Heir Apparent Quotes

You're the heir apparent to the head of the Council,ergo-" "Dad,it is way to early to be using words like 'ergo.

They'd poisoned me, dammit. Probably to trade my dead body to the barbarians for Wulfgar's safe return. Or maybe just for the fun of it.

He's named you heir apparent to the Apocalypse. Congratulations.

She sighed. Loudly. "Physical appearance is not what is important." Yeah right. Tell that to any girl who hasn't bothered to put on a presentable shirt or fix her hair because she's only running into the grocery store to get a quart of milk for her grandmother, and who does she see tending the 7-ITEMS-OR-LESS cash register but the guy of her dreams, except she can't even say hi—much less try to develop a meaningful relationship—since she looks like the poster child for the terminally geeky.

In that moment, you wielded him, our unyielding, uncompromising, headstrong heir apparent.

if Saint Bruce doesn't like your poem, he chops your head off.

There, close enough to spit on--if I'd been a barbarian and inclined to spit--was the dragon.

When your wife asks you for your opinion, she doesn't really want your opinion. She wants her opinion - just in a deeper voice.

Giannine--What are they going to do: smack me on the head with a pamplet?

Raisa felt relieved, yet oddly disappointed. She was the blooded princess heir, yet in servants' clothes she was apparently unrecognizable. In the stories, rulers had a natural presence about them that identified them as such, even dressed in rags. What's the nature of royalty, she wondered. Is it like a gown you put on that disappears when you take it off? Does anyone look beyond the finery? Could anyone in the queendom take her place, given the right accessories? If so, it was contrary to everything she'd ever been taught about bloodlines.

When the media enjoy such excessive profits from this mass hysteria, what incentive do they have to restrain it?

So gorgeous was the spectacle on the May morning of 1910 when nine kings rode in the funeral of Edward VII of England that the crowd, waiting in hushed and black-clad awe, could not keep back gasps of admiration. In scarlet and blue and green and purple, three by three the sovereigns rode through the palace gates, with plumed helmets, gold braid, crimson sashes, and jeweled orders flashing in the sun. After them came five heirs apparent, forty more imperial or royal highnesses, seven queens - four dowager and three regnant - and a scattering of special ambassadors from uncrowned countries. Together they represented seventy nations in the greatest assemblage of royalty and rank ever gathered in one place and, of its kind, the last. The muffled tongue of Big Ben tolled nine by the clock as the cortege left the palace, but on history's clock it was sunset, and the sun of the old world was setting in a dying blaze of splendor never to be seen again.

SOME DAMNED FOOLISH THING in the Balkans,” Bismarck had predicted, would ignite the next war. The assassination of the Austrian heir apparent, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, by Serbian nationalists on June 28, 1914, satisfied his condition.

When Malcolm X, who is considered the movement’s second-in-command, and heir apparent, points out that the cry of “violence” was not raised, for example, when the Israelis fought to regain Israel, and, indeed, is raised only when black men indicate that they will fight for their rights, he is speaking the truth. The conquests of England, every single one of them bloody, are part of what Americans have in mind when they speak of England’s glory. In the United States, violence and heroism have been made synonymous except when it comes to blacks, and the only way to defeat Malcolm’s point is to concede it and then ask oneself why this is so.

I’ve been apprenticed to Abertha since I was seven, and I love her like blood, but she will prank you and waste your time for shits and giggles, no doubt.

Damn it all to hell,” I groan. “Son of a bitch,” she agrees. “Motherfucker,” Bevan pipes in. “What are we cursing about? Or who? Whatever, I’m down. Fuck ’em all.

Before I drift off, I hear a pup say through the thin trailer wall, “Why does it smell like wood?” “That’s Cadoc Collins,” Rosie murmurs in reply. “He smells nice.” “So does cyanide,” she says.

This is an unfortunate personality trait of mine. I will discover a random thing I find interesting, learn everything I can, and then want to share my newfound knowledge with everyone around me. Apparently,

Socialism was embraced by the greater part of the intelligentsia as the apparent heir of the liberal tradition: therefore it is not surprising that to them the idea of socialism’s leading to the opposite of liberty should appear inconceivable.

By mid-November, his protests notwithstanding, whiskers began sprouting from his face. A few weeks later, his assistant private secretary, John Hay, approvingly punned: Election news Abe’s hirsute fancy warrant— Apparent hair becomes heir apparent.44

How much more does Sonia Gandhi’s son know about the past of the party of which he is now the vice president? Not very much. In Rahul Gandhi’s understanding of his party’s history, only five leaders have mattered: his mother, his father, his grandmother, his great-grandfather and Mahatma Gandhi, the only Indian politician whom he (and Sonia) have granted parity with their own family. Gokhale, Tilak, Rajaji, Azad, Kamaraj, even (or especially) Patel—these are merely names (and sometimes not even that) to the heir apparent. By

Unassuming comic Frank Shuster reigns supreme as a Canadian propaganda machine. Besides his own influential comedy duo, he is the father-in-law of heir apparent Lorne Michaels and the cousin of Joe Shuster, the creator of Superman (see Superman, the Greatest Canadian Hero)!

The country was passing through turbulent times. British Raj was on its last legs. The World War had sucked the juice out of the British economy. Britain neither had the resources nor the will to hold on to a country the size of India. Sensing the British weakness and lack of resources to rule, different leagues of Indians sniffed different destinies in the air following the imminent exit of the British: a long stretch of Nehru Raj, Hindu Raj extending from Kashmir to Kerala not seen since Emperor Ashoka in third-century BCE before the emperor himself renounced Hinduism and turned a non-violent Buddhist, a Muslim-majority state carved out of two shoulders of India with a necklace-like corridor running through her bosom along Grand Trunk Road, balkanisation of the country with princes ruling the roost, and total chaos. From August 1946 onwards, chaos appeared to be the most likely destiny as it spurted in Bengal, Bihar, and United Provinces, ending in the carnage of minority communities at every place. The predicament of British government was how to cut their losses and run without many British casualties before the inevitable chaos spread to the whole country. The predicament of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the leader of the Muslim League, was how to achieve his dream of Muslim-majority Pakistan carved out of India before his imminent demise from tuberculosis he suffered from, about which—apart from his doctor—only a handful of his closest relations and friends knew about. The predicament of Jawaharlal Nehru, the heir apparent of the Congress Party anointed by Gandhiji, was how to attain independence of the country followed by Nehru Raj while Gandhiji, a frail 77-year-old at the time, was still alive, for God only knew who would be the leader of the party once Gandhiji’s soul and his moral authority were dispatched to heaven, and Nehru couldn’t possibly leave the crucial decision in the hands of a God he didn’t particularly believe in. Time was of the essence to all the three.

This was one of those odd thoughts that came out of the blue and struck me as both clever and logical. Hot chocolate wouldn’t be something desert people would naturally gravitate toward. (There are cold deserts, of course, but with two suns I always assumed Tatooine is mostly pretty warm. Now, of course, the Star Wars Essential Atlas and other official material backs up that assumption.) I also caught way more grief for this than I ever expected. Quite a few people took me to task for putting an Earth-based drink into the Star Wars universe. Of course, those same people apparently weren’t bothered by the Millennium Falcon, or lightsabers. It was, though, a reminder that you never know what word or image might jolt someone out of their suspension of disbelief. Anyway, why would anyone want to live in that Galaxy Far, Far Away if they don’t have chocolate? Inconceivable …

There can be no doubt that the promise of greater freedom has become one of the most effective weapons of socialist propaganda and that the belief that socialism would bring freedom is genuine and sincere. But this would only heighten the tragedy if it should prove that what was promised to us as the Road to Freedom was in fact the High Road to Servitude. Unquestionably, the promise of more freedom was responsible for luring more and more liberals along the socialist road, for blinding them to the conflict which exists between the basic principles of socialism and liberalism, and for often enabling socialists to usurp the very name of the old party of freedom. Socialism was embraced by the greater part of the intelligentsia as the apparent heir of the liberal tradition: therefore it is not surprising that to them the idea of socialism's leading to the opposite of liberty should appear inconceivable.

Lord Hartley has strict requirements for his heir’s prospective wife, particularly that she have “a striking appearance and a presentable wit.” One only hopes that the heir apparent recognizes what his father does not—that a woman with a presentable appearance and a striking wit is far more interesting. L

When Malcolm X, who is considered the movement’s second-in-command, and heir apparent, points out that the cry of “violence” was not raised, for example, when the Israelis fought to regain Israel, and, indeed, is raised only when black men indicate that they will fight for their rights, he is speaking the truth.

When Malcolm X, who is considered the movement’s second-in-command, and heir apparent, points out that the cry of “violence” was not raised, for example, when the Israelis fought to regain Israel, and, indeed, is raised only when black men indicate that they will fight for their rights, he is speaking the truth. The

They'd poisoned me, dammit. Probably to trade my dead body to the barbarians for Wulfgar's safe return. Or maybe just for the fun of it.

you don’t get mad ’cause a rabid dog foams at the mouth. You get the hell away from the dog.

We’ve been called worse our whole lives. I don’t like it—it doesn’t feel good—but like Abertha says, you don’t get mad ’cause a rabid dog foams at the mouth. You get the hell away from the dog.

I wait a beat to make sure he’s done. I had no idea that Cadoc Collins lacked game to such a degree. Pritchard’s smoother, and he once offered Nia a packaged apple pie if she’d let him touch her boob.

Unlike every other female—scavengers and nobs—I’ve never had a crush on the alpha heir. Yes, he’s nice to look at, and he did help me out once upon a time, but that’s not enough to get my engine running. What does get my engine running? I have no idea. I hope my engine runs.

Following the death in 1874 of Prince Hamid ‘Ali, the heir apparent, the title passed to Farid-ud-din Qadr. He was now the eldest surviving son of Wajid ‘Ali Shah, born to Mashuq Mahal in about 1846. He had been first married when he was about six years old, to a daughter of the chief minister, ‘Ali Naqi Khan, who seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of female relatives as brides for the Awadh family. These complicated family intermarriages meant that the king’s second nikah wife, Akhtar Mahal, was also the sister-in-law of Farid-ud-din Qadr.

Suddenly, literature, politics, and analysis came together, and I began to think more inclusively about the emotional imprisonment of mind and spirit to which all human beings are heir. In the course of analytic time, it became apparent that -- with or without the burden of social justice -- the effort required to attain any semblance of inner freedom was extraordinary. Great literature, I then realized, is a record not of the achievement, but of the effort.

Nazi aggression, one might think, should have lent support to Winston’s candidacy. At this, of all times, it seems inconceivable that Baldwin would pick a weak man to supervise the defense of England. Nevertheless, that was what he did. Baldwin said outright: “If I pick Winston, Hitler will be cross.” In his biography of Chamberlain, Keith Feiling writes that the Rhineland was “decisive against Winston’s appointment”; it was “obvious that Hitler would not like it.” As the prime minister’s heir apparent, Chamberlain encouraged Baldwin to think along these lines. He suggested that Baldwin choose a man “who would excite no enthusiasm” and “create no jealousies.” The prime minister agreed. On Saturday, March 14—exactly a week since German troops had crossed the Rhine—he announced that he was establishing, not a ministry of defense, but a ministry for coordination of defense. Its leader, the new cabinet member, would be Sir Thomas Inskip.

A loose board on the boat’s deck creaked under Hadrian’s weight and Royce glared at him. Twelve years they had worked together, and still Royce did not seem capable of understanding that Hadrian could not float. The problem was that Royce apparently could. He made it look so easy. Hadrian walked like the caricature of a thief—on his toes, his arms out for balance, wavering up and down as if he were on a tightrope. Royce walked as casually as if he were sauntering down a city street. They communicated as they always did on the job, with facial expressions and hand gestures. Royce had learned sign language as part of his guild training but had never bothered teaching Hadrian more than a few signals. Royce was always able to communicate what he needed by pointing, counting with his fingers, or making simple obvious signs like scissoring his fingers across his level palm, imitating legs walking on a floor. He expressed most of his silent dialogue the way he was now: through rolled eyes, glares, and the pitiable shaking of his head. Given how irritated he so often looked, it was a mystery why he put up with Hadrian.

Dr. Nicole Martin.” Riker felt Myne’s eyes boring into him. “She’s alive?” “Apparently.” A shiver of hatred slithered up Riker’s spine. Until last week, when he’d seen a newspaper article glorifying the return of the Martin heir, he’d believed only one member of the godforsaken immediate family, Charles, was alive. “After the rest of the Martins were slaughtered in the rebellion, she was sent to Paris to live with her mother’s relatives until she was old enough to work in Daedalus’s French division as a vampire physiologist.” The mere mention of the infamous Seattle Slave Rebellion made Myne’s voice degenerate into gravel. “And she’s here now?” Riker nodded at the female in the window. “Right there and all grown up. And if you’re done jacking off your dagger, we’ll go have a chat with her.” “You think she’ll cooperate?” Hell no. She was a Martin, after all, current CEO of the company that had revolutionized vampire slavery and used vampires like lab rodents to advance human medicine. Daedalus went through vampires like a slaughterhouse went through cattle, and Riker doubted the company held to any kind of “humane” standards. “For her sake,” Riker said slowly, “I hope so.

In one conspicuous case, that of royalty, the State does already select the parents on purely political grounds; and in the peerage, though the heir to a dukedom is legally free to marry a dairymaid, yet the social pressure on him to confine his choice to politically and socially eligible mates is so overwhelming that he is really no more free to marry the dairymaid than George IV was to marry Mrs Fitzherbert; and such a marriage could only occur as a result of extraordinary strength of character on the part of the dairymaid acting upon extraordinary weakness on the part of the duke. Let those who think the whole conception of intelligent breeding absurd and scandalous ask themselves why George IV was not allowed to choose his own wife whilst any tinker could marry whom he pleased? Simply because it did not matter a rap politically whom the tinker married, whereas it mattered very much whom the king married. The way in which all considerations of the king’s personal rights, of claims of the heart, of the sanctity of the marriage oath, and of romantic morality crumpled up before this political need shews how negligible all these apparently irresistible prejudices are when they come into conflict with the demand for quality in our rulers. We learn the same lesson from the case of the soldier, whose marriage, when it is permitted at all, is despotically controlled with a view solely to military efficiency. Well, nowadays it is not the king that rules, but the tinker. Dynastic wars are no longer feared, dynastic alliances no longer valued. ... On the other hand a sense of the social importance of the tinker’s marriage has been steadily growing. We have made a public matter of his wife’s health in the month after her confinement. We have taken the minds of his children out of his hands and put them into those of our State schoolmaster. We shall presently make their bodily nourishment independent of him. ... King Demos must be bred like all other kings; and with Must there can be no arguing.

The hereditary Emperor is nearly dead and has been for many centuries. In the last moments of his dying coma he was locked in a stasis field which keeps him in a state of perpetual unchangingness. All his heirs are now long dead, and this means that without any drastic political upheaval, power has simply and effectively moved a rung or two down the ladder, and is now seen to be vested in a body that used to act simply as advisers to the Emperor—an elected governmental assembly headed by a President elected by that assembly. In fact it vests in no such place. The President in particular is very much a figurehead—he wields no real power whatsoever. He is apparently chosen by the government, but the qualities he is required to display are not those of leadership but those of finely judged outrage. For this reason the President is always a controversial choice, always an infuriating but fascinating character. His job is not to wield power but to draw attention away from it. On those criteria Zaphod Beeblebrox is one of the most successful Presidents the Galaxy has ever had—he has already spent two of his ten presidential years in prison for fraud. Very very few people realize that the President and the Government have virtually no power at all, and of these few people only six know whence ultimate political power is wielded. Most of the others secretly believe that the ultimate decision-making process is handled by a computer. They couldn’t be more wrong.

The Sumerian pantheon was headed by an "Olympian Circle" of twelve, for each of these supreme gods had to have a celestial counterpart, one of the twelve members of the Solar System. Indeed, the names of the gods and their planets were one and the same (except when a variety of epithets were used to describe the planet or the god's attributes). Heading the pantheon was the ruler of Nibiru, ANU whose name was synonymous with "Heaven," for he resided on Nibiru. His spouse, also a member of the Twelve, was called ANTU. Included in this group were the two principal sons of ANU: E.A ("Whose House Is Water"), Anu's Firstborn but not by Antu; and EN.LIL ("Lord of the Command") who was the Heir Apparent because his mother was Antu, a half sister of Anu. Ea was also called in Sumerian texts EN.KI ("Lord Earth"), for he had led the first mission of the Anunnaki from Nibiru to Earth and established on Earth their first colonies in the E.DIN ("Home of the Righteous Ones")—the biblical Eden. His mission was to obtain gold, for which Earth was a unique source. Not for ornamentation or because of vanity, but as away to save the atmosphere of Nibiru by suspending gold dust in that planet's stratosphere. As recorded in the Sumerian texts (and related by us in The 12th Planet and subsequent books of The Earth Chronicles), Enlil was sent to Earth to take over the command when the initial extraction methods used by Enki proved unsatisfactory. This laid the groundwork for an ongoing feud between the two half brothers and their descendants, a feud that led to Wars of the Gods; it ended with a peace treaty worked out by their sister Ninti (thereafter renamed Ninharsag). The inhabited Earth was divided between the warring clans. The three sons of Enlil—Ninurta, Sin, Adad—together with Sin's twin children, Shamash (the Sun) and Ishtar (Venus), were given the lands of Shem and Japhet, the lands of the Semites and Indo-Europeans: Sin (the Moon) lowland Mesopotamia; Ninurta, ("Enlil's Warrior," Mars) the highlands of Elam and Assyria; Adad ("The Thunderer," Mercury) Asia Minor (the land of the Hittites) and Lebanon. Ishtar was granted dominion as the goddess of the Indus Valley civilization; Shamash was given command of the spaceport in the Sinai peninsula. This division, which did not go uncontested, gave Enki and his sons the lands of Ham—the brown/black people—of Africa: the civilization of the Nile Valley and the gold mines of southern and western Africa—a vital and cherished prize. A great scientist and metallurgist, Enki's Egyptian name was Ptah ("The Developer"; a title that translated into Hephaestus by the Greeks and Vulcan by the Romans). He shared the continent with his sons; among them was the firstborn MAR.DUK ("Son of the Bright Mound") whom the Egyptians called Ra, and NIN.GISH.ZI.DA ("Lord of the Tree of Life") whom the Egyptians called Thoth (Hermes to the Greeks)—a god of secret knowledge including astronomy, mathematics, and the building of pyramids. It was the knowledge imparted by this pantheon, the needs of the gods who had come to Earth, and the leadership of Thoth, that directed the African Olmecs and the bearded Near Easterners to the other side of the world. And having arrived in Mesoamerica on the Gulf coast—just as the Spaniards, aided by the same sea currents, did millennia later—they cut across the Mesoamerican isthmus at its narrowest neck and—just like the Spaniards due to the same geography—sailed down from the Pacific coast of Mesoamerica southward, to the lands of Central America and beyond. For that is where the gold was, in Spanish times and before.

When Malcolm X, who is considered the movement’s second-in-command, and heir apparent, points out that the cry of “violence” was not raised, for example, when the Israelis fought to regain Israel, and, indeed, is raised only when black men indicate that they will fight for their rights, he is speaking the truth. The conquests of England, every single one of them bloody, are part of what Americans have in mind when they speak of England’s glory. In the United States, violence and heroism have been made synonymous except when it comes to blacks, and the only way to defeat Malcolm’s point is to concede it and then ask oneself why this is so. Malcolm’s statement is not answered by references to the triumphs of the N.A.A.C.P., the more particularly since very few liberals have any notion of how long, how costly, and how heartbreaking a task it is to gather the evidence that one can carry into court, or how long such court battles take. Neither is it answered by references to the student sit-in-movement, if only because not all Negroes are students and not all of them live in the South. I, in any case, certainly refuse to be put in the position of denying the truth of Malcolm’s statements simply because I disagree with his conclusions, or in order to pacify the liberal conscience. Things are as bad as the Muslims say they are—in fact, they are worse, and the Muslims do not help matters—but there is no reason that black men should be expected to be more patient, more forbearing, more farseeing than whites; indeed, quite the contrary. The real reason that nonviolence is considered to be a virtue in Negroes—I am not speaking now of its racial value, another matter altogether—is that white men do not want their lives, their self-image, or their property threatened. One wishes they would say so more often. At the end of a television program on which Malcolm X and I both appeared, Malcolm was stopped by a white member of the audience who said, “I have a thousand dollars and an acre of land. What’s going to happen to me?” I admired the directness of the man’s question, but I didn’t hear Malcolm’s reply, because I was trying to explain to someone else that the situation of the Irish a hundred years ago and the situation of the Negro today cannot very usefully be compared.

Vaishampayana said, “I shall recount the entire history, that which was composed by the great-souled maharshi Vyasa, whose powers are infinite and who is worshipped in all the worlds. This contains 100,000 sacred shlokas, composed by Satyavati’s son, Vyasa, of infinite powers. The learned man who recites it to others and also those who hear its recital attain the world of Brahma and become the equals of the gods. This is equal to the Vedas. It is sacred and supreme. It is the best of all that can be heard. It is a purana worshipped by the rishis. It contains all the useful instructions on artha and kama. This immensely sacred history makes the mind desire to attain salvation. The learned man who recites Krishna’s33 Veda to those who are noble, generous, truthful and faithful, will attain great fortune. Even sins like the killing of embryos in wombs are destroyed. On hearing it, the most evil is freed from the most evil of sins. This history, called jaya, should be heard by those who wish to attain victory. On hearing it, a king can bring the entire world under his subjugation and defeat all his enemies. This is the best way to obtain a son and the great path to ensure welfare. It should be heard several times by heirs apparent and their wives.

We have to find a way to push them together,” Minerva said. “You know perfectly well that if Oliver marries, Gran will forget this ridiculous idea of hers about the rest of us marrying. She just wants him to produce an heir” Hetty’s eyebrows shot high. Her granddaughter had a big surprise coming down the road. “And you’re willing to throw him under the wheels of the coach to save yourself, is that it?” Jarret quipped. “No!” Her voice softened. “You and I both know he needs someone to drag him out of himself. Or he’s just going to get scarier as he gets older.” She paused. “Did you tell him about Miss Butterfield’s being an heiress?” That certainly arrested Hetty’s attention. She hadn’t dreamed that the girl had money. “Yes, but I fear that might have been a mistake-when I suggested that he marry her for her fortune, he got angry.” Of course he got angry, you fool, Hetty thought with a roll of her eyes. Honestly, did her grandson know nothing about his brother? “For goodness sake, Jarret, you weren’t supposed to suggest that. You were supposed to get him concerned that she might fall prey to fortune hunters.” At least Minerva had a brain. “Damn,” Jarret said. “Then I probably shouldn’t have exaggerated the amount.” “Oh, Lord.” Minerva sighed. “By how much?” “I kind of…tripled it.” Minerva released an unladylike oath. “Why did you do that? Now he won’t go near her. Haven’t you noticed how much he hates talk of marrying for money?” “Men say things like that, but in the end they’re practical.” “Not Oliver! You’ve just ruined everything!” “Don’t be so dramatic,” Jarret said. “Besides, I have a plan-I laid the seeds for it before I even left Oliver’s study. Come, let’s go talk to the others. It will take all of us working together.” His voice receded as the two of them apparently left the room. “If we merely…” Hetty strained to hear, but she lost the thread of the conversation. Not that it mattered. A smile tugged at her mouth. It appeared she would not have to carry off this match alone. All she need do was sit back and watch Jarret work on Oliver. In the meantime, she would let Minerva go on thinking that finding Oliver a wife would solve their dilemma. That would spur the girl to try harder. In the end, it didn’t matter why or how they managed it, as long as they did. Thank God her grandchildren had inherited her capacity for scheming. It made her proud. So Oliver thought he was going to get around her this time, did he? Well, he was in for a shock. This time he had more than just her to worry about. And with every one of the Sharpe children on Miss Butterfield’s side? She laughed. Poor Oliver didn’t stand a chance.

Only the History of William Marshal described this encounter in close terms, though the broad details of its account were confirmed in other contemporary sources. One thing seems certain. This was to be no fair fight. So intent had Richard been upon hunting down his father, that he had begun his chase wearing only a doublet and light helm. This added speed to his pursuit, but left him dreadfully exposed to attack. Worse still, the Lionheart was armed with only a sword. Marshal, by contrast, had a shield and lance. The biographer described how: [William] spurred straight on to meet the advancing [Duke] Richard. When the [duke] saw him coming he shouted at the top of his voice: ‘God’s legs, Marshal! Don’t kill me. That would be a wicked thing to do, since you find me here completely unarmed.’ In that instant, Marshal could have slain Richard, skewering his body with the same lethal force that dispatched Patrick of Salisbury in 1168. Had there been more than a split second to ponder the choice, William might perhaps have reacted differently. As it was, instinct took over. Marshal simply could not bring himself to kill an un-armoured opponent, let alone the heir-apparent to the Angevin realm, King Henry II’s eldest surviving son. Instead, he was said to have shouted in reply: ‘Indeed I won’t. Let the Devil kill you! I shall not be the one to do it’, and at the last moment, lowering his lance fractionally, he drove it into Richard’s mount. With that ‘the horse died instantly; it never took another step forward’ and, as it fell, the Lionheart was thrown to the ground and his pursuit of the king brought to an end.

A 1970 survey of dreams about Queen Elizabeth II found that people continued to dream about Queen Victoria seventy years after her death, so deeply was her narrative encrypted in the subconscious of the British people. (Brian Masters, Dreams About the Queen, Blond and Briggs, 1972, pp. 83–84.)

The emperor became increasingly vulnerable and isolated, and his personality deteriorated further. He did, however, act wisely in his second adoption, made from his sickbed, this time choosing the apparently impregnable combination of an heir and an heir-apparent. He chose two men whose virtues were evident and uncontentious: the stolid Antoninus Pius, who became, in the words of one modern historian, ‘one of the dullest figures in Roman political history’;13 and, to follow him, the worthy and bookish young Marcus Aurelius, whose Meditations are the one great surviving work of literature and philosophy by a Roman emperor.

Fifty le east from the city was a garden, named Lumbini,(17) where the queen entered the pond and bathed. Having come forth from the pond on the northern bank, after (walking) twenty paces, she lifted up her hand, laid hold of a branch of a tree, and, with her face to the east, gave birth to the heir-apparent.(18) When he fell to the ground, he (immediately) walked seven paces.

Of course, he’s not actually a Billionaire. He’s a Billionaire’s Heir, which is wholly different from a Billionaire. A Billionaire can’t get cut off. A Billionaire’s Heir, on the other hand, can. And at the moment my Billionheir’s money spigot is in the off position. At this point, Kanish is down to his last $120,000, and I shouldn’t have to say it, but $120,000, a significant sum of money for most of us, does not a Billionaire make. Not even close. Suppose you were paid $120,000 in cash every single day of your life starting today. It would take you just shy of twenty-three years to accumulate your first billion, and that’s assuming you’re not spending any of it. You’d also need a mattress the size of a two-meter-square room, and that’s assuming you’re stuffing it with neat stacks of $100 denominations. Now, if you decided to invest your daily $120,000 payments, and you did so shrewdly, then the pace at which you acquired wealth would quicken considerably. With that kind of guaranteed daily income, banks would beg you to borrow money from them, and it wouldn’t be long before that daily $120K installment would be enough leverage for billions in secured loans. With billions in real assets on the books, you would be a Billionaire, despite a paltry income of only $120,000 per day. You see, wealth is judged not by what you have, but rather by what you owe. As usual, I digress.

Life is a constant balancing act, and keeping your balance is not always possible. The better you prepare yourself, the better your chances of regaining your balance when you lose it.” — Princess Alina to her son Ryan, the heir apparent to the crown of the Kingdom of Wisdom

Thirrin could be charming when she forgot to be a princess. But just recently that happened only rarely, and Totus was beginning to wonder what was on her mind. He thought perhaps he knew, but couldn’t be sure. And how exactly would one ask the heir apparent if she was afraid that she’d have to rule the country before she was ready, and if she was afraid that she’d have to rule the country before she was ready, and if she was frightened that her father would die before she’d had time to experience life properly?

The assassination of Tsar Alexander II of Russia in March 1881 marked the beginning of an era of political assassinations that included the murders, in quick succession, of President Sadi Carnot of France in 1894; Spanish prime minister Canovas del Castillo in 1897; Empress Elizabeth of Austria and Queen of Hungary in 1898; King Humbert I of Italy in 1900; President William McKinley in 1901; and King Carlos I of Portugal and his heir apparent in 1908. And then, on June 28, 1914, at Sarajevo in Bosnia-Herzegovina, Serbian nationalists threw a bomb into the carriage of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, nephew and heir of Austria-Hungary’s Emperor Franz Joseph II, killing him and his young wife, Sophia.11 The scene was set for a world war.

Apparently, the main duty of the Duchess of Clarence was finagling recalcitrant royals into talking.

In his diary, Kafka characterized Dickens's novels by the words: "Heartlessness masked by a style overflowing with feeling." Such is the real meaning of that theater of showily displayed and instantly forgotten feelings that is Kafka's novel. This "critique of sentimentality" (an implicit, parodic, droll, never aggressive critique) is aimed not at Dickens alone but at romanticism generally, at its heirs, Kafka's contemporaries, particularly the expressionists, with their cult of hysteria and madness; it is aimed at the entire Holy Church of the Heart; and once more, it brings together those two apparently very different artists, Kafka and Stravinsky.

In Kafka's "Amerika", we find ourselves in a universe of feelings that are inappropriate, misplaced, exaggerated, unfathomable, or—the reverse—bizarrely missing. In his diary, Kafka characterized Dickens's novels by the words: "Heartlessness masked by a style overflowing with feeling." Such is the real meaning of that theater of showily displayed and instantly forgotten feelings that is Kafka's novel. This "critique of sentimentality" (an implicit, parodic, droll, never aggressive critique) is aimed not at Dickens alone but at romanticism generally, at its heirs, Kafka's contemporaries, particularly the expressionists, with their cult of hysteria and madness; it is aimed at the entire Holy Church of the Heart; and once more, it brings together those two apparently very different artists, Kafka and Stravinsky.

Le Pen’s recipe for success was closely watched by fearful French democrats as well as by his emulators abroad. The FN focused intensely on the immigrant issue, and its ramifying related issues of employment, law and order, and cultural defense. It managed to bundle together a variety of constituencies and positioned itself to become a broad catch-all party of protest. It refrained from appearing to threaten democracy directly. When it won control of three important cities in southern France in 1995 and another in 1997, as well as 273 seats in regional legislatures in 1998, it acquired a capacity to reward its militants with office and force mainstream parties to treat with it. While there seemed little likelihood of its winning a national majority, the FN forced mainstream conservative parties to adopt some of its positions in order to hold on to crucial voters. The FN’s strategic leverage became so important in some southern and eastern localities that some conservatives with narrow margins allied with it in the local elections of 1995 and 2001 as the only way to defeat the Left. These successes at bundling constituencies, gratifying the ambitious, and forcing mainstream politicians into alliances moved the FN firmly into the process of taking root—Stage Two. In December 1998, however, a quarrel between Le Pen and his heir apparent, Bruno Mégret, divided the movement and drove its vote back down below 10 percent. Despite this setback, Le Pen rode a groundswell of resentment against immigrants, street crime, and globalization back to a shocking second-place 17 percent in the first round of the presidential elections of April 2002. In the runoff with incumbent president Jacques Chirac, however, Le Pen was held to 19 percent by a groundswell of French revulsion

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. Lunch with Diana. A big day--a massive, humongous day, in fact. I got there ten minutes early, feeling decidedly nervous. The Kensington Palace front door was opened by her beaming butler. He walked me up the stairs, chatting cheerfully about the weather and my journey, as if a tabloid editor prowling around Diana’s home was a perfectly normal occurrence. He said that the “Boss” was running a bit late, joking that “she’ll be furious you are here first!” and invited me to have a drink. “What does she have?” I asked. “Water, usually,” he replied, “but wouldn’t you rather have a nice glass of wine? She won’t mind in the slightest.” I readily agreed, if only to calm my racing heartbeat. He then left me alone in the suitably regal sitting room. Diana had a perfectly normal piano covered in perfectly normal family snaps. It’s just that this family was the most photographed on the planet. Lots of pictures of her boys, the young heirs, perhaps the men who will kill off, or secure, the very future of the monarchy. To us, they were just soap opera stars, semi-real figments of tabloid headlines and the occasional palace balcony wave. But here they were, her boys, in picture frames, like any other adored sons. Just sitting in her private room was fascinating. Her magazines lay on the table, from Vogue to Hello, as well as her newspapers--the Daily Mail at the top of the pile, obviously, if distressingly. After I had spent ten minutes on my own, she swept in, gushing: “I’m so sorry to have kept you, Piers. I hope Paul has been looking after you all right.” And then came what was surely one of the most needless requests of all time: “Would you mind awfully if William joins us for lunch? He’s on an exeat from Eton, and I just thought that given you are a bit younger than most editors, it might be good for both of you to get to know each other.” “I’m sorry, but that would be terribly inconvenient,” I replied sternly. Diana blushed slightly and started a stuttering “Yes, of course, I’m so sorry…” apology, when I burst out laughing. “Yes, ma’am, I think I can stretch to allowing the future king to join us for lunch.” The absurdity of this conversation held no apparent bounds.

I am angry, Anna.” The earl rose again. “I fear diplomacy is beyond me.” “Are you angry with me?” “Oh, I want to be,” he assured her, his gaze raking her up and down. “I want to be furious, to turn you over my knee and paddle you until my hand hurts, to shake you and rant and treat the household to a tantrum worthy of His Grace.” “I am sorry.” Anna’s gaze dropped to the carpet. “I am not angry with you,” the earl said gravely, “but your brother and his crony will have much to answer for.” “You are disappointed in me.” “I am concerned for you,” the earl said tiredly. “So concerned I am willing to seek the aid of His Grace, and to pull every string and call in every favor the old man can spare me. Just one thing, Anna?” She met his gaze, looking as though she was prepared to hear the worst: Pack your things, get out of my sight, give me back those glowing characters. “Be here when I get back,” the earl said with deadly calm. “And expect to have a long talk with me when this is sorted out.” She nodded. He waited to see if she had anything else to add, any arguments, conditions, or demurrals, but for once, his Anna apparently had the sense not to fight him. He turned on his heel and left before she could second guess herself.

What will you do with Anna?” “I’ve proposed and proposed and proposed.” The earl sighed, surprising himself and apparently his brother with his candor. “She’ll have none of that, though the last time, she put me off rather than turn me down flat.” “Things are a little unsettled,” Dev pointed out dryly. “And marriage would settle them,” the earl shot back. “Married to me, there wouldn’t be any more nonsense from her brother, not for her or Morgan. Her grandmother would be safe, and Stull would be nothing but a bad, greasy memory.” “He is enough to give any female the shudders, though maybe Anna has the right of it.” “What can you possibly mean?” The earl stood up and paced to the French doors. “You and she are in unusual circumstances,” Dev began. “You are protective of her and probably not thinking very clearly about her. She is not a duke’s daughter, as you might be expected to marry, not even a marquis’s sister. She’s beneath you socially and likely undowered and not even as young as a proper mate to you should be.” “Young?” the earl expostulated. “You mean I can get her to drop only five foals instead of ten?” “You have a duty to the succession,” Dev said, his words having more impact for being quietly spoken. “Anna understands this.” “Rot the fucking succession,” Westhaven retorted. “I have His Grace’s permission to marry for love, indeed, his exhortation to marry only for love.” “Are you saying you love her?” Dev asked, his voice still quiet. “Of course I love her,” the earl all but roared. “Why else would I be taking such pains for her safety? Why else would I be offering her marriage more times than I can count? Why else would I have gone to His Grace for help? Why else would I be arguing with you at an hour when most people are either asleep or enjoying other bedtime activities?” Dev rose and offered his brother a look of sympathy. “If you love her, then your course is very easy to establish.” “Oh it is, is it?” The earl glared at his brother. “If you love her,” Dev said, “you give her what she wants of you, no matter how difficult or irrational it may seem to you. You do not behave as His Grace has, thinking that love entitles him to know better than his grown children what will make them happy or what will be in their best interests.” Westhaven sat down abruptly, the wind gone from his sails between one heartbeat and the next. “You are implying I could bully her.” “You know you could, Gayle. She is grateful to you, lonely, not a little enamored of you, and without support.” “You are a mean man, Devlin St. Just.” The earl sighed. “Cruel, in fact.” “I would not see you make a match you or Anna regret. And you deserve the truth.” “That’s what Anna has said. You give me much to think about, and none of it very cheering.” “Well, think of it this way.” Dev smiled as he turned for the door. “If you marry her now, you can regret it at great leisure. If you don’t marry her now, then you can regret that as long as you can stand it then marry her later.

I knew we had dowries,” Anna said, shaking her head. “Of course my brother would not tell me I had my own money. Damn him.” “Yes,” Westhaven agreed, pulling her to her feet. “Damn him to the coldest circle of hell, and Baron Lardbucket with him. You still look like you need a nap.” “I do need a nap,” Anna sighed and looked down at his hand linked with hers. There was something she needed much more than a nap, but the earl was apparently not of like mind. Well, damn him, too.

which his Holiness recently received me in Rome.”48 Wyndham noticed

Do you have children?” the earl asked from the depths of the towel around his head. Her hands went still, but her voice was steady when she answered. “I do not. Do you?” “None. But marry me, Anna, and you can have all the children you can carry.” In fact, he would enjoy having children with her, he thought, feeling—in the midst of his other discomforts—his cock stir. “I will not marry you,” she said, going to stand behind him. He felt the first gentle tug of the brush through his hair. “But you should have children. You will be a very good father, and children will be good for you.” “How so?” He closed his eyes, the better to enjoy the feel of the brush stroking gently across his scalp. “My father has hardly given me an example I want to emulate.” “That’s just bluster.” Anna waved a hand. “You paint him as a pompous, self-important, old-fashioned aristocrat, but he apparently went to tremendous lengths to attempt to secure access to his granddaughter.

I will dismiss Stenson before sunset,” Westhaven assured her. “I will confront my father, as well. Just one request, Anna.” She met his gaze squarely, still upset but apparently willing to shift the focus of her rage. “Be here when I return,” he said, holding her gaze. She huffed out a breath, nodded once, and dropped her eyes. “Be here.” He walked up to her and put his arms around her. She went willingly, to his relief, and held on to him tightly. “Do not pack, do not warn Morgan, do not pawn the silver, do not panic. Be here and try, just try, to find some ability to trust me.” When

King Edward, who "smoke cigars, was addicted to and entente cordials, married a Sea King's daughter and invented appendicitis," pursued a policy of peace that "was very successful and culminated in the Great War to End War.

Bishop Cushing concluded the eulogy by citing a piece of verse, the author of which is not named. It is a genuine and accurate tribute to Cardinal O'Connell's memory: Were a star quenched on high, For years would its light Still streaming from the sky Fall on our mortal sight. So when a great man dies, For years beyond our ken, The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men. And that was the farewell the heir-apparent said to his first superior, William Henry Cardinal O'Connell.

A general atmosphere of unease gripped Berlin, reinforced when the sudden news came through that Erich Honecker had been forced to step down. The younger generation within the East German politburo, led by his deputy Egon Krenz, had taken Gorbachev’s visit and his official rebuke on the need for the regime to change as a signal to make a grab for power. Krenz had long been seen as the heir apparent and had risen through the SED ranks to become

You were not created to be subservient; you are a joint heir. Women are God-answers. The addition of women’s voices increases the educational opportunity for all children, stimulates the economy, and apparently decreases the risk of terrorism

And he felt that his son, as the heir apparent, ought especially to behave himself to set an example for the nation. But the way his son behaved seemed to express a wish for England’s ruin, and father and son became bitterly estranged.

femme fatale, film noir, carte blanche, cause célèbre. When the French-speaking Normans conquered England, French became the language of official institutions and practices. That happens to be the area where we find a large number of noun-adjective phrases today. Terms like attorney general, heir apparent, body politic, notary public, court martial, fee simple, and ambassador plenipotentiary all belong to the domain of officialdom. As does time immemorial, which originally referred to time “out of memory,” or before recorded time, a concept that mattered in considering whether certain customs had the force of law.

And by 139 CE, at the age of 17, when he was given the official title of “Caesar” as the heir apparent to the throne,

Strictly as a thief, Nick Velvet is today’s heir apparent to the crown worn by such Napoleons of knavery as Grant Allen’s illustrious Colonel Clay (1897), E. W. Homung’s cricketer-cracksman A. J. Raffles (1899), O. Henry’s gentle Jeff Peters (1908), George Randolph Chester’s get-rich-quick Wallingford (1908), Frederick Irving Anderson’s infallible Godahl (1914) and notorious Sophie Lang (1925), Edgar Wallace’s forthright Four Square Jane (1929), Leslie Charteris’ saintly Simon Templar (1933), and Roy Vickers’ ethereal Fidelity Dove (1935).

tougher than Jim Chambers. As Jim began to call out profit margins and supply costs, Ariel almost smiled, remembering her first year in Paris, when a mercurial sous chef had thrown a frying pan full of escargots at her. She’d stepped into his position three months later and then head chef three months after that. She wasn’t scared of little ol’ Legacy Jim. Sales had been slipping, sure, but the mismanaging heir apparent was looking for a scapegoat, not a solution. It was completely and utterly unfair that she was apparently the one he was trying to lead to the slaughter. She stood her ground. “This isn’t what your father would have wanted,” she said resolutely. “And it isn’t what I signed up for. There must be a compromise.” Jim’s face began to mottle and then flush fully.

I faked a yawn not so subtly and Darius pulled his attention from his fan club back to me again. “Sorry,” he said. “Shall we go?” I almost choked on my own tongue at the sound of him apologising and could only raise my eyebrows in response as he guided me towards the door by placing a hand on the bare skin at the base of my spine. At that exact moment, Marguerite came into the room flanked by three of her friends and her face fell into a mask of absolute horror as she spotted her former boyfriend and me on our way out together. “What the hell is this?” she demanded, tossing her red hair over her shoulder so violently that it whipped her friend in the eye. Darius cast a lazy glance in her direction without replying before increasing the pressure of his hand on my back to get me moving. I stepped forward so that he was no longer touching me and began to head for the door despite the livid mean girl blocking our way out. Marguerite looked like she wanted to set me alight, her hand half raised like she was genuinely considering it. Darius noticed the action and threw an arm around my shoulders which I instantly shrugged back off. “I’m not your date, dude,” I reminded him, not bothering to lower my voice. “If people see us together acting like a couple they’ll give you an easier time,” he said, staying close enough to me that I could feel the heat of his body a heartbeat away from mine. “I’m not a damsel in distress either,” I added. Not that he was the Prince Charming type any other day of the week so I really wasn’t sure why he was taking this act so far. Marguerite seemed to think better of attacking while the Heir clearly had me marked as his but the look in her eyes told me the next time she saw me alone I’d be in for some serious shit from her. I threw her a taunting smirk as we passed because, what the hell? She was clearly gunning for me anyway so why not let her bring it on? “Besides, you’ll be back to your usual self tomorrow, encouraging them all to hate me so what’s the point of pretending?” I asked. That remark didn’t get an answer and we headed downstairs to the exit in silence. To my surprise, Darius stepped forward and opened the door for me. Apparently the asshole could turn on the charm when he wanted to. That just left me wondering which version of him was the act though. Did he do all of the horrible things he did to maintain his position and keep up appearances for the sake of proving his power? Or could he just pour on the sweetness when it suited him to get his own way? He was so hard to read that I had no idea which version was the real him. But I guessed for one night I could indulge in the fantasy that he actually had a few scraps of decency about him. (Tory)

I glanced at Darius as we were left alone together. Apparently my attempts to avoid this particular Heir were doomed to fail tonight. Darius looked over my shoulder and his face dipped into a scowl. I followed his gaze and spotted his fiancé Mildred barrelling through the crowd towards us with a frown on her face which melded her eyebrows into one bushy line. “Come on then,” Darius said hastily, leading the way to the door Xavier had taken out of the room. “Where to?” I asked in confusion. The party was in full swing and I was fairly sure we weren’t supposed to be leaving it. Not that I’d ever cared much for rules but it seemed odd that he’d gone to so much trouble to get me here just to sneak me away again. Plus it was probably a good idea for me to get the hell away from him before his toothy bride arrived and tried to snap me in half with her brawny arms. “Xavier said you want some real food,” Darius said suggestively, heading on out without bothering to make sure I was following. I hesitated. I didn’t really want to go anywhere with him but I couldn’t deny the draw I felt to him either. The champagne probably isn’t helping with that. My stomach growled impatiently and I sighed as I gave in to its demands. I snatched another glass of champagne on my way out, quickly drinking it in one gulp before hurrying after him. If alcohol was going to make this decision for me then the least I could do was make sure I consumed plenty of it. I glanced back at Darcy as I left but she was laughing at something Hamish had said and didn’t notice me. Mildred on the other hand looked like she was primed for murder and I hurried out of the room as she began to battle her way across the dance floor with me locked in her sights. Darius led me down corridors with gilded decorations at every turn. Dragons really liked their gold and it was obvious they had plenty of it to spare. “Thank you for cheering Xavier up,” Darius said as he opened the door onto a narrow corridor and led me inside. Thankfully there was no sign of Mildred catching up and I had to hope we’d lost her. A few serving staff squeezed past us carrying trays as we walked, bowing their heads as they spotted the infamous Acrux Heir. “Why did he need cheering up?” I asked curiously. “No reason.” I rolled my eyes at his back. (Tory)

You’re looking delicious tonight, sweetheart,” he murmured as he drew back, smiling like we were sharing some great secret. I could feel the other Heirs watching us and I swallowed the lump in my throat without looking their way. My gaze fell on Orion who looked back at me with a flat stare which made me feel like he’d heard the hitch in my pulse as Caleb had touched me. He looked weirdly at home in his own tux, his youth more apparent beside the Heirs now that they were all dressed the same. I was used to seeing him in a suit while we all wore our uniforms but he didn’t even look out of place in our group. It was weird to think of him as a normal guy. I turned my attention from him, glancing at Caleb again as he pushed a hand into his curls. ... I stumbled forward a step in my stilettos and Darius caught my arm to steady me. My hand landed on his bicep which flexed beneath my grip and I bit my lip as I glanced up at him, thanking him before I could stop myself. “No problem,” he said, still holding onto me even though I didn’t need him to anymore. “Sorry!” Darcy gasped behind me and I turned, finding her scrambling out of Orion’s lap on the gravel at our feet. “Predictably clumsy as always, Blue,” Orion said but his tone was more teasing than really annoyed. I guessed he wasn’t channelling his inner grump so hard tonight. He stood up, casting magic to remove the dust from his pants and I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing. Darcy’s cheeks flushed red and the Heirs failed to stifle their laughter in response. (Tory)

The first half of your detention will be spent digging an eight foot deep hole in the meadow.” Darius stalked off with the other guys and I moved forward to collect my shovel. Orion scooped it up, holding it out for me. Before I took it he caught my hand, brushing his thumb across my palm and sending a shiver through me. He repeated the process on the other hand then pressed his index finger to his lips. “That'll stop your skin chaffing,” he whispered. I stared at him in complete surprise as he passed me the shovel and moved aside. “Thank you,” I said, confused as I stepped past him, making my way through the high grass and colourful array of meadow flowers as I walked toward the Heirs. The four of them had formed a circle and were already getting to work digging the hole. ... “Vega!” Orion beckoned me and I was grateful to put the shovel down. I was a little dizzy as I walked up to his high metal chair where he was sitting a few feet above my head. He now had a large umbrella set up over it and a flask of coffee in his hand which he'd apparently brought with him. His Atlas was propped on his knee and he looked like he was thoroughly enjoying his morning as he gazed down at my mud stained skin with a bright smile. Thanks to his magic, at least I didn't have any blisters on my hands. “Water.” Orion waved his hand and water gathered in the air before me, circling into a glistening sphere. Orion tossed me a cup and I caught it at the last second. The water dropped straight into it with a splash and I guzzled it down greedily, “That's favouritism, sir!” Caleb called. “You're right, how rude of me!” Orion shouted back, lifting a hand and a torrential waterfall poured down on all of the heirs. Max crowed like a cockerel, pounding his chest, seemingly spurred on by the downpour. The others didn't seem quite as happy as the water continued to fall down on them. A laugh rushed from my throat and Orion threw me a wink. “So I'm having a little trouble, Miss Vega.” “With what, sir?” “Telling you apart from your sister,” he said in a low voice that I imagined only I could hear through the torrential storm he was still casting over the Heirs. “And you never did answer my question. Blue or green?” A smile twisted up my lips and I shrugged, deciding to leave him in continued suspense over that question, walking back to join the group. “I want an answer by sundown,” he called after me and my grin grew even wider. ... “Shut the fuck up!” Orion shouted. “I'm trying to concentrate here.” “Watching porn again, sir?” Seth shot at him with a smirk. “Yeah, your mom's really improved since the last edition,” he answered without missing a beat and Seth's face dropped into a scowl as a laugh tore from my throat. “Do you know who is always watching porn?” Max chipped in. “You?” the three other guys answered in unison. They all burst out laughing and I fought the urge to join in. “Hilarious,” Max said dryly. “I meant Washer. He snuck off in class the other day to rub one out.” “Useless. Well up you go then,” he said and I moved toward the ladder, taking hold of the first rung. Orion stepped up close behind me and his fingers brushed my waist, barely perceptible but I felt it everywhere. It scored a line of goosebumps across my back and a heavenly shiver fluttered up my spine. Heated air pushed under my clothes, drying them out almost instantly. “Thank you,” I whispered for the second time today. What’s gotten into him? He took hold of the ladder either side of my hands. “Up,” he breathed against my cheek and hot wax seemed to pour down each of my legs, making it almost impossible to move. But somehow, I managed it.

in exchange for which she would be recognized as Elizabeth’s heir apparent.

We don’t know how long you have, but the longer you’re in the game, the more you risk fatal overload.

The immediate cause of his exasperation was the wives’ resentment of a slave girl called Mariya, said to have been sent as a gift from the Coptic Christian patriarch of Alexandria. Muhammad had taken her as a concubine and installed her in a house on the outskirts of Medina, out of sight of both mosque and wives. He began to spend more and more time there, apparently seeking refuge from the public eye. But no matter how discreet he tried to be, his fondness for Mariya was a matter of intense speculation, all the more so when the wives, in an unusual show of unity, publicly protested the amount of time he was spending with her. Some accounts have it that Mariya had given birth to a son by Muhammad, who had named him Ibrahim, or Abraham. If this was true, it can only have added to the wives’ resentment. The very idea that this slave girl had given him what none of them had done would have been intolerable. A son—a natural heir—was the one thing most painfully missing in Muhammad’s life. A son’s existence would place the wives’ own standing in jeopardy, forcing them to play secondary roles to a mere concubine.

As Keeper of the Royal Archives (1943–53), Lascelles sanctioned official biographies of George V by Harold Nicolson, Queen Mary by James Pope-Hennessy, and George VI by John Wheeler-Bennett.

Ellich Elessedil was the younger of the two brothers who had been in line for the throne many years ago and, to her mind, the one best suited to the task. But his older brother, her grandfather, was the one who had become ruler of the Elves on the death of their parents. Now her grandfather’s son, Phaedon, was the designated heir apparent and, as her grandfather continued to weaken from his chronic heart and lung problems, increasingly likely to be King soon. Aphenglow’s mother was Phaedon’s much younger sister, and her refusal to become involved in the business of the court allowed Aphenglow to remain comfortably clear of family and state politics.

unicorn only needs one horn to be a unicorn and not a horse or a goat.

A unicorn only needs one horn to be a unicorn and not a horse or a goat.

How could he go from legally engaged to sexually enraged in the blink of an eye ?

Georgi Malenkov, the heir apparent; Vyacheslav Molotov, the Foreign Minister; Lavrenti Beria, head of the secret police. Nikita Khrushchev,

As the prime minister’s heir apparent, Chamberlain encouraged Baldwin to think along these lines. He suggested that Baldwin choose a man “who would excite no enthusiasm” and “create no jealousies.” The prime minister agreed.

After you bleed Alban out, you can put the scavenger in an apartment downstairs. Fill her with pups. Do whatever you want. She’ll wait. She’ll be there when you want her.

What does it feel like for you?” I ask. “Indigestion.” The grin widens. My mouth curves in response. What’s happening here? I don’t smile at females.

I want to shift and chase him down, swat him into an oak tree with the flick of a paw like he flung me across the bed. I want to break his spine. I want to watch the understanding dawn in his soulless gray eyes that I am not insignificant—I’m not a hole to fuck or a womb to seed or an itch to scratch or whatever he thinks I am—I want to see him realize what I really am the instant before I bite his head off and crunch his skull between my teeth like a soft-boiled egg in its shell.

Ram wasn’t shy about telling me what pleased him, and he asked me what I liked until I overcame my shyness and answered. Bedtime became at once exciting and joyful, a secret gift I looked forward to all day while we went about our separate duties—his as heir-apparent, mine as new bride.

It would have been easy to understand the terrorist element in Kashmir and the said agents of Pakistan objecting to the hosting of the flag in a public place, but it is difficult to forgive Omar Abdullah, the grandson of the Sher-E-Kashmir, temporarily joining that odious class of mischief makers. The only extenuating circumstance for young Omar is that he lost his courage to fight the practitioners of mayhem and murder whose number seems to be increasing in the valley under the influence of Pakistani incitement and money. Some people may well forgive the inexperienced Omar, but it is impossible to condone the despicable action and attitude of the Congress, the entire central government and of course the prime minister and the president of the Congress Party. The opinion of Rahul Gandhi, touted as the heir apparent, is also of interest here. Did he concur with the decision of the government that the flag should not be hoisted at Lal Chowk? If he did, he should have the honesty to proclaim to the people of India why he indulged in such shameful action.

He could challenge ten men in a single duel, he could hold his own confidently when dealing with his father’s group of elderly advisors, and he had braved the jungles of Makani alone with his crossbow when he once visited Prince James. But even this most fearless of men, the most popular man among ladies, the heir apparent to the most powerful kingdom of all, could not help feeling nervous as he rolled

He could challenge ten men in a single duel, he could hold his own confidently when dealing with his father’s group of elderly advisors, and he had braved the jungles of Makani alone with his crossbow when he once visited Prince James. But even this most fearless of men, the most popular man among ladies, the heir apparent to the most powerful kingdom of all, could not help feeling nervous as he rolled up his sleeves, preparing to cream butter with sugar.

What is it in the Nehru-Gandhi family that compels them to anoint only immediate family members as alter egos or heirs apparent? Obviously, their secrets regarding their political and financial misdeeds are such that there is no substitute for immediate family when it comes to trust and protection. The keys to the treasury must always be held by them, the keys to secret cupboards containing their corruption files must never be lost—be it the Bofors case, foreign bank accounts, or smuggling of antiquities, to name a few. Hence, the need for an inner circle of family confidants, a second circle of trusted coteries, and an outer circle of sycophants and hangers-on, who are given blandishments and retainers to keep the inner circle protected and take the blame; or do a cover-up job whenever the need arises. When not in power, these coteries and sycophants must engineer and activate cover-up networks, to hush up or obfuscate any exposures. Dynasty converts all the resources and tools of democracy towards achieving these ends, and perpetuate its continuance, while fooling the nation through homilies on transparency and zero tolerance to corruption.

Without warning, she punched him in the gut. Hard. He dropped to his knees with a keening noise. both hands on the carpeted floor. He coughed with what little air he was able to draw into his lungs. “Does that feel real enough to you?” she asked too sweetly. Ash held up his hand, but she knocked it away. She didn’t hold back, her voice hard like a razor’s edge. “You are the Prince Regent of the Magnus line, heir to the realm of the Veil, and the only one apparently who can keep my home . . . our home intact from the evil that’s rising

You haven’t spoken to your grandmother in six days,” my uncle said. How did Hugh get my number? He wasn’t even in the same state. “Does everybody know where I live?” “Everybody who cares about your safety. Do you know how I know that it’s been six days? Ask me.” Oy. “How do you know?” “I’m so glad you asked. Your grandmother mentioned it to me five times in the last forty-eight hours. She called me twice through the fire and three times on the phone. Hold on a second. PUT DOWN THAT COW!” I held the phone away from my ear. “Sorry about that.” “How did she call you? Phones don’t work for her.” “Apparently, someone dials the number for her, and she stands across the room and screams at it. Your grandmother has no trouble making herself heard. Boy! Yes, I’m talking to you. What did I say?

things. I am nothing, and it was myself that I—” “I might not have battled kings and shattered castles,” she said coldly, voice shaking with anger as she continued her retreat, “but I am the heir apparent to the Healer on High. Through my own work and suffering and sacrifice. And you’re standing right now because of that. People are alive because of that. So I may not be a warrior waving a sword about, may not be worthy of your glorious tales, but at least I save lives—not end them.

I might not have battled kings and shattered castles,” she said coldly, voice shaking with anger as she continued her retreat, “but I am the heir apparent to the Healer on High. Through my own work and suffering and sacrifice. And you’re standing right now because of that. People are alive because of that. So I may not be a warrior waving a sword about, may not be worthy of your glorious tales, but at least I save lives—not end them.

It was the Braterstwo. The Polish Mafia. They think they can have whatever they want—expensive watches, gold chains, phones that cost more than I make in a month. Apparently, they decided that they wanted my sister.

I went to the Torre,” Yrene said, her voice cracking. “I took the money you gave me, and went to the Torre. And I became the heir apparent to the Healer on High. And now I have come back, to do what I can. I taught every healer I could the lessons you showed me that night, about self-defense. I didn’t waste it—not a coin you gave me, or a moment of the time, the life you bought me.” Tears were rolling and rolling down Yrene’s face. “I didn’t waste any of it.” Aelin closed her eyes, smiling through her own tears, and when she opened them, she took Yrene’s shaking hands. “Now it is my turn to thank you.