Mammoths at the Gates (The Singing Hills Cycle, #4)

by Nghi Vo

There were many places they had been where that would be reckoned a clean death, a quiet one in bed and attended by people who cared. It was something people offered as a comfort, but dead was dead, and the only comfort—one more word, one more touch—was impossible.

They are one of the most respected traveling clerics in the order.” That was frankly news to Chih,

change hurt, but it was bearable if you watched it, if you accepted it and knew that it was always coming.

In that moment, they were and weren’t the cleric Chih had grown up with. This was someone new, and something in Chih ached, because growing up, growing older, was always a kind of loss, even if what was gained repaid it all and then some.

The things we remember last as long as we do and longer. The thing itself, well, it goes away. It breaks. It sinks to the bottom of the river. It dies or leaves or is lost.”

I mean, what do I need to get married for? I have two mammoths.

To hear of people who can speak and love and reason and to still think that they are beasts, why, only a man could do that.”

We are not beasts, and I know this because no goat grieves as I do. No raven will have her own wings cut so she can no longer fly. No crocodile will bear a wound because it is better than forgetting. I wish I were a beast.

When the world has changed so completely, why should I remain the same? I cannot remain. I cannot stay.”

“I did as she asked, and she went on her way. I put it out of my mind, but I dreamed of her again, that little bird, shedding who she was so she might survive better. Sometimes, you cannot survive and still be who you were.”

“That is punishment, where the law excels,” said the cleric. “Justice is a more difficult thing.”

“You’re boring now,” Chih said. “Did you know that? You are so boring.”