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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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What wastrel mankind destroyed takes time for nature to put to rights.
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Don't forget, Riddler, how I love thee. Or all we shared together. Or that this sea and all other seas can lead you back to me.
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Men may not believe you, my son. But you must always say the truth, when the truth holds no danger for you or your loved ones.
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Arrows are cheap you're expensive.
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The city guardsmen were like the keres, doom-bringers of merciless vengeance.
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You get what you expect. Expect to heal. Expect victory.
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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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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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This is for you. A mage named Randal told me to give it to the Band if you ever came back. 'It surmounts evil,' he told me, 'keeps doom at bay.'
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Some nights, valor and cold purpose aren't enough.
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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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This fight coming is not a battle of weapons, but a battle of wills.
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No ethos, pursued without thought or mercy, is ethical.
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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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You three have done quite enough today: all of you and your feckless, treacherous god.
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I don't want to be any closer to the gods than death will bring me.
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Niko's angular face caught a flicker of firelight and Tempus saw his future there: sharp purpose, discipline, and power in perfect balance love of man and gods, and mercy transcending all. If war ever wore a more humane face, this one would make it so.
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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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Loyalty must be forged - to him, to his: stronger than iron, from experience, from risk - it can't be bought, or taught, or promised before the fact. Allegiance must be earned so it will hold, win or lose.
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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.
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