Priest of Bones (War for the Rose Throne, #1)

by Peter McLean

If you must break the law, do it to seize power. —JULIUS CAESAR

A little trust, a little responsibility, increasing bit by bit until they were yours.

“It’s late and I’m tired,” I said. “If Billy wants to float in the air, then I can’t see it’s hurting anyone.”

There’s nothing like a good piss in the morning to clear the head. That was better than prayer any day, to my mind, and certainly more productive.

god who had nothing better to worry about than who you might choose to fuck didn’t sound like he was worth much, to my mind.

“You’ll find that we deal mostly in could and might and possibly, Tomas. By the time something becomes a certainty it is often too late to do anything about it.”

Anne was no tactician but by Our Lady she was loud, and on the battlefield a loud commander is worth two clever ones any day. What’s the point of clever orders if no one can hear them?

What I do know is how it feels to look into the eyes of a man not a foot in front of you as you pull a length of sharpened steel out of his guts and take his life away. You don’t feel like joking about it afterward.

Sometimes a leader has to keep things to himself and make the hard decisions alone.

Sometimes a man has to balance two evils in his hands and choose the lighter one.

Where is the difference between holy and possessed? I wondered. When does miracle become magic, magic become witchcraft? Is it in the nature of the deed itself, or in the eye of the beholder? Is it decided in the telling after the fact, and if so does it depend on who does that telling?

One thing I have noticed in life is that the men who speak the most of honor are usually those who have the least of it.

“What did you do, Billy?” I whispered. “I crushed his lungs and took his breath,” Billy said. “All of it. He don’t need it no more, Uncle Tomas. He’s dead.” “Aye,” I said. “Aye, that he is.”

looked Gregor in the eye, and I held his fearful stare. Remorse and Mercy are beautifully crafted weapons but they are shortswords, and they’re not designed for taking a man’s head off. Sir Eland’s heavy war sword, though, that was.

When people have run out of food, and hope, and places to hide, do not be surprised if they have also run out of mercy.