She was sitting in a garden more beautiful than even her rampaging imagination could ever have conjured up, and she was being serenaded by trees.

He can occasionally see to an enemy, she conceded. If he manages to get his sword pointed in the right direction and the enemy does him the favor of falling upon it in precisely the right way.

I am a connoisseur of fine irony. 'Tis a bit like fine wine, but it has a better bite.

I could tell you a tale about something,' Miach offered, rubbing her hand absently. 'If you like.' She frowned thoughtfully. 'What sort of something?' 'Something that would soothe you,' he promised. 'I'm sure there would be swords involved. Bloodshed. Peril. That kind of thing.