Christopher Buehlman

I’m one of those as sees the gods in coincidence.

What a fabulous kingdom the mind is, and you the emperor of all of it.

The crown you so love sits but light on your head

The castle you stole has a cold, stony bed

And though I am old, I will yet see you dead

Abandon your tower and open your gate

No silver-bought army can alter your fate

If all my five perish, my neighbor has eight

Our ten thousand sons have declared against you

Their tongues are as black as their promise is true

And they’re coming, they’re coming, whatever you do

being a liar myself, I assumed it a lie.

Of all our traits, the gods most hate jealousy because it makes us like them.

Your future’s not in taking, lad. It’s in making.

What a fabulous kingdom the mind is, and you the emperor of all of it. You can bed the duke’s wife and have the duke strangled in your mind. A crippled man can think himself a dancer, and an idiot can fool himself wise. The day a magicker peeks into the thoughts of commoners for some thin-skinned duke or king will be a bad day.

What a fabulous kingdom the mind is, and you the emperor of all of it. You can bed the duke’s wife and have the duke strangled in your mind. A crippled man can think himself a dancer, and an idiot can fool himself wise. The day a magicker peeks into the thoughts of commoners for some thin-skinned duke or king will be a bad day. Those with callused hands will rise on that day, for a man will only toil in a mine so long as he can dream of sunny fields, and he’ll only kneel for a tyrant if he can secretly cut that tyrant’s throat in the close theater of his bowed head.