First Lord's Fury (Codex Alera, #6)

by Jim Butcher

“My father used to speak to me often of the nature of power,” Veradis said. “One of the things he often lamented was that the only folk truly worthy to hold it were those who did not seek it.”

What one deserves and what one experiences are seldom congruent.” “When they are, it is called ‘justice,’ ” Tavi said. “It’s one of the things I’m supposed to help provide, as I understand the office.”

“Strength is the first virtue,” Alera said. “That is not a pleasant fact. Its distastefulness does not alter the truth that without strength to protect them, all other virtues are ephemeral, ultimately meaningless.”

“But there is more than one kind of strength.”

The fire falcon exploded into a fireball that shattered and scattered the enemy horror, leaving behind half a dozen small fires and a large, greasy stain. Campfire sparks leapt from the smaller fires, swirling into a flowing stream that rushed up through the air and gathered upon the extended wrist of a woman dressed in legionare’s armor. The sparks congealed into the form of a small, almost delicate hunting falcon, and let out another whistling shriek that somehow conveyed a fierce sense of primal triumph. Amara rushed down toward Lady Placida, who tossed her long braid of red hair over her shoulder and turned to face her before she had come within a hundred feet, her sword in hand.

“Oh my,” Kitai said in Canish, her eyes sparkling. “I may be in love.” Tavi replied in the same tongue. “I saw him first.” Varg’s ears quivered again.

“At the Elinarch,” Amara said, to spare her husband’s jaw, “he heated the paving stones first, to drive assaulting Canim off them and into the town’s buildings. Then he set the buildings on fire.” Riva stared out at the plain of fire before them and shuddered. “Ruthless.” “Indeed,” Amara said. “The boy finishes what he begins,” Bernard said. His mouth quirked up at one corner. “His Highness, the boy.” Riva turned to look at the two of them thoughtfully, frowning. “Do you think he’s really on the way?” “Said he was,” Bernard said. “But he has so few men.” Bernard snorted. “Boy didn’t have anyone but an unarmed slave with him when he stopped the Marat at Second Calderon.” He turned to face Riva and met his eyes. “He says he’s coming to fight, believe him.”

Granted, Crassus’s levelheaded style wasn’t necessarily a perfect one where the Canim were concerned. An officer of their corps, a young Shuaran, had dropped a challenge to Crassus’s authority within hours, at which point his elder half brother Maximus had promptly brought one of Raucus’s strengths of character to the forefront—the ability to make a decisive and unmistakable statement. When the Cane went for Crassus’s throat, Maximus threw him through a building.

She supposed that, in a way, that sort of grace was symbolic of a great deal of what they were fighting for; the preservation of unnecessary beauty.

“We don’t go for the eyes, centurion,” Bernard said. “We go for their feet.”