She laughed bitterly. “He’s not a boy. He’s a wound in armor. His father is dead. His mother is a ghost. And the Saxons are three days from the shore.”
Brett looked at the boy who would be king, at Morgaine with her sea-gray eyes, at the territory that had almost been unmade by doubt. pendragon cycle brett cooper
Brett felt his ring grow warm. The flume was opening—not in the forest, but in Arthur’s chest. A flume made of faith. She laughed bitterly
“Neither are you, if those clothes are any clue,” Brett replied, nodding at the fine, almost anachronistic stitching on her tunic. at Morgaine with her sea-gray eyes