Sigefrith sees his father
Sigefrith immediately forgot the troubling conversation of the stairwell and squealed like a child: “Tryggve! Njal!”
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Flann makes a mew
Araphel did not know what Flann had meant by the words “see what Liadan thinks”, but her tone had been ominous. Still, he was so desperate to see his daughter that he would have gone even had he suspected she would be the last thing he would ever see.
Araphel speaks, and Flann hears
“You came…”
After her first hesitation, Flann strode towards him with such self-assurance that he was convinced that she meant to walk directly into his arms.
Araphel sees a miracle not his
Now that they had stopped shaking and clenching and sweating, Araphel lifted his hands to the candles.
At some angles the pads of his palms and fingers were half-gilded with light, but to light them fully he had to turn them away from his face. Then his hands were but dark shadows rimmed by a halo that was not his, with only the dull glow of the web of skin beside his thumb to remind him that he was not entirely a void.
Aelfden takes her
The baby was sobbing so hard she sometimes skipped a breath, and then she would panic and fling out her quivering arms, rigid and eerily silent until the time for the next breath came, and she would scream and begin again. Aelfden had heard her from one end of the cloister to the other.
Flann stumbles and falls again
Flann had been running. She was breathless and panting, her throat was ragged from gulping cold air, and when she tried to sit up, her knees shook spastically beneath the tented blankets.
Flann sees no
There was nothing about pregnancy that Catan did not love.
Her fatigue offered her an excuse to retire to the solitude of her room and dream about her baby. Her morning nausea had permitted her to lie an extra hour in her warm bed and nibble on toast—and dream about her baby—and her swollen feet allowed her to do no more work than sitting by the fire and sewing—and dreaming about her baby.
Sweetdew learns what company she's in
The western wind had swept the empty road bare, but Sweetdew trotted purposefully down the center of it, aligning her course between the parallel ruts of wheels and stepping daintily over the half-moon prints of hooves.
Alred wields his words
Alred was a poet and a swordsman both. He could tell at a glance the weight and heft of a word and could judge the sharpness of its edge. He could hear the clanging echoes of past strokes in the discordant voices of privately angry men, and he could even measure the menace of words kept sheathed and unspoken.
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“The best I can do is to speak plainly and use a good many big words.”
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