You Must Know How to Undo
“Tomorrow I will teach you how to undo what you have done.”
“That’s not possible.”
Her brow arched. He did not quite see what she did. It had something to do with a gesture of the hand, and some part of it was a slant of the eye and a turn of mind.
The charred branches stirred and cracked. Black scales fell; ash blew away in a sudden swirl of wind. Living branches unfolded, sprouting leaves as bright as the first morning of the world. They glowed in the night. Blossoms budded and bloomed, a cloud of white and palest rose. Their scent enveloped him in sweetness.
William’s mouth hung open. He could barely muster wits to shut it.
“You are meant for more and better than this,” she said, “but whatever you have done, you must know how to undo. It’s a law of our order.”
“You are born to it, and reborn, for ages out of count.”
— Rite of Conquest, Chapter 8