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532 pages, Hardcover
First published March 28, 2017
“On the second Sabbat of Twelfthmoon, in the city of Weep, a girl fell from the sky. Her skin was blue, her blood was red.”
“Two hundred years ago, there was a storm.”
“She asked in a hesitant whisper, “Do you still think I’m a… a singularly unhorrible demon?” “No,” he said, smiling. “I think you’re a fairy tale. I think you’re magical, and brave, and exquisite. And…” His voice grew bashful. Only in a dream could he be so bold and speak such words. “I hope you’ll let me be in your story.”
“Sarai was seventeen years old, a goddess and a girl. Half her blood was human, but it counted for nothing. She was blue. She was godspawn. She was anathema. She was young. She was lovely. She was afraid.”
I'm going to Weep, he thought, and could have laughed at the pun, but he kept his composure, and when the Tizerkane warriors rode out of the Great Library and out of Zosma, Strange the dreamer went with them.
Weep slept. Dreamers dreamed. A grand moon drifted, and the wings of the citadel cut the sky in two: light above, dark below.
Streaming forth into the night, the darkness fractured into a hundred fluttering bits like windblown scraps of velvet. A hundred smithereens of darkness, they broke apart and re-formed and siphoned themselves into a little typhoon that swept down toward the rooftops of Weep, whirling and wheeling on soft twilight wings.
Sarai screamed moths. Moths and her own mind, pulled into a hundred pieces and flung out into the world.
It was impossible, of course.
But when did that ever stop any dreamer from dreaming?
It was why she dared no longer dream: because in her own sleep she was like any dreamer, at the mercy of her unconscious. When she fell asleep, she was no sorceress or dark enthralled, but just a sleeping girl with no control over the terrors within her.
“Beautiful and full of monsters?"Love that feeling when you start a series and immediately realize there's no going back to normal.
“All the best stories are.”
It was impossible, of course. But when did that ever stop any dreamer from dreaming.Meanwhile, Sarai is Godspawn - child of the immortal and mortal - only years ago, the mortals rebelled and slain every last God and Godspawn...or so they thought.
Welcome to purgatory. Care for some soup?
As a boy at the abbey, stories had been Lazlo's only wealth.
He was richer now.
Now he had books.
"Do you still think I'm a...a singularly unhorrible demon?"
"No," he said, smiling. "I think you're a fairy tale. I think you're magical, and brave and exquisite. And..." His voice grew bashful. Only in a dream could he be so bold and speak such words. "I hope you'll let me be in your story."
Its emptiness was stark. The room felt hollow and dead, like a body with its hearts cut out. Breathing wasn't easy.
He dropped onto the edge of his bed.
"They're only books," he told himself. Just paper and ink.
Paper, ink, and years.
Paper, ink, years, and dreams.
❝Dream up something wild and improbable. Something beautiful and full of monsters.❞
❝It was the first week of Twelfthmoon, on the far side of Elmuthaleth, and Strange the dreamer –library stowaway and scholar of fairy tales – had never been thirstier, or more full of wonder.❞
❝The dream chooses the dreamer, not the other way around.❞
❝He read while he walked. He read while he ate. The other librarians suspected he somehow read while he slept, or perhaps didn't sleep at all.❞
❝I think you’re a fairy tale. I think you’re magical, and brave, and exquisite. And I hope you'll let me be in your story.❞