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

by Lois McMaster Bujold

And if abasing herself on the altar of the gods was the cure for that old wound, she had eaten dirt enough already for a dozen dy Lutezes. Yet the scar still bled, in the deep dark, if pressed.

“I once saw a man pray for mules,” Foix remarked agreeably.

No point in praying to the god for protection, either; if he could directly control his wild demons fled into the realm of matter, he presumably would, and not let his divine weakness depend upon human weakness.

“Demon magic—the divines say—invariably engenders more chaos than it ever produces order. The cost is always higher than the prize. Some who dabble in demons try to spread the cost to others and keep the prize for themselves.

She smiled bleakly. “I seem to have a calling. It is not by my choice. The gods appear attracted to me. Like flies to blood.” He waved one weakened hand in protest at this metaphor. “I confess, I have never thought of the gods as flies.”

Ista glanced at him, gritted her teeth, and said, “Arvol dy Lutez did not die in the Zangre under questioning. Ias and I drowned him by mistake in the course of an attempt among the three of us to call down a miracle for Chalion’s sake. The treason accusation was entirely false.” Well. That was certainly getting more succinct with practice.

“Time,” Illvin murmured, “is where you take it. It will not linger for you.” “That is so,” whispered Ista.

“Arhys would have protected you from this choice, as a father would a beloved child. Arhys is wrong in this. I give you a woman’s choice, here, at the last gasp.

I’m not getting it all sorted, she worried. I’m not getting it right. You are brilliant, the Voice reassured her. It is imperfect. So are all things trapped in time. You are brilliant, nonetheless. 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.