Paladin of Souls (World of the Five Gods, #2)

by Lois McMaster Bujold

It’s only habit, you know. I’m not mad anymore, really.

She knew what she feared—to be locked up in some dark, narrow place by people who loved her. An enemy might drop his guard, weary of his task, turn his back; love would never falter.

Surely I am done. The duties that had defined her, all accomplished. Once, she had been her parents’ daughter. Then great, unlucky Ias’s wife. Her children’s mother. At the last, her mother’s keeper. Well, I am none of these things now. Who am I, when I am not surrounded by the walls of my life? When they have all fallen into dust and rubble?

I want a road that does not come back.

“And the Bastard grant us . . .”—dy Cabon’s voice, fallen into the soothing singsong of ceremony, stumbled for the first time, slowing—“in our direst need, the smallest gifts: the nail of the horseshoe, the pin of the axle, the feather at the pivot point, the pebble at the mountain’s peak, the kiss in despair, the one right word. In darkness, understanding.

“The gods may forgive Ista all day long. But if Ista does not forgive Ista, the gods may go hang themselves.”

You cannot push back the darkness with reason. You have to use fire.

What can the gods give me?” His brows twitched up in an expression of remarkably disingenuous goodwill. “Why, work, sweet Ista!”

Not one, she realized with a chill, was staring at her as though she had gone mad. They were all staring at her as though she was going to tell them what to do next.

“I am old enough to have many regrets. I’ve made my share of mistakes, some”—he grimaced—“hideous indeed, as you well know. But it was the little, easy things—the kisses I did not give, and the love I did not speak, because there was no time, no place—and then, no chance . . . Surprisingly sharp sorrows those are, for their size. I think all our chances grow narrow, tonight. So I shall reduce my regrets—however brief—by one, at least . . .”

It seems I am not a nice person, either. Good.

How fortunate for Us that We thirst for glorious souls rather than faultless ones, or We should be parched indeed, and most lonely in Our perfect righteousness. Carry on imperfectly, shining Ista.

Though the Ista they thought they loved, she supposed, was an imaginary one, a woman who existed only in their own minds, part icon, part habit. The reflection did not depress her unduly, now that she knew someone who loved the Ista who was real. She fell asleep thinking of him.

We are all of us, every one, our own works; we present our souls to our Patrons at the ends of our lives as an artisan presents the works of his hands.”

the gods did not desire flawless souls, but great ones. I think that very darkness is where the greatness grows from, as flowers from the soil. I am not sure, in fact, if greatness can bloom without it.

“I offer you an honorable new beginning. I do not guarantee its ending. Attempts fail, but not as certainly as tasks never attempted.”

“I always feared it would take divine intervention to find me a lover . . . I do believe I was right.”