Humouress humming on in 2022 - 3

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September
✔  39) King of the Murgos by David Eddings (1988)
 38) Lady Susan by Jane Austen (1795)
 37) The Trouble with Kings by Sherwood Smith
✔       36) The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea by Jane Linfoot (2016)

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August
✔     35) Over the Sea by Sherwood Smith (2007)
✔     34) The Windsor Knot by SJ Bennet (2020)
✔  33) Fireborne by Rosaria Munda (2019)
✔     32) See You Yesterday by Rachel Lynn Solomon (2022)
✔       31) We Can't Keep Meeting Like This by Rachel Lynn Solomon (2021)
✔  30) The Stranger Times by C.K. McDonnell (2021)
✔  29) Guardians of the West by David Eddings (1987)

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July
✔       28) Under One Roof by Ali Hazelwood (2022)
✔     27) The Clergyman's Wife by Molly Greeley (2019)
✔  26) The Great Hunt by Robert Jordan (1991)
✔     25) Beach Read by Emily Henry (2020)

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June
✔  24) Enchanter's End Game by David Eddings (1985)
✔     23) Eggsistential Thoughts by Gudetama the Lazy Egg by Francesco Sedita (2013)
✔       22) Red, White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston (2021)
✔     21) The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett (2020)

May
✔       20) Just a Heartbeat Away by Cara Bastone (2020)
 19) The Merciful Crow by Margaret Owen (2019)
 18) Caraval by Stephanie Garber
 17) When We First Met by Cara Bastone

April
 16) Castle of Wizardry by David Eddings (1984)
 15) The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
 14) A Brief History of Montmaray by Michelle Cooper
✔  13) Gordon Ramsay Quick and Delicious by Gordon Ramsay

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March

 12) Today, Tonight, Tomorrow by Rachel Lynn Solomon (2020)
 11) Fireborne by Rosaria Munda (2019)
 10) Magician's Gambit by David Eddings
✔  9) Queen of Sorcery by David Eddings (1984)

February

✔       8) The Maid by Nita Prose (2022)
✔     7) The Serpent's Shadow by Mercedes Lackey (2001)
✔     6) Irresistible Forces edited by Catherine Asaro (2004)
✔     5) On Salads by Sue Lawrence (1999)
✔       4) You Had Me at Hola by Alexis Daria (2020)
✔  3) A Sword Named Truth by Sherwood Smith (2019)

January

✔  2) Pawn of Prophecy by David Eddings (1982)
✔     1) The Oathbound by Mercedes Lackey (1988)

‘Life is very unsettling with ta'veren for friends'

"I don't know how humans do it but among Ogier. ... If a girl sees a boy she likes, she goes to her mother. Or sometimes the mother sees someone she thinks is suitable. In any case, if they agree, the girl's mother goes to the boy's mother, and the next thing the boy knows, his marriage is all arranged."
"Doesn’t the boy have any say in it?" Mat asked incredulously.
...
Mat gave a guffaw loud enough to draw every head, but at Loial’s frantic gesture he spoke softly. "Among us, men do the choosing’
...
Rand frowned, remembering how Egwene had begun following them around when they were both little. It was then that Mistress al’Vere had begun taking a special interest in him …

"I think we do it the same way," he muttered, and when Mat laughed, he added, "Do you remember your father ever doing anything your mother really didn't want him to?" Mat opened his mouth with a grin, then frowned thoughtfully and closed it again.

"Loial, I mean to ride as hard as I can, and if I ride Red to death, I'll buy another horse, or steal another, if I have to."

There was a scraping sound from over Rand's head, and then Loial was letting himself down from the wall.' The Ogier did not even have to straighten his arms completely before his boots touched the ground. "Rash," he muttered. "You humans are always so rash and hasty. And now you have me doing it. Elder Haman would speak to me severely, and my mother..." The darkness hid his face, but Rand was sure his ears were twitching vigorously. "Rand, if you don't start being a little careful, you are going to get me in trouble."

There was a scraping sound from over Rand's head, and then Loial was letting himself down from the wall.' The Ogier did not even have to straighten his arms completely before his boots touched the ground. "Rash," he muttered. "You humans are always so rash and hasty. And now you have me doing it. Elder Haman would speak to me severely, and my mother..." The darkness hid his face, but Rand was sure his ears were twitching vigorously. "Rand, if you don't start being a little careful, you are going to get me in trouble."

"Loial, I mean to ride as hard as I can, and if I ride Red to death, I'll buy another horse, or steal another, if I have to."

"I don't know how humans do it but among Ogier. ... If a girl sees a boy she likes, she goes to her mother. Or sometimes the mother sees someone she thinks is suitable. In any case, if they agree, the girl's mother goes to the boy's mother, and the next thing the boy knows, his marriage is all arranged."
"Doesn’t the boy have any say in it?" Mat asked incredulously.
...
Mat gave a guffaw loud enough to draw every head, but at Loial’s frantic gesture he spoke softly. "Among us, men do the choosing, and no wife can stop a man doing what he wants.’
...
Rand frowned, remembering how Egwene had begun following them around when they were both little. It was then that Mistress al’Vere had begun taking a special interest in him …

"I think we do it the same way," he muttered, and when Mat laughed, he added, "Do you remember your father ever doing anything your mother really didn't want him to?" Mat opened his mouth with a grin, then frowned thoughtfully and closed it again.

‘Life is very unsettling with ta‘veren for friends‘

If you thought that was an emergency, you should have seen the blizzard you touched off in the Vale with your foolishness - and the hurricanes it spawned in the Sea of the East - not to mention the droughts and tornados you kicked up all over the world. Don't you have any sense of responsibility at all?'
'I didn't know it was going to do that.' Garion was aghast.
'Boy, it's your business to know!' Belgarath suddenly roared at him, his face mottled with rage. 'It's taken Beldin and me six months of constant travel and the Gods only know how much effort to quiet things down. Do you realize that with that one thoughtless storm of yours you came very close to changing the weather patterns of the entire globe? And that the change would have been a universal disaster?'
'One tiny little storm?'
'Yes, one tiny little storm,' Belgarath said scathingly. 'Your one tiny little storm in the right place at the right time came very close to altering the weather for the next several eons - all over the world - you blockhead!'
'Grandfather,' Garion protested.
'Do you know what the term ice age means?'

Thou must have with thee as well the Guide and the Man with Two Lives - and one other whom I will reveal to thee. Thou wilt be joined at some later times by others - the Huntress, the Man Who Is No Man, the Empty One, and by the Woman Who Watches.'

If you thought that was an emergency, you should have seen the blizzard you touched off in the Vale with your foolishness - and the hurricanes it spawned in the Sea of the East - not to mention the droughts and tornados you kicked up all over the world. Don't you have any sense of responsibility at all?'
'I didn't know it was going to do that.' Garion was aghast.
'Boy, it's your business to know!' Belgarath suddenly roared at him, his face mottled with rage. 'It's taken Beldin and me six months of constant travel and the Gods only know how much effort to quiet things down. Do you realize that with that one thoughtless storm of yours you came very close to changing the weather patterns of the entire globe? And that the change would have been a universal disaster?'
'One tiny little storm?'
'Yes, one tiny little storm,' Belgarath said scathingly. 'Your one tiny little storm in the right place at the right time came very close to altering the weather for the next several eons - all over the world - you blockhead!'
'Grandfather,' Garion protested.
'Do you know what the term ice age means?'

Thou must have with thee as well the Guide and the Man with Two Lives - and one other whom I will reveal to thee. Thou wilt be joined at some later times by others - the Huntress, the Man Who Is No Man, the Empty One, and by the Woman Who Watches.'

Hannah turned to the reception desk for Grace, but she must have nipped off somewhere while the last gentlemen was explaining how he was haunted by the ghost of Macbeth, the fictional character.
'Ehm, sir,' said Hannah to the dreadlocked interloper, 'what are you doing?'
He lifted the mug in his hand and gave her a cheery smile. 'We just need milk for we cup of tea.'
'But, sir, you're not wearing any pants.'
He ambled into the kitchen just off reception, shouting back over his shoulder, 'S'alrite, chile. We don't need pants, we just need milk.
'But..'
The double doors opened and Grace walked through, carrying a folder. She stopped when she sensed the tension in the room. 'Now what?'
'Ehm,' said Hannah.
'Is everything all right?'
'Ehm,' said Hannah again, because her brain had decided it had had enough of all this, put up the 'gone fishing' sign and left for the day.
'Everyting alrite,' said the man, re-emerging from the kitchen, presumably with milk in his tea, if no more clothing on his body.
'Manny!' cried Grace. 'What have we talked about?'
The man who was apparently called Manny stopped to ponder this, as if he'd been asked a complex-question. 'We talk 'bout many tings. We like to talk. You a good woman, Grace.' He favoured her with a warm smile.
'Manny, we agreed you'd wear pants during work hours.'
'We not ..." Manny stopped and looked around at the people in the reception area as if seeing them for the first time. Some of them were averting their eyes, but one woman, who'd been halfway through a large bag of popcorn, was very focused on Manny, although Hannah doubted she'd be able to pick out his face in a line-up.
'Oh. We see. What time is it?'
'Three o'clock,' said Grace, before adding, 'in the afternoon.'
'Ah.' He nodded. 'What day?'
'Tuesday.'
He took a slurp of tea. 'Alrite. Sure nuff. We apologize. It's just the human body, man - natural thing. Nothing the peoples ain't seen before. Just what the good Lord gave us all.'
The popcorn woman spoke up. 'The good Lord was particularly generous to you.'
Manny gave her a smile and a wink. 'Thanking you. We appreciate your kindness.
And with that, he sauntered back down the stairs.

Hannah turned to the reception desk for Grace, but she must have nipped off somewhere while the last gentlemen was explaining how he was haunted by the ghost of Macbeth, the fictional character.
'Ehm, sir,' said Hannah to the dreadlocked interloper, 'what are you doing?'
He lifted the mug in his hand and gave her a cheery smile. 'We just need milk for we cup of tea.'
'But, sir, you're not wearing any pants.'
He ambled into the kitchen just off reception, shouting back over his shoulder, 'S'alrite, chile. We don't need pants, we just need milk.
'But..'
The double doors opened and Grace walked through, carrying a folder. She stopped when she sensed the tension in the room. 'Now what?'
'Ehm,' said Hannah.
'Is everything all right?'
'Ehm,' said Hannah again, because her brain had decided it had had enough of all this, put up the 'gone fishing' sign and left for the day.
'Everyting alrite,' said the man, re-emerging from the kitchen, presumably with milk in his tea, if no more clothing on his body.
'Manny!' cried Grace. 'What have we talked about?'
The man who was apparently called Manny stopped to ponder this, as if he'd been asked a complex-question. 'We talk 'bout many tings. We like to talk. You a good woman, Grace.' He favoured her with a warm smile.
'Manny, we agreed you'd wear pants during work hours.'
'We not ..." Manny stopped and looked around at the people in the reception area as if seeing them for the first time. Some of them were averting their eyes, but one woman, who'd been halfway through a large bag of popcorn, was very focused on Manny, although Hannah doubted she'd be able to pick out his face in a line-up.
'Oh. We see. What time is it?'
'Three o'clock,' said Grace, before adding, 'in the afternoon.'
'Ah.' He nodded. 'What day?'
'Tuesday.'
He took a slurp of tea. 'Alrite. Sure nuff. We apologize. It's just the human body, man - natural thing. Nothing the peoples ain't seen before. Just what the good Lord gave us all.'
The popcorn woman spoke up. 'The good Lord was particularly generous to you.'
Manny gave her a smile and a wink. 'Thanking you. We appreciate your kindness.
And with that, he sauntered back down the stairs.

Before the Revolution, the dragons of Stormscourge House—of my family—were known for terrorizing the countryside; but in even older days, they were our island’s greatest defense against aerial invasion.
“They told us to fire low,” says Cor.
“Not that low. It’s risky for the audience.”
Our dragons are immature, barely horse-size, and can’t yet breathe fire. But the smoke they produce can still burn.
Crissa and her skyfish, long, slender, and pale enough blue to blend with the morning sky, circle above us. “You want to impress the people,” she calls down to Cor. “Not roast them.”
Cor waves a hand. “All right, all right . . .”
The fleet is still in training, dragons and riders both. Known now as Guardians, the new regime’s dragonriders are lowborn, commoners, even former serfs. No longer the sons of dragonlords.
Except for me, though I’m the only one who knows that.
Because in the wake of the Revolution, to be dragonborn is to be wanted for dead. I was born Leo, son of Leon, dragonlord of Stormscourge House and Drakarch of the Far Highlands—but, since the orphanage, I’ve been Lee. Not even the First Protector, who saved my life and then welcomed me, without recognition, into his Guardian program two years after that, knows the truth.
That a Stormscourge tested into the meritocratic dragon-riding program designed to replace everything his family stood for.
Even though I know I’m lucky to be here—lucky to be alive, lucky to have escaped the orphanage—memories of the old life have a way of intruding and twisting. Especially today, as Pallor and I circle above the Palace arena, open to the public for the first time since the Revolution. The old regime had tournaments here, too. Tournaments I watched my father compete in, dreaming of the day it would be my turn.
I lean forward and rest a gloved hand on Pallor’s silver-scaled neck as his wings, translucent in the morning light, tighten in a dive. Pallor is an aurelian, a smaller breed known for being careful and maneuverable, and the aurelian formation for today’s ceremony is the only one complex enough to require coleaders. I can rehearse alone, but to do the thing properly, I need—
Annie. There she is.
Another aurelian, this one amber-toned, has emerged from the cave mouth at the base of the arena, and on her back rides my sparring partner, Annie. She and I have trained together for as long as we’ve been in the Guardian program, and we’ve known each other since the orphanage before that.
It’s a past life’s worth of memories that we’re both pretty good at not talking about.
“Annie!” Crissa calls with a cheerful wave. “There you are.”
“Lee’s been flying like an idiot out here without you,” Cor says.
Pallor and I fire ash downward. Cor dodges the stream with a bark of laughter.

He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her forward, past all the great, beautiful stormscourges that he’d always dreamed of flying. Barely looking at them, because all he could focus on was the feeling of the girl’s shoulders shaking as he led her on. “They won’t hurt you, come on . . .”
And then it was over: He hadn’t been Chosen, but it didn’t matter, suddenly it didn’t matter at all—
“See, we’re done, it’s done—”
He turned to her, desperate to see the look of despair gone from her face, ignoring the plummeting feeling of his own. He was surprised to see something else. Instead of staring at her feet, the girl was looking up. Past him.
He followed her gaze and saw that she was looking at an aurelian, and that the aurelian was looking back at her.
He’d heard it said before that a kind of magic came with a dragon Choosing you—that the dragon bound you to it, that you formed a connection that was deep and full of an old magic. His father had always told him this was simply a myth, that it was a matter of imprinting and that there was nothing mystical about it.
But he couldn’t help thinking, as he watched the girl’s face transform, that he was seeing something unearthly. The girl who, a moment ago, had been cowering against him now released his hand as if she had forgotten it. She took one step toward the dragon, then another, never taking her eyes off the dragon’s face. When they stood nose to nose, she stretched out a hand and laid it between the dragon’s eyes.
The boy was so entranced that he didn’t stop to wonder what was nudging him until he turned to acknowledge it. Then he looked up, into a pair of great, liquid black eyes, and everything around him stood still.

The music changes; a new set has begun. The sound of highland pipes is filling the hall with a pounding rhythm; the violin has become faster, playful. It’s the kind of melody that was never played, never wanted, at the balls of the old regime. Annie, about to quit the floor, has her hand seized by Rock. I watch her protest halfheartedly, laughing, then allow Rock to lead her in a few bounds back into the center of the floor. Most of its occupants are younger, alumni among the youngest generations of the Lyceum, cheering with enthusiasm to begin a different kind of dance. Around the hall, older faces are looking on with thinly disguised disapproval. But those dancing don’t notice.
Annie and Rock have begun mimicking each other with shouts of delight, their fingers twined together as they lean back. Annie’s hair falls free of its pins and tumbles down her back, but she hardly seems to notice. The highland rhythm is so powerful that it seems to catch you in your stomach, take hold of your legs, so that even seated all you want to do is move your feet. There’s a swapping of partners, and now Annie dances with a lanky, straw-haired ministry official who beams as he swings her outward; and then she’s back in Duck’s arms.

He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her forward, past all the great, beautiful stormscourges that he’d always dreamed of flying. Barely looking at them, because all he could focus on was the feeling of the girl’s shoulders shaking as he led her on. “They won’t hurt you, come on . . .”
And then it was over: He hadn’t been Chosen, but it didn’t matter, suddenly it didn’t matter at all—
“See, we’re done, it’s done—”
He turned to her, desperate to see the look of despair gone from her face, ignoring the plummeting feeling of his own. He was surprised to see something else. Instead of staring at her feet, the girl was looking up. Past him.
He followed her gaze and saw that she was looking at an aurelian, and that the aurelian was looking back at her.
He’d heard it said before that a kind of magic came with a dragon Choosing you—that the dragon bound you to it, that you formed a connection that was deep and full of an old magic. His father had always told him this was simply a myth, that it was a matter of imprinting and that there was nothing mystical about it.
But he couldn’t help thinking, as he watched the girl’s face transform, that he was seeing something unearthly. The girl who, a moment ago, had been cowering against him now released his hand as if she had forgotten it. She took one step toward the dragon, then another, never taking her eyes off the dragon’s face. When they stood nose to nose, she stretched out a hand and laid it between the dragon’s eyes.
The boy was so entranced that he didn’t stop to wonder what was nudging him until he turned to acknowledge it. Then he looked up, into a pair of great, liquid black eyes, and everything around him stood still.

He was grey of hair, suit and mind. He was also convinced that, at eighty-nine, one had no possible means of understanding the complexities of the modern world. He didn’t seem to grasp that she had lived through all the decades that had created it, and she had perhaps a more nuanced understanding of it than he did.

Henry Evans would say nothing, regardless of who asked him, even the commandant at Sandhurst and his contacts in MI5 and MI6. This conversation was absolutely private.
Rozie wondered for a moment why it had been so easy for Mr Evans to make this silent pact, when for her it had seemed more complicated. But she reflected that for her it was more complicated. Evans simply owed his ultimate loyalty to the Queen and that was that. The man Rozie had to hide this conversation from – lie to, if necessary – was the Queen’s own right-hand man, and that made her secrecy so strange and uncomfortable. It wasn’t that the Queen didn’t trust Sir Simon, Rozie felt sure of that. She had seen the warm, long-standing relationship between them at first hand.

This morning the Queen had asked her to do some further research into the night of the dine and sleep. She had three interviews lined up in central London for tomorrow. And none of this was to be mentioned to Sir Simon.
Her mind was racing. The Boss was up to something. Surely such tasks should be left to the professionals, not entrusted to an ex-banker with three years in the Royal Horse Artillery to her name? The Queen had the whole of MI5 and the Metropolitan Police to call on. Or the Prime Minister. Or, if she liked to keep it close to home, Sir Simon himself or her equerry.
So why me?
And then she had remembered an offhand comment from her predecessor during the handover a few months ago. ... During the final handover day, when they were briefly alone, Katie had said, ‘One day, she’ll ask you to do something strange. I mean, every day will be strange, but you’ll get used to that. One day it will be super-strange. You’ll know it.’
‘How?’
‘You just will. Trust me. And when you do, go to Aileen Jaggard. She was APS before me. Her details are in the contacts book. She explained it all to me and she will to you, too.’
‘I don’t get it. Can’t you tell me now?’
‘No. I asked the same thing. It has to come from her – from the Boss, I mean. When it does, track down Aileen. See her in person if you can. Just say “It’s happened”, and she’ll know.’

‘Look, I joined the Royal Household in the year dot,’ Aileen said, ‘and I did the job for over a decade. There’s nothing that’s happened in any of those residences that I don’t know about. No scandal or divorce or disaster. And I know about the other stuff, too. The things she doesn’t tell Simon. She’s on a case, isn’t she?’
‘She . . . what?’
Aileen grinned. She gestured to a side table temptingly laid out with bowls of Doritos and guacamole. Rozie suddenly realised how hungry she was. ‘Look, help yourself. You came to me because she’s asked you to do a bit of digging about, hasn’t she?’
Mouth full of Dorito and avocado, Rozie nodded.
‘You kind of know you’re not supposed to tell anyone, but it feels horribly wrong?’
Rozie nodded again.

Aileen stared into her glass for a moment. ‘I don’t know, exactly. But I do know that if the Boss thinks it’s a bad line of investigation, it probably is. She doesn’t just trust her instincts – she trusts her experts. And she’s the best at knowing which ones to pick. You would be, after seventy-odd years, wouldn’t you?’
‘I guess,’ Rozie said. ‘Sixty-four years, I suppose. Officially.’
‘Oh, she’s been doing this for much longer than that.’
‘What do you mean?’
An enigmatic smile stole across Aileen’s face. She closed her eyes briefly and rolled her shoulders. Then she put down her glass and fixed Rozie with a steady gaze. ‘The Queen solves mysteries. She solved the first one when she was twelve or thirteen, so the story goes. On her own. She sees things other people don’t see – often because they’re all looking at her. She knows so much about so many things. She’s got an eagle eye, a nose for bullshit and a fabulous memory. Her staff should trust her more. People like Sir Simon, I mean.’
‘But he trusts her totally!’
‘No, he doesn’t. He thinks he does, but he also thinks he knows best. All her private secretaries do. They always have. They think they’re brilliant, which to be fair they usually are, and they think the other men in their clubs are brilliant, and the heads of the big organisations who went to Oxbridge with them are brilliant, and they’re all being brilliant together and she should just sit there and be grateful.’
Rozie laughed out loud. She was really very fond of Sir Simon, but this described his style exactly. ‘OK,’ she agreed.
‘They should trust her. But they don’t. She’s one of the most powerful women in the world, supposedly, but she spends her whole bloody time having to listen to them and they don’t listen back. It drives her bonkers. I mean, she grew up with it. She was a girl in the thirties – male domination was normal. God, even now I bet you get it too, but at least we know it’s wrong. She’s had to work out for herself how good she is, what she can do. And what she can do is notice things. See when something’s “off”. Find out why. Unpick the problem. She’s a bit of a genius at it, actually. But she needs help.’
Rozie bit into the last green dip-laden Dorito and looked regretfully at the empty bowl. ‘Female help,’ she said thoughtfully.
‘Uh-huh. The help of someone who isn’t trying to constantly buck her up. Someone discreet. A listener. Our help.

Rozie arrived ten minutes later, looking puzzled.
‘Your Majesty? You wanted to see me?’
‘Yes, I did,’ the Queen said. She fiddled with her pen for a moment, deep in thought. ‘I was wondering if you could do something for me.’
‘Anything . . .’ Rozie offered, with more passion in her voice than she’d intended. It was true, though. Whatever the Boss wanted, she would do. Rozie knew most people in the Household felt this way. Not because of what she was, but because of who she was. She was a special human being who had been given an almost impossible job, and had taken it on and never complained, and done it brilliantly, for longer than most people in the country had been alive. They adored her. They were all terrified of her, obviously, but they adored her more. Rozie felt lucky she was still going.

But I was determined to be discreet, to bear in mind my being only four months a widow, and to be as quiet as possible: and I have been so, my dear creature; I have admitted no one's attentions but Mainwaring's. I have avoided all general flirtation whatever; I have distinguished no creature besides, of all the numbers resorting hither, except Sir James Martin,

'Why is it that all of this seems to have happened before?'
'All of what?'
'Everything. There are Angaraks in Arendia trying to stir up trouble - just as there were when we were following Zedar. There are intrigues and assassinations in Tolnedra - the same as last time. We ran into a monster - a dragon this time instead of the Algroths - but it's still pretty close to the same sort of thing. It seems almost as if we were repeating everything that happened when we were tying to find the Orb. We've even been running into the same people - Delvor, that customs man, even Jeebers.'
'You know, that's a very interesting question Garion.' Belgarath pondered for a moment, absently taking a drink from his tankard. 'If you think about it in a certain way, though, it does sort of make sense.'
'I don't quite follow you.'
'We're on our way to another meeting between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark,' Belgarath explained. That meeting is going to be a repetition of an event that's been happening over and over again since the beginning of time. Since it's the same event, it stands to reason that the circumstances leading up to it should also be similar.' He thought about it a moment longer. 'Actually, he continued, 'they'd almost have to be, wouldn't they?'
'That's a little deep for me, I'm afraid.'
'There are two Prophecies - two sides of the same thing. Something happened an unimaginably long time ago to separate them.'
'Yes. I understand that.'
'When they got separated, things sort of stopped.'

Zith sulked in her bottle, still greatly offended.
'Really, dear, ' Sadi assured her, 'it's all right. Don't you trust me?'
There was a snippy little hiss from inside the bottle.
'That's a very naughty thing to say, Zith,' Sadi gently reproved her. 'I did everything I could to keep him from disturbing you.' He looked apologetically at Agachak. 'I really don't know where she picks up such language, Holy One.' he declared. He turned his attention back to the bottle. 'Please, dear, don't be nasty.'
Another spiteful little hiss came from the bottle.
'Now that's going entirely too far, Zith. You come out of there at once.'

She sat on a pile of fragrant hay and bounced tentatively a few times.
'And this will make wonderful beds. I hope we can find a place like this every night.'
Garion walked over to the door and looked out, not trusting himself to answer. He had grown up on a farm not really all that much different from this one, and the thought of a band of marauding soldiers swooping down on Faldor's farm, burning and killing, filled him with a vast outrage. A sudden image rose in his mind. The shadowy faces of the dead Murgos hanging on those stakes might very well have been the faces of his childhood friends, and that thought shook him to the very core of his being. The dead here had been Murgos, but they had also been farmers, and he felt a sudden kinship with them. The savagery that had befallen them began to take on the aspect of a personal affront

from The Lives of Belgarion the Great (Introduction, Vol. IV)

Prologue
Being an account of how Belgarion's Son was stolen and how he learned the Abductor was that Zandramas against whom the puissant Orb of Aldur bad warned. -
from The Lives of Belgarion the Great (Introduction, Vol. IV)

'Why is it that all of this seems to have happened before?'
'All of what?'
'Everything. There are Angaraks in Arendia trying to stir up trouble- just as there were when we were following Zedar. There are intrigues and assassinations in Tolnedra - the same as last time. We ran into a monster - a dragon this time instead of the Algroths - but it's still pretty close to the same sort of thing. It seems almost as if we were repeating everything that happened when we were tying to find the Orb. We've even been running into the same people - Delvor, that customs man, even Jeebers.'
'You know, that's a very interesting question Garion.' Belgarath pondered for a moment, absently taking a drink from his tankard. 'If you think about it in a certain way. though, it does sort of make sense.'
'I don't quite follow you.'
'We're on our way to another meeting between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark,' Belgarath explained. That meeting is going to be a repetition of an event that's been happening over and over again since the beginning of time. Since it's the same event, it stands to reason that the circumstances leading up to it should also be similar.' He thought about it a moment longer. 'Actually, he continued, 'they'd almost have to be, wouldn't they?'
'That's a little deep for me, I'm afraid.'
"There are two Prophecies--two sides of the same thing. Something happened an unimaginably long time ago to separate them.'
'Yes. I understand that.'
'When they got separated, things sort of stopped.'

She sat on a pile of fragrant hay and bounced tentatively a few times.
'And this will make wonderful beds. I hope we can find a place like this every night.'
Garion walked over to the door and looked out, not trusting himself to answer. He had grown up on a farm not really all that much different from this one, and the thought of a band of marauding soldiers swooping down on Faldor's farm, burning and killing, filled him with a vast outrage. A sudden image rose in his mind. The shadowy faces of the dead Murgos hanging on those stakes might very well have been the faces of his childhood friends, and that thought shook him to the very core of his being. The dead here had been Murgos, but they had also been farmers, and he felt a sudden kinship with them. The savagery that had befallen them began to take on the aspect of a personal affront,

Zith sulked in her bottle, still greatly offended.
'Really, dear, ' Sadi assured her, 'it's all right. Don't you trust me?'
There was a snippy little hiss from inside the bottle.
'That's a very naughty thing to say, Zith,' Sadi gently reproved her. 'I did everything I could to keep him from disturbing you.' He looked apologetically at Agachak. 'I really don't know where she picks up such language, Holy One.' he declared. He turned his attention back to the bottle.
'Please, dear, don't be nasty'
Another spiteful little hiss came from the bottle.
'Now that's going entirely too far, Zith. You come out of there at once.