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War, my friends, is a thing of beauty. Those as says otherwise are losing. If I’d bothered to go over to old Bovid, propped up against the fountain with his guts in his lap, he’d probably take a contrary view. But look where disagreeing got him.
Hate will keep you alive where love fails.
“Tell me, tutor,” I said. “Is revenge a science, or an art?”
“A man who’s got no fear is missing a friend, Jorg,”
War is a thing of beauty, as I’ve said before, and those who say otherwise are losing.
“You said you’d follow wherever I led, Makin,” I answered. “This is where it starts. When they write the legend, this will be the first page. Some old monk will go blind illuminating this page, Makin. This is where it all starts.” I didn’t say how short the book might be though.
“We are defined by our enemies—but also we can choose them. Make an enemy of hatred, Jorg. Do that and you could be a great man, but more importantly, maybe a happy one.”
Makin kept pace, waiting for an answer. “Let the soldiers die for their land,” I said to him. “If the time comes to sacrifice these fields in the cause of victory, I’ll let them burn in a heartbeat. Anything that you cannot sacrifice pins you. Makes you predictable, makes you weak.”
The perfumes of lords and ladies tickled at my nose: lavender and orange oil. On the road, shit has the decency to stink.
“If I die, the succession will be clear,” I said. “Your Scorron whore will give you a new son, and you’ll be rid of me. Gone for good, like Mother and William. And you won’t have to send dear old Father Gomst trawling the mire to prove it.” I took a moment to bow toward the Queen. “No offence, your majesty.”
When in doubt, let your hate lead you. Normally I’d reject that advice. It makes a man predictable. But there, in that miserable hall of bones, I was past caring. Hate was all I had to keep me warm.
The Nuban’s eyes were on mine. For the first time ever, I could read what he held there. I could have taken anything else. I could have taken hatred, or fear, or pleading. But he forgave me.
Most men have at least one redeeming feature. Finding one for Brother Rike requires a stretch. Is “big” a redeeming feature?
“There is no evil, Makin,” I said. “There’s the love of things, power, comfort, sex, and there’s what men are willing to do to satisfy those lusts.”
“My name is Honorous Jorg Ancrath, my password is divine right. Now open the fecking door.”
“Memories are dangerous things. You turn them over and over, until you know every touch and corner, but still
you’ll find an edge to cut you.”
“Pride?” I said, my smile dancing now. “I am pride! Let the meek have their inheritance—I’d rather have eternity in shadows than divine bliss at the price you ask.”
“Lucifer spoke thus. Pride took him from heaven, though he sat at God’s right hand.” Her voice grew faint, the hint of a whisper. “In the end pride is the only evil, the root of all sins.” “Pride is all I have.”
I think maybe we die every day. Maybe we’re born new each dawn, a little changed, a little further on our own road. When enough days stand between you and the person you were, you’re strangers. Maybe that’s what growing up is. Maybe I have grown up.
I’ve grown, but whatever monster might be in me, it was always mine, my choice, my responsibility, my evil if you will.
