Love is one of the true mysteries,’ he said at last. ‘The truest and the deepest of all. One thing, Maerad: to love is never wrong. It may be disastrous; it may never be possible; it may be the deepest agony. But it is never wrong.
You have a great heart, but will only find it to be so through great pain. This is the wisdom of love, and its doubtful gift. . . . I have endured much suffering and still remain unbitter and unclosed.
It is good to dress in fair clothes to dine with friends. It honors your host, if you are a guest; and your guest if you are a host. And both adorn the feast, and so celebrate the gifts of the world.
And all meet in singing, which braids together the different knowings into a wide and subtle music, the music of living.
…she felt as if her entire body were glowing with the taste of sunlight, of wind blowing in wide spaces and trees reaching their burdened arms to boundless skies.
As every reader knows in his or her heart, there is much more to truth than mere fact.
Your future is uncertain, and I can tell you nothing that can help you. You are singular and dangerous, and so it is that you are sought by both the Dark and the Light.
We are all mistaken sometimes; sometimes we do wrong things, things that have bad consequences. But it does not mean we are evil, or that we cannot be trusted ever afterward.
Old friend,’ said Cadvan, filling another glass for himself and sniffing its rich smell. ‘If we do not trust one another, we are already defeated.
The risk of all friendship is, alas, a little grief.
Not even I can see all ends, but I have been in this world long enough to know that a choice is not choice and breeds slow ills, even were it done for the highest reasons.
She ached: oh, how she ached. Her soul was like one big bruise.
The only good thing about being frightened half to death, she thought, is that it makes me forget all about being seasick.
The weather was clear and still, and the countless stars opened above them, seeming like brilliant cold fruits that Maerad could simply pick out of the sky.
…only more keenly aware of how her soul starved within her, its wings wasting with the despair of disuse.