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Each soul has its appointed doom. How is it you dare to raise a mortal boy so high - high enough to flout the gods? Bring godhead where a man may reach out and take it? growls Enlil, and lightning splits a clear blue sky.
Janet Morris
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Janet Morris
Age: 78
Born: 1946
Born: May 25
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Janet Ellen Morris
Janet E. Morris
Love
High
Raises
Appointed
Clear
Dare
Doom
Power
God
Splits
May
Sky
Mortal
Soul
Blue
Lightning
Take
Reach
Mortals
Growls
Enough
Boys
Raise
Flout
Men
Bring
Gods
Godhead
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Nothing powers hate better than embarrassment.
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What wastrel mankind destroyed takes time for nature to put to rights.
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I can start the rain. Bring thunder. Bring lightning. Want to see?
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Learn what can, and cannot, be asked from destiny.
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Reasons never matter, once Death comes cold and bold and takes the living by the hand. You count up your dead, every one.
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Sacred Bands and elite squadrons aren't what the mercenaries' guild is about. Field them at your peril.
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The heavens listen to what is said on these cobbles. Laws of man and nature come together here. Here you must be firm. Here you must be true.
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You get what you expect. Expect to heal. Expect victory.
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Wanting neither too much to live, nor too much to die.
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This is as 'alone' as I'm likely to get with you - you're not half so fetching as your daughter.
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It is hard to battle anger, for whatever it wants it pays from the soul.
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It's all the same - no good without evil, no balance...no maat. If we lose one, we lose the other. It's just life, that's all.
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Nothing walks the earth more savage than a mare enraged.
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Deception is a tactic: use it. Do whatever it takes to win.
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I think we're all in Cime's army now. But never mind, the Storm God hasn't forgotten us. Heaven is no farther away than it ever was.
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Everything that anyone respects is what men naturally excel at: fighting, accruing wealth, playing at power.
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Some nights, valor and cold purpose aren't enough.
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Gods colliding, ethos and mythos trying to combine. The Sacred Band caught up in a whirlwind not of any god's devising: he and Niko had wanted to save twenty-three pairs of fated Theban fighters. Now everything feels fated and fighting oversweeps its boundaries of time and place and plane.
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It's all right. Things as they once were will never be again, but it's all right.
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I won't go back and live in the sea again.
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