"Migration can be triggered by the angle of sunlight, indicating a change in season, temperature, plant life, and food supply. Female monarchs lay eggs along the route. Every history has more than one thread, each thread a story of division. The journey takes four thousand eight hundred and thirty miles, more than the length of this country. The monarchs that fly south will not make it back north. Each departure, then, is final. Only their children return; only the future revisits the past."
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But when I return
I pity those who seek
the dross of the world.
If you doubt my words,
consider the fish and birds.
Fish do not hate the water.
But then, none can know
the happiness of the fish
unless he is one.
Birds love the woods.
If you are not a bird
you will not know its truths.
A quiet life is much the same.
How would anyone know it
without living it?
The moon
of my life is setting.
The life now left me
sinks into the hills.
Any time now
I may descend
to the darkness
of the river below.
Sayfa 58 - [Ama geri döndüğümde dünyanın posasını arayanlara acıyorum. Eğer sözlerimden şüphe duyarsan, balıkları ve kuşları düşün. Balıklar sudan nefret etmez. Ama yine de, hiç kimse bilemez [35] balığın mutluluğunu balık olmadıkça. Kuşlar ormanları sever. Eğer kuş·Kitabı okudu
Reklam
Kalyth stared up at the dragon. ‘When you are finally freed, then perhaps your “other” will return, to engage with you once more. In that eternal battle.’ But even then, this scheme had failed before. It would fail again, because it was flawed—something was wrong, something was… broken. ‘Forces in opposition, yes, that I do understand. And we each play our roles. We each fashion our “others” and chart the course of our lives as that eternal campaign, seasons of gain, seasons of loss. Battles and wounds and triumphs and bitter defeats. In comforts we fashion our strongholds. In convictions we occupy our fortifications. In violence we forge our peace. In peace, we win desolation.’
See you next book
Fight it, he willed her, sending the words down the bond—the mating
bond, which perhaps had settled into place that first moment they’d become
carranam, hidden beneath flame and ice and hope for a better future. Fight
her. I am coming for you. Even if it takes me a thousand years. I will find
you, I will find you, I will find you.
Only salt and wind and water answered him.
Rowan rose to his feet. And slowly turned to face them.
But their attention snagged on the ships now sailing out of the west—
from the battle site. His cousins’ ships, with what remained of the fleet
Ansel of Briarcliff had won for them, and Rolfe’s three ships.
But it was not those boats that made him pause.
It was the one that rounded the eastern tip of the land—a longboat. It
swept closer on a phantom wind, too fast to be natural.
Rowan braced himself. The boat’s shape didn’t belong to any of the
fleets assembled. But its style nagged at his memory.
From their own fleet, Ansel of Briarcliff and Enda were soaring over the
waves in a longboat, aiming for this beach.
But Rowan and the others watched in silence as the foreign boat crested
through the surf and slid onto the sand.
Watched the olive-skinned sailors haul it up the beach. A broadshouldered young man nimbly leaped out, his slightly curling dark hair
tossed in the sea breeze.
He did not emit a whiff of fear as he stalked for them—didn’t even go
for the comforting touch of the fine sword at his side.
“Where is Aelin Galathynius?” the stranger asked a bit breathlessly as
he scanned them.
And his accent …
“Who are you,” Rowan ground out.
But the young man was now close enough that Rowan could see the
color of his eyes. Turquoise—with a core of gold.
Aedion breathed as if in a trance, “Galan.”
How is this rational?
Darrow ignored her and jerked his chin at Aedion. “You’re rather quiet
tonight.”
“I don’t think you particularly want to hear my thoughts right now,
Darrow,” Aedion replied.
“Your blood oath is stolen by a foreign prince, your queen is an assassin
who appoints common whores to serve her, and yet you have nothing to
say?”
Aedion’s chair groaned, and Aelin dared a look—to find him gripping
the sides of it so hard his knuckles were white.
Lysandra, though stiff-backed, did not give Darrow the pleasure of
blushing with shame.
And she was done. Sparks danced at her fingertips beneath the table.
But Darrow went on before Aelin could speak or incinerate the room.
“Perhaps, Aedion, if you hope to still gain an official position in Terrasen,
you could see if your kin in Wendlyn have reconsidered the betrothal
proposition of so many years ago. See if they’ll recognize you as family.
What a difference it might have made, if you and our beloved Princess
Aelin had been betrothed—if Wendlyn had not rejected the offer to formally
unite our kingdoms, likely at Maeve’s behest.” A smile in Rowan’s
direction.
Her world tilted a bit. Even Aedion had paled. No one had ever hinted
that there had been an official attempt at betrothing them. Or that the
Ashryvers had truly left Terrasen to war and ruin.
“Whatever will the adoring masses say of their savior princess,” Darrow
mused, putting his hands flat on the table, “when they hear of how she has
spent her time while they suffered?” A slap in the face, one after another.
“But,” Darrow added, “you’ve always been good at whoring yourself out,
Aedion. Though I wonder if Princess Aelin knows what—”
Aelin lunged.
Not with flame, but steel.
To Him
“I’m not sure how much time we have,” I say. “And like you said, I’m
forged from your blood and bones, the daughter of a king. You said I will
crush my enemies. Remember?”
He nods slowly, the sun glinting in his golden eyes. “And what are you
proposing?”
“I don’t know yet. I can’t go back to Camelot. I can’t go to
Brocéliande.”
He takes a step closer, keenly interested. “And yet?”
“I won’t sit here rotting while Wrythe slaughters the Fey. We are their
protectors. You their king, and me their Lady of the Lake.”
He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “Good. Good. Morgan would not sit
idly by, either, but what if you did return to Brocéliande?”
My eyebrows rise. “I tricked the portal guards once, but next time,
they’ll be ready. Talan surely told everyone I’m a spy. They’ll be looking
for me now. They’ll murder me the second I step out of the portal.”
Mordred stares out the window at the lake, thinking deeply. He’s
wearing a dark cape trimmed with lush, black fur that frames his head like a
lion’s mane. “It might interest you to know there are no guards on the ley
portal. No one’s there to kill you.”
I tilt my head, curiosity blooming. “There aren’t? I thought Talan
would’ve made sure I couldn’t come back. Why wouldn’t he guard the
portal?”
He shrugs. “I still have a moth in Brocéliande. I can’t tell you why it’s
unguarded, only that it is.”
“Seriously?” I stare at him, and my heart flutters. “Maybe I can find
what’s left of the resistance. Brados is still there, from The Shadowed
Thicket.”
“Didn’t the resistance nearly kill you?”
“Yes, but now I’m sure that Wrythe gave them the wrong information.
He wants me dead. If I can connect to the resistance, then maybe I can take
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