time. He spoke with a measured tempo, “Sin came into the world through one man. Death came through sin. So death spread to all men because all sinned. Death reigns from Adam unto this very day, even over those whose sinning was not like the transgression of Adam, because Adam is the federal representative head of the human race. Just as all the inhabitants of the city of Erech would suffer for the illegal actions of its representative head of state,” Enoch stared accusingly at Semjaza, “or benefit from the righteousness of that federal head. So the blessings and curses of the progenitor of the human race would be attributed to those whom he represents. It is the nature of authority and representation used even by those who seek to discredit it in this courtroom. If the Accuser does not like that, then he will have to file another injunction against all the blessings received by the human race as well. The defense rests its case.” Enoch sat back down to await the summary judgment before the throne of the Almighty Judge of the universe.

Are you conscious of a growing failure of your bodily powers? Do you expect to suffer long nights of languishing and days of pain? O be not sad! That bed may become a throne to you. You little know how every pang that shoots through your body may be a refining fire to consume your dross--a beam of glory to light up the secret parts of your soul. Are the eyes growing dim? Jesus will be your light. Do the ears fail you? Jesus' name will be your soul's best music, and His person your dear delight. Socrates used to say, "Philosophers can be happy without music;" and Christians can be happier than philosophers when all outward causes of rejoicing are withdrawn. In Thee, my God, my heart shall triumph, come what may of ills without! By thy power, O blessed Spirit, my heart shall be exceeding glad, though all things should fail me here below.

THE CORPSE ME” My anger is like the devils den My sorrow is like the game of thrones My happiness is the king of the jungle My laugh is like a golden locket My eyes are the deepness of secrets My heart is like the closet of unfortunate events My tears are like the daggers falling to the ground My love is frozen as ice And no where to roll my dice

God’s will that the affairs of humankind be managed via partnership with Him goes back to the beginning. He has indicated His desire to release His power in our world when we request it from His throne.

A WHILE BACK, a game designer friend of mine named Phil Fish made a plea on Twitter, “Hey bloggers, no more ‘blank rebuilt in Minecraft’ posts, please. We get it. You can make things in Minecraft. Thanks.” Fish was referring to the popular online game Minecraft, in which players hunt for resources that are used to construct models and apparatuses with the game’s characteristic, cubical visual style. The Internet being what it is, given such tools extreme fans do insane things, like elaborately reconstructing the city King’s Landing from Game of Thrones using nothing but this square matter mined from Minecraft. Seeing Fish’s tweet, an enterprising ironoiac recreated the form of the embedded tweet itself inside Minecraft, a fact that the tech blog VentureBeat then dutifully blogged about, thus completing not one but two cycles of an ironoia self-treatment the environmental philosopher Timothy Morton names “anything you can do I can do meta.”14 In a futile attempt to prevent further metastasis, the blogger concluded his post with the line, “Yes, we’re fully aware of the irony of this post.”15 But rather than satisfying anyone, such a provocation only further irritated the ironoiac itch. Fish tweeted a link to the blog post covering the Minecraft construction of a model of Fish’s tweet protesting blog posts about Minecraft constructions, which one of his followers one-upped by observing the fact that Fish had in fact “tweeted about somebody blogging about somebody making [his] tweet about Minecraft in Minecraft.” Another chimed in, “How long ’til someone recreates that blog post in Minecraft?” Each step represents an attempt to overcome the absurdity of the last by fixing it in a new voice, even though each ironic gesture was evanescent, quickly replaced by yet another layer of buffer from yet another desperate ironoiac. Why do we do it, then? Today, satisfaction is more elusive than ever. In part, the precarity of life after the 2008 global financial collapse and the Great Recession that followed it (and whose effects still linger) makes every transaction with the world feel suspect and risky. We fear that things might turn on us, because we have good evidence that they can, and do. But

The popular Revolution was the surface of a volcano of foreign conspiracies. The Constituent Assembly, a senate by day, was by night a collection of factions which prepared the policy and artifices of the morrow. Affairs had a double intention; one ostensibly and gracefully coloured, the other secret, leading to hidden results contrary to the interests of the people. They made war on the nobility, the guilty friend of the Bourbons, in order to pave the way to the throne for Orleans. One sees at each step the efforts of this party to ruin the Court, its enemy, and to preserve royalty, but the loss of one entailed the other; no royalty can exist without a patriciate.

The popular Revolution was the surface of a volcano of foreign conspiracies. The Constituent Assembly, a senate by day, was by night a collection of factions which prepared the policy and artifices of the morrow. Affairs had a double intention; one ostensibly and gracefully coloured, the other secret, leading to hidden results contrary to the interests of the people. They made war on the nobility, the guilty friend of the Bourbons, in order to pave the way to the throne for Orleans. One sees at each step the efforts of this party to ruin the Court, its enemy, and to preserve royalty, but the loss of one entailed the other; no royalty can exist without a patriciate.

The popular Revolution was the surface of a volcano of foreign conspiracies. The Constituent Assembly, a senate by day, was by night a collection of factions which prepared the policy and artifices of the morrow. Affairs had a double intention; one ostensibly and gracefully coloured, the other secret, leading to hidden results contrary to the interests of the people. They made war on the nobility, the guilty friend of the Bourbons, in order to pave the way to the throne for Orleans. One sees at each step the efforts of this party to ruin the Court, its enemy, and to preserve royalty, but the loss of one entailed the other; no royalty can exist without a patriciate.

The son of Hades, cavern-runners’ friend, Must show the secret way unto the throne. On Nero’s own your lives do now depend.

President Barack Obama would hit up HBO chief Richard Plepler for advance copies of Thrones episodes, even top secret season finales. And he got them.

What ties Tantra to Sûfîsm is contained in the symbolism of Prophet Muhammad's nighttime ascent to Heaven. The Prophet ascended on al-Burâq, a riding beast with the head of a woman, through the seven heavens to the Throne of God. Hadith relates that the Prophet's bed was still warm when he returned from the Mi'râj. On this night, the Prophet Muhammad (Peace be upon him) reached within 'two bows' length' of Allâh. The secret Sufic explanation of the fact that the Prophet's bed was still warm, is that Muhammad (Peace be upon him) was making this journey while having sexual intercourse with his wife Khadijah.

They’re two of a kind.” Eric eyed the sorcerer. Maybe, he thought. But there was something else in Sparr’s look as he gazed from the throne. It was almost as if … No, it couldn’t be…. Sparr, can you hear me? Salamandra spoke again. “I have learned the riddles of the ancient rulers of earth and sea. I have stolen the great magics of every age. And yet you, Lord Sparr of Droon, have told me a tale of a Dark Stair and of a great magic that lies hidden in another time….” Sparr did not rise from the throne. “As we agreed,” he said, “I shall use your time portal to find it. And you shall take whatever magic remains —

By the late eighteenth century, those in power were getting younger – George III acceded to the throne aged twenty-two, and Pitt the Younger became prime minister at twenty-four.

When her eyes found his, she forgot about the cold, and the moon, and the glass palace looming above them. The secret library and the king’s plans and Mort and Elena faded into nothing. She took his hand, and there was only the music and Chaol.