To Green Angel Tower (Memory, Sorrow & Thorn, #3)

by Tad Williams

These old stories are like blood. They run through people, even when they don’t know it or think about it. He considered this idea for a moment. But even if you don’t think about them, when the bad times come, the old stories come out on every side. And that’s just like blood, too.

Whatever beliefs about the nobility of war that Simon still retained died during that long day on the frozen lake. In the midst of such terrible carnage, with fallen friends and enemies alike scattered about, maimed and bloodied, some even made faceless by terrible wounds; with the crying and pleading of dying men ringing in his ears, their dignity ripped away from them; with the air rank with the stenches of fear-sweat, blood, and excrement, it was impossible to see warfare as anything other than what Morgenes had once termed it: a kind of hell on earth that impatient mankind had arranged so it would not have to wait for the afterlife. To Simon, the grotesque unfairness of it was almost the worst of all. For every armored knight dragged down, half a dozen foot-soldiers were slaughtered. Even animals suffered torments that should not have been visited on murderers and traitors.

Geloë’s smile was sardonic. “A woman with a baby inside her is not like someone who is dying of old age, Prince Josua. Women are strong—bearing a child is hard work. Besides, this news should not frighten anyone … even you.” She softened her expression to let him know she was joking.

“Perhaps it is fortunate that most heroes who die for their people cannot come back to see what the people do with that hard-bought life and freedom.”

“Of all the songs we Zida’ya sing,” she murmured, “the closest to our hearts are those which tell of things lost.” “Perhaps that is because none of us can know something’s true value until it is gone,” said Josua.

“Each one of has our own sorrows, Princess,” he said. “It’s no shame to take them to heart. The only sin is to forget that other folk have theirs, too—or to let pity for yourself slow your hand when someone needs help.” Isgrimnur, Miriamele was reminded, was more than just a gruff old soldier.

As Miriamele had been unwilling to sit through his explanations of swordsmanship—much of it taken in whole cloth from Camaris’ teachings to him—he himself was itching to show her what he could do with a bow in his hand. But she was having none of it, and so the remainder of the afternoon was spent learning the proper draw. By the time shadows grew long, Simon’s fingers were red and raw. He would have to think of some way to acquire finger-leathers like Miriamele’s if he was going to be shooting in earnest.

“When the sun was on it, it looked like the church was covered in holy flames.” “In times of badness, gold is being worth more than beauty,” Binabik mused,

“We tell lies when we are afraid,” said Morgenes. The old man took a stone from his pocket and tossed it into the moat. There was a flirt of sunlight on the ripples as the stone disappeared. “Afraid of what we don’t know, afraid of what others will think, afraid of what will be found out about us. But every time we tell a lie, the thing that we fear grows stronger.”