"The border willIt was Nynaeve. She didn't approach him with the caution one might show a warrior; she stepped into his space, her presence a grounding force that pulled him back from the edge of the abyss.
For twenty years, he had been a ghost. He was the King of a country that lived only in the memories of old men and the songs of bards. Malkier was a name for a grave, and Lan was its chief mourner. He had expected to die with his sword in his hand, a final, bloody punctuation mark at the end of a tragedy. But the world had not ended. 125015
"You have to plant a garden," she said, a small, fierce smile playing on her lips. "The war is over. The duty of the sword is done. Now comes the duty of the hearth." "The border willIt was Nynaeve
Nynaeve took his hand, her grip firm. "You've spent your life paying your parents' debts, Lan. You died a dozen times over for the Seven Towers. Now, you have to do the hardest thing a soldier can do." "What is that?" He was the King of a country that
Lan looked down at his hands. They were calloused from the hilt of his blade, scarred from a thousand cuts. These were hands meant for breaking, for holding back the tide of the Shadow until the very last breath.
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