There is a point, Innes thinks, where even the sterling
vocabulary of a royal may falter, where his tongue which can
silence the most upstart noble or uncouth mercenary cannot
deliver, where he simply will fail to describe what has
happened.  That point is where Eirika lives, where she breathes
and moves and fights.  Again and again and again he cannot find
the words to capture her, nor the words to say that will make
her eyes shine in the way they do when those pretty pink lips
praise her beloved older brother. It eats at him like ravenous
madness, eroding at him until he feels nothing, not even rage,
only a cold void and an inexplicable weakness in his hands that
has nothing to do with the wear of war.  But he remembers that,
once upon a time, Ephraim hit the target at a hundred paces
where he could not hit it at fifty.  Today, Innes can hit it
from two hundred, with one eye shut.  So he smiles a determined
smile, trying again and again and again to define her.  Perhaps
one day he will not only find the wor