Empire Of The Damned Quotes

TERRASEN REMEMBERS EVALIN ASHRYVER. DO YOU? I FOUGHT AT MISTWARD FOR YOUR PEOPLE. RETURN THE GODS-DAMNED FAVOR.

Gavriel’s son was bellowing Whitethorn’s name. A gods-damned victory cry. Over and over, the men taking up the call. Then Fenrys’s voice lifted. And Gavriel’s. And that red-haired queen. The Havilliard king. On into battle, on into bloodshed, they called the prince’s name.

For the first time in a damn long while, Lorcan had no words for what he saw.

We only die if we are forgotten. Burn bright. Burn brief. But burn.

The Prince of Arrow has a much bigger army than you," Miana said. No "Your Highness" no "My Lord." "Yes, he does." I kept waving to the crowd, the big smile on my face. "He's going to win, isn't he?" she said. She looked twelve but she didn't sound twelve. "How old are you?" I asked, a quick glance down at her, still waving. "Twelve." Damn.

See, I never understood that. Why pride is looked on as an evil. You work hard at something you're not born good at? Damn right you should be fucking proud.

It’s a truism in policing that witnesses and statements are fine, but nothing beats empirical physical evidence. Actually it isn’t a truism because most policemen think the word ‘empirical’ is something to do with Darth Vader, but it damn well should be.

The whole damn world could burn, and I would still love you. When everything dissipates, you're the only thing I see. You've always been.

Another damn'd thick, square book! Always, scribble, scribble, scribble! Eh! Mr. Gibbon? (On publication of Vol. 1 of The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire

The first thing you notice about New Orleans are the burying grounds - the cemeteries - and they're a cold proposition, one of the best things there are here. Going by, you try to be as quiet as possible, better to let them sleep. Greek, Roman, sepulchres- palatial mausoleums made to order, phantomesque, signs and symbols of hidden decay - ghosts of women and men who have sinned and who've died and are now living in tombs. The past doesn't pass away so quickly here. You could be dead for a long time. The ghosts race towards the light, you can almost hear the heavy breathing spirits, all determined to get somewhere. New Orleans, unlike a lot of those places you go back to and that don't have the magic anymore, still has got it. Night can swallow you up, yet none of it touches you. Around any corner, there's a promise of something daring and ideal and things are just getting going. There's something obscenely joyful behind every door, either that or somebody crying with their head in their hands. A lazy rhythm looms in the dreamy air and the atmosphere pulsates with bygone duels, past-life romance, comrades requesting comrades to aid them in some way. You can't see it, but you know it's here. Somebody is always sinking. Everyone seems to be from some very old Southern families. Either that or a foreigner. I like the way it is. There are a lot of places I like, but I like New Orleans better. There's a thousand different angles at any moment. At any time you could run into a ritual honoring some vaguely known queen. Bluebloods, titled persons like crazy drunks, lean weakly against the walls and drag themselves through the gutter. Even they seem to have insights you might want to listen to. No action seems inappropriate here. The city is one very long poem. Gardens full of pansies, pink petunias, opiates. Flower-bedecked shrines, white myrtles, bougainvillea and purple oleander stimulate your senses, make you feel cool and clear inside. Everything in New Orleans is a good idea. Bijou temple-type cottages and lyric cathedrals side by side. Houses and mansions, structures of wild grace. Italianate, Gothic, Romanesque, Greek Revival standing in a long line in the rain. Roman Catholic art. Sweeping front porches, turrets, cast-iron balconies, colonnades- 30-foot columns, gloriously beautiful- double pitched roofs, all the architecture of the whole wide world and it doesn't move. All that and a town square where public executions took place. In New Orleans you could almost see other dimensions. There's only one day at a time here, then it's tonight and then tomorrow will be today again. Chronic melancholia hanging from the trees. You never get tired of it. After a while you start to feel like a ghost from one of the tombs, like you're in a wax museum below crimson clouds. Spirit empire. Wealthy empire. One of Napoleon's generals, Lallemaud, was said to have come here to check it out, looking for a place for his commander to seek refuge after Waterloo. He scouted around and left, said that here the devil is damned, just like everybody else, only worse. The devil comes here and sighs. New Orleans. Exquisite, old-fashioned. A great place to live vicariously. Nothing makes any difference and you never feel hurt, a great place to really hit on things. Somebody puts something in front of you here and you might as well drink it. Great place to be intimate or do nothing. A place to come and hope you'll get smart - to feed pigeons looking for handouts

life without books is a life not lived, Dior. There’s a magik like no other to be found in them. To open a book is to open a door – to another place, another time, another mind. And usually, mademoiselle, it’s a mind far sharper than your own.

The road is black ahead,’ I told her. ‘And it’s hard to keep walking when you can’t see the ground beneath your feet. But that’s what courage is. The will to keep walking in the darkness.

And that power... that power Aelin was now dragging up from whatever hellhole was inside her, from whatever fiery pit she'd been damned to endure... Its wake would wash over them.

The right book is worth a hundred blades

This world won’t give you what you want just because you asked nicely, girl. Not respect. Not love. Not peace. You get what you earn. You eat what you kill.

No fear. Only fury.

Below is a conversation between Jorg and his new bride. "The Prince of Arrow has a much bigger army than you," Miana said. No "Your Highness" no "My Lord." "Yes, he does." I kept waving to the crowd, the big smile on my face. "He's going to win, isn't he?" she said. She looked twelve but she didn't sound twelve. "How old are you?" I asked, a quick glance down at her, still waving. "Twelve." Damn.

Measure yourself not by where others are, but where you used to be.

To hate the thing that is completing you. To love the thing that is destroying you. What perfect suffering. What hell divine.

A life without books is a life not lived, Dior. There’s a magik like no other to be found in them. To open a book is to open a door—to another place, another time, another mind. And usually, mademoiselle, it’s a mind far sharper than your own.

That's the way to wisdom, vampire. The wise man learns more from his enemies than the fool from his friends, but even the fool can learn if his friends are willing to call him one. Surround yourself with folk who confront you. If you're not being challenged, you're not learning anything. If you're the smartest man in the room, you're in the wrong fucking room.

Love is madness – or so the poets say – and a lover will do near anything to please their beloved.

Those hurt will hurt in kind. Cruelty is an infection, spread from one victim to the next; an avalanche rolling ever downhill and crashing worst upon those at the bottom of the pile.

It’s a strange thing, to be a sibling. So much rancor and love. Hate and history. It’s a bond forged in iron, that tie. It takes a great deal of work to sunder it entirely. But it can be done.

BOOM! Gabriel roared, leaping in his chair and clapping his hands. Jean-François paused his writing, raised an eyebrow. ‘Must you, Silversaint?’ 'Must I what?' ‘Carry on like a drunken troubadour in a brothel pantomime.' Gabriel shrugged, refilling his goblet. 'In life, always do what you love.

We stand the weight, that others might be spared the burden.

Folk who know nothing still insist on saying something.

BEFORE HE BURNS his bridges, a man should learn to swim.

I heard ye were dead, de León." ""Heaven was full. And the devil was afraid to open the door.

I said it to the Flower, I'll say it again: There's a solace to be found in sadness. And I understand why ye’d think ye deserve that dark. Easier to find refuge in drink, in rage, to say hell with it all and push everyone away. Because ye think that cold is easier to live with than the pain that could come if ye let the warmth back in, only to be burned again. But that's the fire that lets us know we're alive, Gabriel." ‘I shook my head, two pale shadows now rising at my back. “‘You can't fix a broken blade, Phoebe." “‘But don't ye see? We don't get broken. We’re made broken. We are not whole alone. But if we're blessed, if we're brave, we might find those few whose edges fit against our own. Like pieces of the same puzzle, or shards of the same shattered blade. Those people who, in their own broken way, make our broken edge complete.

Better to be a bastard than a fool.' Jean-François smiled. 'You are not a bastard, de León. You are a cunt.' 'Well. You are what you eat, vampire.' 'Charming.' 'My wife certainly thought so.

No!” The word was a roar, a plea, and silver and green flashed in her vision. A name. A name clanged through her as he hurled himself in the path of that fist, that moonfire, not just to save those innocents in the city, but to spare her soul from the agony if she destroyed them all— Rowan. And as his face became clear, his tattoo stark in the sun, as that fist full of unimaginable power now opened toward his heart— There was no force in any world that could keep her contained. And Aelin Galathynius remembered her own name as she shattered through the cage that goddess had shoved her into, as she grabbed that goddess by the damned throat and hurled her out, out, out through that gaping hole where she had infiltrated her, and sealed it— Aelin snapped into her body, her power.

If she wanted to go back to Boston so damn bad, she should just do it. He said this knowing full well she wouldn’t, for it was the particular curse of the Whiting men that their wives remained loyal to them out of spite. By

Involved. At least that was the right word, Alsana reflected, as she liftes her foot off the pedal, and let the wheel spin a few times alone before coming to a squeaky halt. Sometimes, here in England, especially at bus-stops and on the daytime soaps, you heard people say “We’re involved with each other,” as if this were a most wonderful state to be in, as if one chose it and enjoyed it. Alsana never thought of it that way. Involved happened over a long period of time, pulling you in like quicksand. Involved is what befell the moon-faced Alsana Begum and the handsome Samad Miah one week after they’d been pushed into a Delhi breakfast room together and informed they were to marry. Involved was the result when Clara Bowden met Archie Jones at the bottom of some stairs. Involved swallowed up a girl called Ambrosia and a boy called Charlie (yes, Clara had told her that sorry tale) the second they kissed in the larder of a guest house. Involved is neither good, nor bad. It is just a consequence of living, a consequence of occupation and immigration, of empires and expansion, of living in each other’s pockets… one becomes involved and it is a long trek back to being uninvolved. And the woman was right, one didn’t do it for one’s health. Nothing this late in the century was done with health in mind. Alsana was no dummy when it came to the Modern Condition. She watched the talk shows, all day long she watched the talk shows — My wife slept with my brother, My mother won’t stay out of my boyfriend’s life — and the microphone holder, whether it be Tanned Man with White Teeth or Scary Married Couple, always asked the same damn silly question: But why do you feel the need…? Wrong! Alsana had to explain it to them through the screen. You blockhead; they are not wanting this, they are not willing it — they are just involved, see? They walk IN and they get trapped between the revolving doors of those two v’s. Involved. Just a tired inevitable fact. Something in the way Joyce said it, involved — wearied, slightly acid — suggested to Alsana that the word meant the same thing to hear. An enormous web you spin to catch yourself.

You dare speak to me of evil?... You murdered my wife. You butchered my baby. Everything I ever loved, you took from me. And I swear, by all I am and will ever be, you will burn in hell for what you've done. And I will see you there.

We couldn't trust them. They couldn't trust us. Mutual attempts at destruction are the only logical result. He thought of human dreams - both Old Empire and new - of contacting some extra-terrestrial intelligence such as nobody had ever truly encountered. Why? Why would we ever want to? We'd never be able to communicate, and even if we could, we'd still be those same two prisoners forced to trust - and risk - or to damn the other in trying to save slightly more of our own hides.

He begged before he died, you know. Your mighty Tolyev. You all beg, Nikita. That's what they don't tell you. When you see the end coming, past all the bluff and bluster, the thees and thous, in that final moment, you all beg like fucking children. And you die like fucking dogs.

The threat of China is not military. The threat of China is they can’t be intimidated. Europe you can intimidate. When the US tries to get people to stop investing in Iran, European companies pull out, China disregards it. You look at history and understand why: China has been around for 4,000 years and just doesn’t give a damn. You can’t intimidate them — it’s driving people in Washington berserk. Yet of all the major powers, China has been the least aggressive militarily.

The objective, according to Jesus, was not to get people inside of heaven, but to get heaven inside of people. An understanding of the gospel that concerns itself only with getting my own soul into heaven – damn this world, it’s all going to burn anyway – falls miserably short of the revolutionary message of Jesus. Jesus did not come to live in your heart like an imaginary friend. He came to bring you into the kingdom that you might be a part of God’s communal ministry of justice, grace, and mercy.

Hope is for fools, Historian.” Gabriel met the vampire’s eyes. “Hope gets you killed. Hope walks into the fire. Faith leaps over it. I didn’t hope Dior was alive. I believed it.

We only die if we are forgotten,

Burn bright. Burn brief. But burn.

A creature who understands his own damn self and isn't distracted by fear or pain: that's the creature you don't turn your back on.

I heard ye were dead, de León.’ “‘Heaven was full. And the devil was afraid to open the door.

I don't kill helpless women. But you're nothing close to that. And you can't swear by a soul you've no owning of, vampire.

Gabriel, if this is victory...what the hell does defeat look like?

I am nae woman. I am the wild. I am the wind.

Don't you see?" She addressed the entire room. "We either fight here and win, or die trying, because there won't be anything left if we fail. This is the moment. This is the crucial point where the future of yet unborn generations will be decided either by our action or inaction. For centuries to come, people will look back at this time and rejoice at our courage or curse our weakness." She looked directly at Royce now. "For we have the power. Here. Now. In this place. We have the power to alter the course of history and we will be forever damned should we not so much as try!

Una vida sin libros es una vida no vivida, Dior. En los libros hay una magya que no se encuentra en ningún otro sitio. Abrir un libro es abrir una puerta: a otro lugar, a otro tiempo, a otra mente.

I’d rather die for something that matters than live for nothing at all. And because a man survived long enough to have a grey beard and wrinkles means not that he’s actually lived. To live is to risk. To fear and to fail. A man must dance on the dragon’s teeth to steal the fire from its tongue. Most are burned alive in the attempt. But better to dance and fall than to never have danced at all. Pity not the man who dies too soon, but the one who lingers too long. For those men who pass peaceful in their beds, who slip one night soft into sleep and wake nevermore … can they be said to have been awake at all?

There’s a time and place for tears, Flower. An’ there’s a solace to be found in sadness. It’s easier fallin’ downhill than climbin’ up. It hurts to punch on with broken hands. But it’s when darkness falls around us that we find the fire within.

Is this where it was?” Royce asked, stopping and studying the base of the tower. “How should I know?” Hadrian replied as his eyes coursed up the length of the south tower. Up close, it blocked everything else out, a solid wall of black rising against the light of the moon. “I can never understand why such small people build such gigantic things.” “Maybe they’re compensating,” Royce said, dropping several lengths of rope. “Damn it, Royce. It’s been eight years since we did this. I was in better shape then. I was younger, and if I recall, I vowed I would never do it again.” “That’s why you shouldn’t make vows. The moment you do, fate starts conspiring to shove them down your throat.” Hadrian sighed, staring upward. “That’s one tall tower.” “And if the dwarves were still here maintaining it, it would be impregnable. Lucky for us, they’ve let it rot. You should be happy—the last eight years would only have eroded it further. It should be easier.” “It’s granite, Royce. Granite doesn’t erode much in eight years

British colonial policy, quite simply, sought revenue for the greater good of the empire. But “that damned American war,” as North called it, forced the government to confront a displeasing dilemma: either accede to conciliation and forgo income from the colonies or prosecute a war that would cost more money than could ever be squeezed from America. Moreover, success in crushing the rebellion would likely be followed by an expensive, protracted occupation. Even from the lofty vantage of a throne, coherent British war aims were hard to discern.

so deep, “you could have brought the whole of ExxonMobil out there and they wouldn’t have been able to operate that thing worth a damn,” said Philip J. Carroll Jr., a former president of Shell U.S.A., who was appointed by Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld to serve as Paul Bremer’s

The thirst slunk back into the dark where it dwelled, but even the bliss he felt in that moment was soured by the knowledge it must return, intent to rule him. Ever patient. Ever watchful. That hole inside never quite filled. To hate the thing that is completing you. To love the thing that is destroying you. What perfect suffering. What hell divine.

I fancy that the Earth does move, not for the Reasons alledged by Copernicus; but because Hell-fire being shut up in the Center of the Earth, the damned, who make a great bustle to avoid its Flames, scramble up to the Vault, as far as they can from them, and so make the Earth to turn, as a Turn-spit makes the Wheel go round when he runs about in it.

It’s hard to keep walking when you can’t see the ground beneath your feet. But that’s what courage is. The will to keep walking in the darkness. To believe the end is just beyond your outstretched hand, rather than a million miles away. And while some might falter, some might fail, some might curl up like babes rather than walk on through that lonely night, you are not that girl.

I have something to show you." He sank down next to me and handed me a sketchbook. I opened it. And saw the mermaid. She was drawn in colored ink, exquisitely detailed; each scale had a little picture in it: a pyramid, a rocket, a peacock, a lamp. Her torso was patterened red, like a tattoo, like coral. She had a thin strand of seaweed around her neck, with a starfish holding on to the center. Her hair was a tumble of loose black curls. She had my face. I turned the page.And another and another. There she was fighting a creature that was half human, half octopus. Exploring a cave. Riding a shark. Laughing and petting a stingray that rested on her lap. "I'm calling her Cora Lia for the moment," Alex told me. "I thought about Corella, but it sounded like cheap dishware." "She's...amazing." "She's fierce. Fighting the Evil Sea-Dragon King and his minions." I traced the red tattoo on her chest. "This is beautiful." Alex reached into my sweater, pulled the loose neck of the T-shirt away from my shoulder. I didn't stop him. "It looks like coral to me." He touched me, then,the pad of his thumb tracing the outline of the scar. It felt strange, partly because of the difference in the tissue, but more because in the last few years, the only hands that had touched me there were mine. I set the book aside carefully. "Guess I don't see what you do." "That's too bad, because I see you perfectly." I curved myself into him. "Maybe you're exactly what I need." "Like there's any doubt?" He buried his face in my neck.I didn't stop him. "So." "So?" "We'll kill a few hours, watch the sunrise, have pancakes, and you'll drive home." "What?" I felt him smile against my skin. "I got you swimming with sharks. Next on the Conquer Your Fears list is driving a stick shift.Right?" "One thing at a time," I said. Then, "Oh. Do that again." In another story, the intrepid heroine would have gone running out and splashed in the surf, hypothermia be damned. She would have driven the Mustang home, booked a haircut, taken up stand-up comedy, and danced on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. But this was me, and I was moving at my own pace. Truth: My story started a hundred years ago. There's time.

Wished for the days when she might have had the time to bed her gods-damned lover and not choose to catch a few hours of sleep instead. She’d meant to. Last night, they’d returned to the inn, and she’d bathed faster than she’d ever washed before. She’d even emerged from the bathing room naked … and found her Fae Prince asleep atop the glowingly white bed, still clothed, looking for all the world like he’d intended to close his eyes while she washed.

What a revolution! In less than a century the persecuted church had become a persecuting church. Its enemies, the “heretics” (those who “selected” from the totality of the Catholic faith), were now also the enemies of the empire and were punished accordingly. For the first time now Christians killed other Christians because of differences in their views of the faith. This is what happened in Trier in 385: despite many objections, the ascetic and enthusiastic Spanish lay preacher Priscillian was executed for heresy together with six companions. People soon became quite accustomed to this idea. Above all the Jews came under pressure. The proud Roman Hellenistic state church hardly remembered its own Jewish roots anymore. A specifically Christian ecclesiastical anti-Judaism developed out of the pagan state anti-Judaism that already existed. There were many reasons for this: the breaking off of conversations between the church and the synagogue and mutual isolation; the church’s exclusive claim to the Hebrew Bible; the crucifixion of Jesus, which was now generally attributed to the Jews; the dispersion of Israel, which was seen as God’s just curse on a damned people who were alleged to have broken the covenant with God . . . Almost exactly a century after Constantine’s death, by special state-church laws under Theodosius II, Judaism was removed from the sacral sphere, to which one had access only through the sacraments (that is, through baptism). The first repressive measures

He hated himself for not acting, for standing like a damned coward. He would make it up to her—he would see to it that she was freed, and after that … After that … She didn’t fight him when he carried her to her rooms, instructing the physician to follow. He was done with politics and intrigue. He loved her, and no empire, no king, and no earthly fear would keep him from her. No, if they tried to take her from him, he’d rip the world apart with his bare hands. And for some reason, that didn’t terrify him.

His interest lay in researching and piecing together the Empire’s somewhat tangled history. Nothing excited him like reaching into the morass of legend and myth that made up so much of the past and producing one indisputable new fact, clear and sharp as a diamond in a coal mine. And if he’d learned one thing from all the histories he’d read and the tales he’d investigated, it was that most of the time there was no glory and damn all honor to be found on the battlefield. Only blood and mud and the endless bitterness of lost hopes.

Because even she thinks we’re going to lose, and I’ll be damned if I prove that fucking goddess right. I don’t lose. I’ve overcome great odds in my life, and I will never let someone tell me my fate. I make my fate. I decide when and where I will fight and die. I’ve been a slave and a gladiator. I’ve been your mercenary, your warrior, and your rebel. I’m considered enemy number one in the Empire, and I have been a Champion twice.” She straightened her posture. “And if I have to become a fucking Avatar to win this war, that is what I will become.

Since when did you care about the enemy? You know what that word means, don’t you? Or would it help if you looked it up?” “I know what it means,” she said. “It means what you want it to mean. It means you can do what you damn well like. Do you like having people killed, Notker? Does it make you feel big and strong?” “Enemy means someone who wants to hurt you,” I said. “Them or us, simple as that.” “Simple.” She gave me a look I won’t forget in a hurry. “I don’t think there’s any point talking to you. Remember Andronica in The Golden Mask? That’s you, just the wrong way round.

They stared each other down again. And Lorcan knew that if he wanted, he could wait until she was asleep, take it for himself, and vanish. See what might make her so protective of it. But he knew … some small, stupid part of him knew that if he took from this woman who had already had too much stolen from her … He didn’t know if there was any coming back from that. He’d done such despicable, vicious things over the centuries and hadn’t thought twice. He’d reveled in them, relished them, the cruelty. But this … there was a line. Somehow … somehow there was a gods-damned line here.

Constance was interested only in the actual history of the real woman Semiramis. The wild mythologies and legends that had grown up around her over the centuries bit too deeply into Constance’s own uncertainty and guilty fear. She could not bear the legendary, magical figure featured in multiple, sometimes conflicting embellishments, certainly not the damned creature of Dante—-consigned to Hell in the Circle of Lust—-or the tragic figure of Voltaire or Rossini’s opera. But the real woman Semiramis, who had taken the throne at her husband’s death and remained there until her son came of age, who had ruled, expanded, and stabilized the Assyrian Empire, here was a woman who could lend her hope. Aside from history, the only myth of Semiramis that touched her was that of an abandoned girl raised by doves.

I drew a long breath so I could point out to her all the fallacies in her argument, but then I thought; why? Out of an overwhelming duty to the truth? Fuck, as I may have observed before, the truth. If it was here, would it go out of its way to defend me? Unlikely. The truth is utterly selfish and doesn’t give a damn about anyone else. Serving the truth is like serving the empire. Nobody thanks you for it and you die poor. Besides, what is the truth, anyway? In a court of law, it’s the testimony of credible witnesses corroborating each other. She’d been a witness and she knew what she saw. So was I, but even my mother wouldn’t say I was credible. And there’d been hundreds of people there, all rock-solid upright pillars of Dejauzi society. And when I stabbed myself, there were loads of people watching, and they saw what happened with their own eyes. And, come to that, Alyattes was now the nephew of the old emperor and the rightful heir to the throne. He hadn’t been until quite recently, but pretty soon anyone who could testify against his claim would be dead or singing a very different tune, and what was once a lie would become the truth, official, carved on the lintels of triumphal arches; and if you can’t believe what you read on a government arch, what can you believe? All the books would tell it that way, and in a thousand years’ time it will be the truth, just as what was once the bottom of the sea is now a mountaintop. Ask the wise men at the university what truth is and they’ll tell you it’s the consensus of informed and qualified scholars, based on the best evidence available. Availability is governed by what gets burned in the meanwhile, but I see no real problem with that. All living things change or else they die, and why should the truth be any different?

it’s impossible to reconcile the idea of a benevolent creator with a life that looks like this. To convince yourself the one above cares, when there’s so much horror and hurt and hate in the world. Only the blind can look into hellfire and smile. Only the coward raises a fist to his child and calls it love. And I was reminded of that time I spoke to Patience, then. Her little dead bird cupped in her palms. Her questions about why he died. I told you it’s hard to explain death to your child, vampire, but in truth, it’s impossible to explain any of this to anyone. So we settle. For the myth of the grand plan. For the fable of the God who loves us. We teach ourselves to believe in the lie, that all of it will make sense once we die. “But in truth, there’s no truth to any of it. We suffer because he wants it. We hurt because he wills it. We die because he likes it. And if there is a plan, coldblood, then this is the extent of it.” Gabriel waved at the walls; the dark stone around them and empty night beyond. “A world on its knees. Begging for just one moment of mercy. Bleeding its miserable last into the mouths of the monsters his own fucking son created.

Here, then, as Christians in the West began to go their own way, was a deep paradox: that the more distinctive a vision of the afterlife they came to have, the more it bore witness to its origins in the East. Jewish scripture and Greek philosophy, once again, had blended to potent effect. Indeed, across what had once been Roman provinces, in lands pockmarked by abandoned villas and crumbling basilicas, few aspects of life were as coloured by the distant past as the dread of death. What awaited the soul after it had slipped its mortal shell? If not angels, and the road to heaven, then demons black as the Persians had always imagined the agents of the Lie to be; Satan armoured with an account book, just as tax officials of the vanished empire might have borne; a pit of fire, in which the torments of the damned echoed those described, not by the authors of Holy Scripture, but by the poets of pagan Athens and Rome. It was a vision woven out of many ancient elements; but not a vision that Christians of an earlier age would have recognised. Revolutionary in its implications for the dead, it was to prove revolutionary as well in its implications for the living.

Damn them for tormenting me! Don’t they see I’m not what they think? That they are casting upon me the weight of their own hopes? Their own dreams? No one should be asked to carry such a burden. It’s impossible!

Damn them for tormenting me! Don’t they see I’m not what they think? That they are casting upon me the weight of their own hopes? Their own dreams? No one should be asked to carry such a burden. It’s impossible! He

The daughter of renowned Admiral Garrick Versio of the Imperial Security Bureau and famous artist Zeehay Versio may be a traitor to the glorious Empire,” holojournalist Alton Kastle stated, with just the right amount of horror in his smooth voice. “Captain Iden Versio has been recorded as spouting lies about the Empire and inciting violence, denouncing the brave subjects of the Death Star battle station who lost their lives while she survived. This is not in keeping with the behavior of the highly decorated captain hitherto, but the words are damning. “She is slated for an immediate court-martial. Hero of the Empire Admiral Nasha Garvan will prosecute, while the specialized legal-analyst droid HM-12 will provide proper defense as required by Imperial Navy law.

Get clear on the amount of money you’re going to make, the specifics of what the money’s for, and how freaking awesome it feels to make it. Decide, with unshakable commitment, that you are making this money. Get a plan together to make the money you desire to make, chunk the plan back into bite-sized pieces, and focus yer ass off on one goal at a time. Hold an image in your mind of the life you’re creating and all the money that’s flowing toward you with eager excitement, hardcore faith, and deep gratitude. Do your best wherever you’re at. If, while building your greeting card empire, you’ve taken a job scraping gum off the bottom of tables at a bowling alley, instead of being pissed off about having a job that you don’t exactly love (what you focus on you create more of), find the silver lining, be the best damn gum scraper that table has ever worked with, and have an attitude of gratitude.

White women’s presence, coupled with repressive Victorian sexuality, ensured that there would be no shacking up with once-tantalizing Indian lovers. But for the Irish and working-class British sailors and soldiers who kept the Empire running, the administration allowed them sex to release their animal urges. Registers were created. Women and femmes were forced to reside in the Lal Bazaars, red-light districts organized around fucking British men. Damned by an extensive patramyth: literature, surveys, calls for social reform, colonial registers, and codified laws that policed Dalit and Muslim bodies. The 1868 Contagious Diseases Act gave authorities permission to go after women suspected as prostitutes—they could be gynecologically examined without consent, arrested, detained, sent away to be worked to death in a penal colony. An 1881 Census in Bengal declared all unmarried women fifteen and older prostitutes.

Fuck, River,” Knox groans behind me. “You don’t know what you fucking do to me. You don’t know how damn good you feel.

See, I never understood that. Why pride is looked on as an evil. You work hard at something you’re not born good at? Damn right you should be fucking proud. There’s nothing comes of quitting besides the knowledge you didn’t finish.

That sparrow was at the Primeval Stage.” “If it had been at the Ancient Stage, I would’ve left you to die. The Empire doesn’t need useless pieces of shit.” “And what about the other useless piece of shit that sat in the trees during the fight?” “Oh, did you spot me?” “No, I’ve just realized that you're a damned sadist who enjoys tormenting others.” “Stop complaining like a grumpy whore…” “All right,” Hadjar raised his hands in defeat. “I admit it, you aren’t a sadist. You’re a pig. Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk with your mouth full?” Orune belched again and tapped his chest.

Eat shit, you limp-dicked coward.

I know what it is to grow up with a mother who doesn’t care. I know a woman who has a statue of herself erected in her own bloody foyer probably had some demons, and growing up in that statues shadow probably left you with some too.

Jyn slammed her glass down on the table, ignoring the way the blue liquid foamed over the side. The damn rebels. Everywhere she went, they followed. Mucking it all up. Bringing the Empire down on the people who didn’t want to get involved. Why couldn’t people just be people? Why did they have to be on one side or another? If everyone would just stop caring so much, maybe the galaxy could actually find the peace everyone claimed they wanted.

Perhaps that is why you mortals burn so fierce; because you know the flame must be so brief. For we immortals, there is only loss. All affection fades. Everything dies. Only the blood brings true peace. And you know that joy too; that perfect moment, as darkness is riven crimson and we feel truly alive.

Of course there’s a gods-damned lock,

That’s the way to wisdom, vampire. The wise man learns more from his enemies than the fool from his friends, but even the fool can learn if his friends are willing to call him one. Surround yourself with folk who confront you. If you’re not being challenged, you’re not learning anything. If you’re the smartest man in the room, you’re in the wrong fucking room.

pale

Bloodshed,

Wendor shook his head. “No, friend Kagen, the Witch-king wants them there as guests and witnesses. Or, perhaps, accomplices. If they salute him as he dons the crown, then the Hakkian Empire becomes legal. Such a thing would turn the Witch-king from invading usurper to the true emperor in the west.” The doctor paused and sighed. “The world as we have always known it, my friend, is ending. The sun is setting, and we are likely to live the rest of our lives under the shadow of the eclipse.

clotting

The girl shook her head. “It’s how it always is. Fathers tell their sons about fishing and fighting and becoming men. Do you know what mothers tell their daughters? They tell us how not to get raped. They tell us how to avoid being seen as women, to hide our sex, to not provoke men. Even in an empire ruled by a woman, and I expect it’s the same everywhere.

Think of it! An opportunity to remake the world! An opportunity to create a steam-driven utopia! To re-educate humanity to despise violence. And what do they do, those incompetents? They opt for the pretty clothes and the empire-mad European imperialist culture of the 19th century. Damn those fools. Those geeks, arrogant, myopic, ivory tower board gamers. Damn them.

It’s about seeing how much they can get away with not telling you. This is just a test. Thieves start out by taking candy bars, just to see if they can. Then, when they realize how easy it is, they move to cars and jewels and banks. This is a mere trifle compared with what’s coming your way. And the bitch of it is, your generation won’t ever see it coming. You’ll just sit there with your video games and your Mac Classics or whatever while the bastards rob the store blind. And you don’t even know you own the damn store. It’s pitiful. Fucking pathetic. The beginning of the end of a goddamn failed empire.

Marcus woke again to find Sanga lying asleep on his bed, and he quietly climbed off his own mattress, standing still for a moment to allow the slight feeling of dizziness to pass. Walking quietly on bare feet, he made his way up the corridor to the latrine, then went in search of his wife. Felicia was delighted to see him on his feet, despite her immediate concern for his well-being, which were quickly dispelled when he waved her away and turned a full circle with his arms out. ‘Well, you seem to be spry enough that I think we can assume the effects of the mandrake have completely worn off. You won’t be able to speak or eat solid food for some time yet though.’ ‘And that’s why I brought this for him.’ They turned to find the tribune standing in the doorway with a smile on his face, a small iron pot dangling from one hand. ‘There’s a food shop at the end of the street whose proprietress was only too happy to lend me the pot in the likelihood of getting your business for the next few weeks. Pass me a cup and I’ll pour you some.’ Marcus found his glass drinking tube and took a sip at the soup, nodding his thanks to the tribune. Scaurus sat in silence until the cup was empty, watching as the hungry centurion consumed the soup as quickly as its temperature would allow. ‘That’s better, eh? There’s more in the pot for when I’m gone. I’d imagine you’ll be spending another night in here just to be sure you’re over the worst of it, but that ought to keep you going until morning. And now, Centurion, to business? First Spear Frontinius tells me that you passed a message requesting a conversation with me, although from the look of things most of the speaking will be done by me.’ Marcus nodded, reaching for his tablet and writing several lines of text. He handed the wooden case to Scaurus, who read the words and stared back at his centurion with his eyebrows raised in astonishment. ‘Really? You’re sure of this?’ After thinking for a moment, Marcus held out his hand and took the tablet back. He smoothed the wax and wrote another statement. Scaurus looked grimly at the text, shaking his head. ‘You got that close to him?’ Marcus wrote in the tablet again. Scaurus read the text aloud, a wry smile on his face. ‘“Take a tent party with you.” A tent party? I’ll need a damned century if he’s as dangerous as you say. And the nastiest, most bad-tempered officer in the First Cohort. Do any names spring to mind, Centurion?

There is plenty of other evidence, however, that the nominal conversion of the Roman Empire to the Christian religion had effected no visible improvement in the common morals. The world was worse rather than better. Out of its besetting temptations men fled to save their souls. They fled from the world, which in the first century was believed by the Christians to be doomed, and liable to be destroyed by divine fire before the end of the year, and which in the fourth century was believed by the Christians to be damned: it belonged to the devil. They fled also from the church, which they accused of secularity and of hypocrisy. Many of the monks were laymen, who in deep disgust had forsaken the services and sacraments. They said their own prayers and sought God in their own way, asking no aid from priests. They were men who had resolved never to go to church again.

Maynard, what have you been doing with yourself?" Odegar Taumber asked as the slow moving librarian shuffled from the stairwell to the main floor. Casselle caught sight of Temos and Raabel and motioned for Jaksen to deposit the books on a nearby and conveniently clean table. He did so and the squadmates reunited, just out of earshot of the Captain. "I see you two found him," Raabel said. "We've been back for some time. I guess he's as slow as he looks?" "Casselle found him," Jaksen replied. "And he's both slow and rude. I'm sure he's important enough, but seems like he was in no real danger to begin with." "I took a look out of the windows while we were searching for him," Temos said. "It doesn't look like it's calmed down much out there. I'd hate to think of trying to move him through an angry crowd. He doesn't look nimble enough to sneak by, either." "If we weren't in this damned armor, I'd just carry him," Raabel said. Coming from someone else, it might have been considered a boast, but Raabel usually didn't say things he wasn't sure he was capable of doing. Casselle pictured the old man wailing in protest, thrown over Raabel's shoulder and being forced to bounce along like a sack of potatoes. Raabel was right about the armor, though: it was clumsy and ill-fitting. It was obvious that it had not been altered for them, and none more obvious than on Casselle. Her broad shoulders were a boon, but even bound, her breasts had proved problematic to find a properly sized chestplate from a stockpile that had been made exclusively for men. They had settled on a piece that was just slightly too large, having previously been worn by a heavyset Templar from a time before. In thinking of it, she pondered Maynard's earlier words. "He called me a boy," she said. "A fat young boy." Her squadmates took a step back, shocked. "And you did not correct him?" Raabel asked. "Or worse?" Jaksen asked. "To be fair," Temos said after a moment, "he is very old. It is entirely possible he has lost his will to live.

There are lots of people who aren't going to like this book, whether they are into morals or not. I figure there are three distinct groups of people who'll hate this thing. Hate group number one consists of most of the people who are mentioned in the book. Hate group number two consists of all the people who aren't mentioned in the book and are pissed at not being able to join hate group number one. Hate group number three doesn't give a damn about the other two hate groups and will just hate the book because somewhere I write that object-oriented programming was invented in Norway in 1967, when they know it was invented in Bergen, Norway, on a rainy afternoon in late 1966. I never have been able to please these folks, who are mainly programmers and engineers, but I take some consolation in knowing that there are only a couple hundred thousand of them. My guess is that most people won't hate this book, but if they do, I can take it. That's my job.

I eased back into the throne. Damn comfortable: swan-down and silk. Kinging it is pain in the arse enough without one of those gothic chairs.

You did a fine job with those science nerds over the course of this past year, John. Very fine job. Nothing but praise from the lot of them. Well done.” His thick English accent had a soothing effect every time he spoke. John remembered him fondly as a young man. His father and the Admiral had gone to the academy together and served side by side for many years before John’s father met an untimely death. Sitting here with him now and listening to him speak brought him back to those simpler times. “I was just doing my duty, Sir.” “Oh come now. You know and I know that there isn’t a bloody captain in this entire fleet that wanted that assignment. There isn’t a bit of action when you have the lot of them aboard. And on a bloody science mission besides. No, no, you are a real hero for saving all of us from having to do such a duty. And for a year! Bloody hell.” He opened up a drawer and pulled out two thick, stubby glasses, and then extracted a bottle of rum. Of course he brought out the rum. “I suppose you heard that we’ve been hard at work getting our first Deep Space Class starship ready to launch this year?” he asked as he filled both glasses half full with the amber liquid. He Offered one glass to John who took it with reluctance. He had never been one who liked liquor. “Heard she’s a beauty. The engine is something of a marvel as well?” “Damn straight,” he said as he downed his first glass in one pull. He filled his glass up half full for round two. “Currently our fastest ship will get you to the Wild Space region in twenty years. This buggers going to do it in six months and I’d like you to take her out on her maiden voyage.” John sat back in shock. The thought of taking out the prototype of the future… it was a great honor and one that hundreds of captains in star fleet would give anything for. He certainly wasn’t worthy of such an honor. He didn’t have nearly the amount of years as everyone else in the fleet. “I don’t think it’d be right to accept, would it? I mean… there are some captains who’ve…” “Bumshnickles!” he shouted. “Your father was the captain of the first Earth Starship Independence. It’s only right that the second to bear her name should have an Avery in the chair.

I followed the words of the famous Russian proverb: Doveryai, no proveryai (or, in English, 'Trust, but verify').

It’s the lowest kind of man who raises a hand to his child and calls it love.

Ignorance is a chasm, and knowledge is the bridge.

Your Empress demanded the whole of my tale, did she not?” A sigh. “She did.” “And you’re perfectly content to hear every lurid detail when I’m getting my kit off. I’m certain I could sing about swollen buds and aching crowns all night and I’d not hear a word of complaint.” The Last Silversaint arched one brow, but the vampire remained suspiciously mute. “So, where were we?” The historian rolled his eyes. “Boom?