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These Stepsons tread where mortals don't belong, some of us think. They seek out battle high above their station. Who knows what powers may yet take them and their mystic allies to task, bring them their comeuppance?

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
Thinking
Tasks
Station
Seek
Suspicion
Battle
Stations
Bring
Allies
High
Mortals
Comeuppance
May
Belong
Stepsons
Take
Powers
Tread
Think
Task
Mystic

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I'm just a weapon of the god.
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When the balance is restored, people get hurt.
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Why is it we are always the targets of the angry Fates? Twice as many men of ours met harm as did theirs, since we've come here.
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I thought we'd die there, quarrels in our backs, you for what you did and me for bearing witness.
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What we hold sacred is honor, justice, and glory. You need not swear allegiance to our storm god, to serve with us. Fighters are among us from many lands, with many gods and many beliefs. Believe as you will. What is between a man and his god is theirs alone to say.
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You must become like yourself.
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Sometimes the cost of winning for all the right reasons is so great that spirits die and hearts grow cold.
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Love sees all hate is blind.
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You count up your dead, every one. Always. Recall them, each and all - every face, every heart.
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Generosity is never out of season.
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Haste breeds error error breeds woe.
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Wars don't bring lasting peace, only lasting death.
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I...keep trying to be perfect. For you. So you'll notice me.
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I see all sorts of things when I'm clearing my pipes.
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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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Go carefully, child of mat, where no mercy can be had, and let your faith lead you on.
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Now the Fates are here on the beach, three shadows blacker than black, walking through the dunes and looking for their own. Just shadows, lamb-white hands beneath black robes spun of tears, glide among the celebrants on this night wherein the spirits of Thebes have found a home, if serendipitously.
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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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For Tempus...was a dozen storm gods' avatar no army he sanctified could know defeat no war he fought could not be won. Combat was life to him he fought like the gods themselves.
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