Paladin of Souls

And the Bastard grant us... 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.

Poets speak of hope in ladies smiles, but give me a smirk any day, I say.

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.

...a great man. But...not quite great enough.

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?

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. He looks to spare you pain this one night. I look to your nights for the next twenty years. There is neither right nor wrong in this, precisely. But the time to amend all choices runs out like Porifors's water.

The Father of Winter says tells Ista, "...For my great-souled child is very late, and lost upon his road. My calling voice cannot reach him. He cannot see the light in my window, for he is sundered from me, blind and deaf and stumbling, with none to take his hand and guide him. Yet you may touch him, in his darkness. And I may touch you, in yours. Then take you this thread to draw him through the maze, where I cannot go." Later, Ista delivers the message, "Your Father calls you to His Court. You need not pack; you go garbed in glory as you stand. He waits eagerly by His palace doors to welcome you, and has prepared a place at His high table by His side, in the company of the great-souled, honored, and best-beloved. In this I speak true. Bend your head.

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.

How like a man, to change from mask to mask like a player, concealing all intention, yet leave his heart out on the table, carelessly, unregarded, for all to behold.

Her smile grew bitter as desert brine. "The gods may forgive Ista all day long. But if Ista does not forgive Ista, the gods may go hang themselves.

One learns better than to hand one’s choices to fear. With age, with every wound and scar, one learns.

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.

When the man arises who can make you laugh, solemn Ista, angry Ista, iron Ista, then will your heart be healed. You have not prayed for this: it’s a guerdon even the gods cannot give you. We are limited to such simples as redemption from your sins.

Welcome to my gates, Ista dy Chalion. I am the Mother of Jokona.” Her hand lifted from the girl’s head, flicked out, fingers spreading. Within Ista, the god unfolded. Her second sight burst anew upon Ista’s mind like a dazzling lightning stroke, brilliant beyond hope, revealing an eerie landscape. She saw it all, at one glance: the dozen demons, the swirling, crackling lines of power, the agonized souls, Joen’s dark, dense, writhing passenger. The thirteenth demon, spinning wildly through the air toward her, trailing its evil umbilicus. Ista opened her jaws in a fierce grin, and took it in a gulp. “Welcome to mine, Joen of Jokona,” said Ista. “I am the Mouth of Hell.

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.” He

The gods give no gifts without hooks embedded.

Yet loyalty must run two ways, or else become betrayal in the egg.

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.

There is this, about being the sparring partner of the best swordsman in Caribastos. I always lost. But if ever I meet the third best swordsman in Caribastos, he’s going to be in very deep trouble.

innocence based in ignorance was unfit to protect itself.

All her old thoughts seemed as thin and ragged as a piece of knitting made and ripped out and made and ripped out again until all the threads were frayed, growing ever more worn, but never larger.

they would make her own short body look like a dwarf dragging a curtain.

Anyone who desires to see the gods face-to-face is a great fool,

Quite the reverse, since innocence based in ignorance was unfit to protect itself.

Kako li tek svijet zbunjuje novorođenče, koje za prizore pred svojim očima nema imena, a ni pojam o imenima. Ista je pretpostavljala da dijete počne od majčinog lica i njedara i otuda nastavlja dalje - i da nakon cijelog životnog vijeka još ima što naučiti.

The sort of fellow whose funeral’s orations are all on the theme of Well, that’s a relief.

Welcome to mine, Joen of Jokona,” said Ista. “I am the Mouth of Hell.

That last gallop had flayed her raw skin to shreds. “Saddle sores. Trivial hurts, for all that they are mine.” His brows rose. “What do you call severe, then?” She staggered away past the beheaded commander. “That.