Facundo Gambier

“Do you believe the corelings are our own fault?” Arlen asked. “That we deserve them?” “Of course I believe,” she said. “It is the word of the Creator.” “No,” Arlen said. “It’s a book. Books are written by men. If the Creator wanted to tell us something, why would he use a book, and not write on the sky with fire?” “It’s hard sometimes to believe there’s a Creator up there, watching,” Mery said, looking up at the sky, “but how could it be otherwise? The world didn’t create itself. What power would wards hold, without a will behind creation?” “And the Plague?” Arlen asked. Mery shrugged. “The histories tell of terrible wars,” she said. “Maybe we did deserve it.” “Deserve it?” Arlen demanded. “My mam did not deserve to die because of some stupid war fought centuries ago!” “Your mother was taken?” Mery asked, touching his arm. “Arlen, I had no idea …” Arlen yanked his arm away. “It makes no difference,” he said, storming toward the door. “I have wards to carve, though I hardly see the point, if we all deserve demons in our beds.”
― Peter V. Brett, The Warded Man