In spite of him, it brought back the old, hot-blooded, restless, reckless fever: the fever that had carried him through all these years of blood and battle.
He threw out his challenge fiercely:
"What better dream can a fighting man have than one of empire, priestess? What higher ambition?"
She bit her lip. Her eyes fell before his onslaught.
"They spell out power, my priestess!" he cried in bitter triumph. "Power, do you hear? Without it, a man's as nothing—sport for the rabble, fair game for every passing knave. With it—"
"With it, you can be a butcher and a tyrant!" the girl slashed in upon him. He could see the lines of strain and inner tumult etch deeper into her face. "You can carve your bloody way like Sark himself, till some worse monster topples you from your throne!"
Haral clenched his fist. He threw his words like thundering boulders.
"Strength rules the void, woman! Give me the strength to carve my way and I'll ask no more!"
The girl's face whitened. Her lips trembled. Passion echoed in her voice: "But ... is strength enough? Can you find the things you really seek in strength alone?"