... all four cavaliers were gone, back into the River. Harrow found herself imagining them in her mind's eye:rising out of those turbid waters before the Saint of Duty with his spear and his sword, something looming behind him, bigger than the eye could comprehend. Bluer than death; unimaginable, advancing to greet the four dead swordsmen and the Lyctor.

She had not said goodbye. Harrow so rarely got to say goodbye.

From "Harrow the Ninth" by Tamsyn Muir.