The Stone of Farewell (Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn, #2)

by Tad Williams

God did not fear a fight, the earl knew, or a little blood—in such ink were His intentions written, a philosopher had once said.

The Good God saves his justice and such for th’ Day of Weighin’ Out. ’Til then, we have t’look t’ourselves.” He leaned forward as he began to warm to the topic. “Each ’un must do his best, but things can’t always be made right,

“They kept things from me because I’m a girl. That’s not right—I’m smarter than most of the men I know!” Dinivan did not smile. “I’ve no doubt of that, Miriamele. In fact, I think you should seek a greater challenge than merely being wiser than men.”

His beard had come in more thickly since he had last surveyed himself. The reddish hairs, almost brown in the dim light, were beginning to obscure the line of his jaw—but the same old nose poked out above the beard, and the same blue eyes stared back at him. Becoming a man, it seemed, would not mean becoming anything other than a slightly different type of Simon, which was a faintly saddening thought.

“You show her respect. That is a good thing,” he said. “Too often it is that men think those who serve are doing it from inferiorness or weakness.” He chuckled. “Folk who have those beliefs should ride a mount like Qantaqa, who could eat them if she chose. They would then be learning humbleness.”

If you have a proud and headstrong woman, you would be better off not to judge your success by her obedience.

But even as he yearned for unthinking release, Eolair knew that he would hate its coming to be: the fruits of violence did not necessarily go to the just or the wise.

“I fear many things, Sir Deornoth,” Geloë said at last. “The problem with being a ‘wise woman’ is that sometimes you know just enough to be truly afraid, while still not having any better answers than might the youngest child.

“Do you not see, Snowlock, winning and losing are only the walls within which the game takes place.