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“Ministers must sometimes reach for dark things.”
“Wisdom can be learned, my prince.” He held his left hand, such as it was, up to the light. “And hands? Can you teach those?” “You may lack a hand, but the gods have given you rarer gifts.” He snorted. “My fine singing voice, you mean?” “Why not? And a quick mind, and empathy, and strength. Only the kind of strength that makes a great minister, rather than a great king. You have been touched by Father Peace, Yarvi. Always remember: strong men are many, wise men are few.”
“My hands are bloody to the shoulder, cook’s boy, for of all things blood pleases me the most. But, sad to say, not all men that die are killed by me.”
Strange, how quickly a king could become an animal. Or half a king half an animal. Perhaps even those we raise highest never get that far above the mud.
The food of fear is ignorance, Mother Gundring used to say. The death of fear is knowledge.
“When you’re in hell,” murmured Yarvi, “only a devil can point the way out.”
“Mother Sea will rise with my tears.”
What was it you said? You may need two hands to fight someone. But only one to stab them in the back.”
“Pick your enemies more carefully than your friends,” Nothing was muttering at the flames. “They will be with you longer.”
“If life has taught me one thing, it’s that there are no villains. Only people, doing their best.”
