2010, ISBN: 9780440938842

Pasta dura

Viking. Good. Paperback. 2010. 228 pages. Cover worn.<br>The inimitable William Trevor returns w ith a story of suspicion, guilt, forbidden love and the possibili ty of starting ove… Más…

Viking. Good. Paperback. 2010. 228 pages. Cover worn.<br>The inimitable William Trevor returns w ith a story of suspicion, guilt, forbidden love and the possibili ty of starting over. It s summer, and nothing much is happening in Rathmoye. So it doesn t go unnoticed when a dark-haired stran ger begins photographing the mourners at Mrs. Connulty s funeral. Florian Kilderry couldn t know that the Connultys were said to o wn half the town. But Miss Connulty resolves to keep an eye on Fl orian ... and she becomes a witness to the ensuing events. In a c haracteristically masterful way, Trevor evokes the passions and f rustrations in an Irish town during one long summer. Editorial R eviews From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. The tragic consequ ences of a woman's lost honor and a family's shame haunt several generations in Trevor's masterful 14th novel. His prose precisely nuanced and restrained, Trevor depicts a society beginning to lo osen itself from the Church's implacable condemnation of sexual i mmorality. Years ago, Miss Connulty's dragon of a mother forced h er into lifelong atonement after she was abandoned by her lover. Now, in the mid-1950s, middle-aged and forever marked for spinste rhood in her small Irish town, she is intent on protecting Ellie Dillahan, the naïve young wife of an older farmer. A foundling ra ised by nuns, Ellie was sent to housekeep for the widowed farmer, and she is content until her dormant emotions are awakened by a charming but feckless bachelor, Florian Kilderry, who has plans t o soon leave Ireland. Their affair is bittersweet, evoking Floria n's regretful knowledge that he will cause heartbreak and Ellie's shy but urgent passion and culminating in a surprising resolutio n. Trevor renders the fictional town of Rathmoye with the precise detail of a photograph, while his portrait of its inhabitants is more subtle and painterly, suggesting their interwoven secrets, respectful traditions and stoic courtesy. (Sept.) Copyright ® Re ed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rig hts reserved. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. Revie w Trevor is fantastically effective at foreboding; he can make a reader squirm just by withholding the next bit of some long-past anterior action he's been recounting. . . . Love and Summer, the latest item from his venerable suitcase, is a thrilling work of a rt. -- Thomas Mallon, The New York Times Marvellously written, c onsummately plotted. . . . One of the joys of Love and Summer is the perfection of its Irish geography and the wealth of emotions attached to it. . . . As brief and beautiful as summer itself, it is a book to be read and reread, as perfect a thing as our blemi shed world can offer -- The Globe and Mail A triumph of style an d content. -- The Herald Love and Summer is so exquisite I had t o pace myself reading it, so it wouldn't end too soon. -- Belfast Telegraph --This text refers to the hardcover edition. From Boo kmarks Magazine Trevor is a master storyteller, and Love and Summ er exhibits all the hallmarks of his most luminous works: his sta rk and graceful prose; his profound insight into the human heart; and his hauntingly authentic characters, precisely sketched in j ust a few short lines. In Trevor's provincial Ireland, every pers on has a story--a secret hope or a heartache--and he teases them out and weaves them together subtly and seamlessly. Gentle, naïve Ellie is the highlight of this spare and nuanced portrayal of fr agile humans dwarfed by life's circumstances (Philadelphia Inquir er), and while Trevor offers no easy answers or tidy endings, he provides a believable and satisfying denouement. Readers, along w ith the critic from the Boston Globe, will find it hard to leave Rathmoye. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. About the Author William Trevor has won the Hawthornden Prize and he is a four-time nominee for the Man Booker Prize. He received the David Cohen Literature Prize recognizing a lifetime s literary achieve ment, and he was knighted for his services to literature. Born in Michelstown, County Cork, he now lives in Devon. --This text ref ers to the hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission . All rights reserved. 1. On a June evening some years after the middle of the last century Mrs Eileen Connulty passed through th e town of Rathmoye: from Number 4 The Square to Magennis Street, into Hurley Lane, along Irish Street, across Cloughjordan Road to the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer. Her night was spent there. The life that had come to an end had been one of good works and resolution, with a degree of severity in domestic and family mat ters. The anticipation of personal contentment, which had long ag o influenced Mrs Connulty's acceptance of the married state and t he bearing of two children, had since failed her: she had been di sappointed in her husband and in her daughter. As death approache d, she had feared she would now be obliged to join her husband an d prayed she would not have to. Her daughter she was glad to part from; her son - now in his fiftieth year, her pet since first he lay in her arms as an infant - Mrs Connulty had wept to leave be hind. The blinds of private houses, drawn down as the coffin wen t by, were released soon after it had passed. Shops that had clos ed opened again. Men who had uncovered their heads replaced caps or hats, children who had ceased to play in Hurley Lane were no l onger constrained. The undertakers descended the steps of the chu rch. Tomorrow's Mass would bring a bishop; until the very last, M rs Connulty would be given her due. People at that time said the family Mrs Connulty had married into owned half of Rathmoye, an impression created by their licensed premises in Magennis Street, their coal yards in St Matthew Street, and Number 4 The Square, a lodging house established by the Connultys in 1903. During the decades that had passed since then there had been the acquisition of other properties in the town; repaired and generally put righ t, they brought in modest rents that, accumulating, became a size able total. But even so it was an exaggeration when people said t hat the Connultys owned half of Rathmoye. Compact and ordinary, it was a town in a hollow that had grown up there for no reason t hat anyone knew or wondered about. Farmers brought in livestock o n the first Monday of every month, and borrowed money from one of Rathmoye's two banks. They had their teeth drawn by the dentist who practised in the Square, from time to time consulted a solici tor there, inspected the agricultural machinery at Des Devlin's o n the Nenagh road, dealt with Heffernan the seed merchant, drank in one of the town's many public houses. Their wives shopped for groceries from the warehouse shelves of the Cash and Carry, or in McGovern's if they weren't economizing; for shoes in Tyler's; fo r clothes, curtain material and oilcloth in Corbally's drapery. T here had once been employment at the mill, and at the mill's elec tricity plant before the Shannon Scheme came; there was employmen t now at the creamery and the condensed-milk factory, in builders ' yards, in shops and public houses, at the bottled-water plant. There was a courthouse in the Square, an abandoned railway statio n at the end of Mill Street. There were two churches and a conven t, a Christian Brothers' school and a technical school. Plans for a swimming-pool were awaiting the acquisition of funds. Nothing happened in Rathmoye, its people said, but most of them went on living there. It was the young who left - for Dublin or Cork or L imerick, for England, sometimes for America. A lot came back. Tha t nothing happened was an exaggeration too. The funeral Mass was on the morning of the following day, and when it was over Mrs Co nnulty's mourners stood about outside the cemetery gates, declari ng that she would never be forgotten in the town and beyond it. T he women who had toiled beside her in the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer asserted that she had been an example to them all. They recalled how no task had been too menial for her to undertake, h ow the hours spent polishing a surfeit of brass or scraping away old candle-grease had never been begrudged. The altar flowers had not once in sixty years gone in need of fresh water; the mission ary leaflets were replaced when necessary. Small repairs had been effected on cassocks and surplices and robes. Washing the chance l tiles had been a sacred duty. While such recollections were sh ared, and the life that had ended further lauded, a young man in a pale tweed suit that stood out a bit on a warm morning surrepti tiously photographed the scene. He had earlier cycled the seven a nd a half miles from where he lived, and was then held up by the funeral traffic. He had come to photograph the town's burnt-out c inema, which he had heard about in a similar small town where rec ently he had photographed the perilous condition of a terrace of houses wrenched from their foundations in a landslip. Dark-haire d and thin, in his early twenties, the young man was a stranger i n Rathmoye. A suggestion of stylishness - in his general demeanou r, in his jaunty green-and-bluestriped tie - was repudiated by th e comfortable bagginess of his suit. His features had a misleadin g element of seriousness in their natural cast, contributing furt her to this impression of contradiction. His name was Florian Kil derry. 'Whose funeral?' he enquired in the crowd, returning to i t from where he had temporarily positioned himself behind a parke d car in order to take his photographs. He nodded when he was tol d, then asked for directions to the ruined cinema. 'Thanks,' he s aid politely, his smile friendly. 'Thanks,' he said again, and pu shed his bicycle through the throng of mourners. Neither Mrs Con nulty's son nor her daughter knew that the funeral attendance had been recorded in such a manner, and when they made their way, se parately, back to Number 4 The Square they remained ignorant of t his unusual development. The crowd began to disperse then, many t o gather again in Number 4, others to return to their interrupted morning. The last to go was an old Protestant called Orpen Wren, who believed the coffin that had been interred contained the mor tal remains of an elderly kitchenmaid whose death had occurred th irty-four years ago in a household he had known well. The respect ful murmur of voices around him dwindled to nothing; cars drove o ff. Alone where he stood, Orpen Wren remained for a few moments l onger before he, too, went on his way. * Cycling out of the tow n, Ellie wondered who the man who'd been taking photographs was. The way he'd asked about the old picture house you could tell he didn't know Rathmoye at all, and she'd never seen him on the stre ets or in a shop. She wondered if he was connected with the Connu ltys, since it was the Connultys who owned the picture house and since it had been Mrs Connulty's funeral. She'd never seen photog raphs taken at a funeral before, and supposed the Connultys could have employed him to do it. Or he was maybe off a newspaper, the Nenagh News or the Nationalist, because sometimes in a paper you 'd see a picture of a funeral. If she'd gone back to the house af terwards she could have asked Miss Connulty, but the artificial-i nsemination man was expected and she'd said she'd be there. She hurried in case she'd be late, although she had worked it out tha t she wouldn't be. She would have liked to go back to the house. She'd have liked to see the inside of it, which she never had, al though she'd been supplying Mrs Connulty with eggs for a long tim e. It could be the photographs were something the priests wanted , that maybe Father Balfe kept a parish book like she'd once been told by Sister Clare a priest might. Keeping a book would be mor e like Father Balfe than Father Millane, not that she knew what i t would contain. She wondered if she'd be in a photograph herself . When the camera was held up to take a picture she remembered sl ender, fragile-seeming hands. The white van was in the yard and Mr Brennock was getting out of it. She said she was sorry, and he said what for? She said she'd make him a cup of tea. * After h e had spent only a few minutes at the remains of the cinema, Flor ian Kilderry broke his journey at a roadside public house called the Dano Mahoney. He had been interrupted at the cinema by a man who had noticed his bicycle and came in to tell him he shouldn't be there. The man had pointed out that there was a notice and Flo rian said he hadn't seen it, although in fact he had. 'There's pe rmission needed,' the man crossly informed him, admitting when he snapped shut the two padlocks securing the place that they shoul dn't have been left open. 'See Miss O'Keeffe in the coal yards,' he advised. 'You'll get permission if she thinks fit.' But when F lorian asked about the whereabouts of the coal yards he was told they were closed today as a mark of respect. 'You'll have noticed a funeral,' the man said. In the bar Florian took a glass of wi ne to a corner and lit a cigarette. He had had a wasted journey, the unexpected funeral his only compensation, and from memory he tried to recall the images of it he had gathered. The mourners ha d conversed in twos and threes, a priest among them, several nuns . A few, alone, had begun to move away; others had stood awkwardl y, as if feeling they should stay longer. The scene had been a fa miliar one: he had photographed funerals before, had once or twic e been asked to desist. Sometimes there was a moment of drama, or a display of uncontrollable grief, but today there had been neit her. On the other hand, what he had been allowed to see of the c inema was promising. Through smashed glass a poster still adverti sed Idiot's Delight, the features of Norma Shearer cut about and distorted. He'd been scrutinizing them when the man shouted at hi m, but he never minded something like that. The Coliseum the cine ma had been called, Western Electric sound newly installed. A sm ell of frying bacon wafted into the bar, and voices on a radio. S porting heroes - wrestlers, boxers, jockeys, hurlers - decorated the walls, with greyhounds and steeple-chasers. The publican, a f ramed newspaper item declared, had been a pugilist himself, had g one five rounds with Jack Doyle, the gloves he'd worn hanging fro m a shelf behind the bar. 'Give a rap on the old counter if you'd want a refill,' he advise, Viking, 2010, 2.5, Spectra. Good. 6.25 x 1.25 x 9 inches. Paperback. 2001. 512 pages. Text buckled<br>From an exciting and brilliant new fan tasy master comes the third book of an epic saga, a tale of astou nding magic, unrelenting evil, and redemptive courage. Travis Wi lder and Grace Beckett have returned to modern Earth on a mission of mercy: to get medical help for the severely wounded Beltan, a knight from the otherworld of Eldh. But as Beltan lies unconscio us in the ICU of a Denver hospital, a shadowy organization plots to kidnap him for use in its cruel experiments, while sinister fo rces of dark magic cross the boundary from Eldh in a murderous se arch for Travis and Grace. Meanwhile, in Eldh itself, a young ba roness, her witch companion, and their mortal and immortal friend s journey to a dying city, there to confront a nameless evil that has begun to annihilate the very gods. Somehow Travis and Grace must save Beltan and themselves, and then make their way back to Eldh, for only in this realm of gods and monsters, myth and rune craft, can they hope to defeat a demonic enemy that can shatter t ime, devour space, and turn existence into nothingness. Editoria l Reviews From Publishers Weekly Overwritten and overwrought, An thony's third installment of a projected six-book fantasy series overwhelms readers with a clich?d magical universe and a crowded cast of characters. Beyond the Pale (1998), the deservedly popula r first book, introduced Travis Wilder, a likable Colorado barten der, and the equally personable doctor, Grace Beckett, with other worldly ties to Eldh, an alternate universe full of kingdoms that are highly derivative versions of Egyptian, Norse, Celtic, Roman and Greek mythology. Somehow Beckett and Wilder became saviors o n planet Eldh, escaping in the, alas, more tedious sequel, The Ke ep of Fire (1999), with grievously injured knight Beltan to Earth in order for Beltan to receive advanced medical treatment. In th is third book the evil Duratek company, twin of countless other s ubversive corporations found in various entertainment media, capt ures Beltan for purposes of genetic experimentation and exploitat ion. While Grace and Travis try to save Beltan on Earth, on Eldh the Weirding that witches use to communicate is unraveling and go ds and goddesses are dropping like flies. By overdoing trite magi cal devices and using too many characters to move the plot forwar d, this hodgepodge comes off as an overblown homage to other writ ers whose fantasy worlds are far more original than Anthony's and who know the power of simplicity despite complex plots. Hopefull y book four, Blood of Mystery, will find Anthony back on track. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc. From Library Journal As their friend Beltan, a native of the world known as E ldh, languishes in a coma in a Denver hospital, cross-world trave lers Grace Beckett and Travis Wilder sense an urgency that demand s their return to the mystical world that shares a destiny and a danger with Earth. The latest installment of Anthony's multivolum e fantasy epic (Beyond the Pale; The Keep of Fire) brings togethe r characters from both Earth and Eldh to the ruins of a dying cit y where an ancient enemy waits to destroy the twin fabrics of tim e and space. A good choice for libraries where epic fantasy is po pular. Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Libr ary Journal As their friend Beltan, a native of the world known a s Eldh, languishes in a coma in a Denver hospital, cross-world tr avelers Grace Beckett and Travis Wilder sense an urgency that dem ands their return to the mystical world that shares a destiny and a danger with Earth. The latest installment of Anthony's multivo lume fantasy epic (Beyond the Pale; The Keep of Fire) brings toge ther characters from both Earth and Eldh to the ruins of a dying city where an ancient enemy waits to destroy the twin fabrics of time and space. A good choice for libraries where epic fantasy is popular. Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc. From B ooklist The third book of the Last Rune series continues its vers ion of a staple fantasy situation, that of people from Earth bein g transported to a magical otherworld, where they prove indispens able to its survival. Travis Wilder and Dr. Grace Beckett have re turned from Eldh to Earth to get medical treatment for Sir Beltan , a severely wounded knight. Meanwhile, back at the castle, two y oung women and two former gods undertake their own journey to con front a nameless evil powerful enough to destroy the present gods and capable of leaping from one reality to another, which means that Travis, Grace, and Sir Beltan are hardly safe on Earth. Anth ony provides sufficient back story to orient readers new to the s aga, for which he clearly has at least one more book in mind, sin ce this one ends with a cliffhanger. A well-told fantasy tale, qu ite suitable for those who like well-told fantasy tales. Roland G reen Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserve d Review Don't miss Books One and Two of The Last Rune: Beyond the Pale Named the Best First Fantasy Novel by the Rocky Mountain News The Keep of Fire Offers a diverse cast of characters and a well-realized world in which the expected does not happen. Antho ny is unsparing of the details of castle life, enriching the book with a solid sense of place and time. - Robin Hobb A stunningly rich novel filled with magic, intrigue, great character, horror and humor. - Michael Stackpole Available wherever Bantam Spectra Books are sold From the Inside Flap ting and brilliant new fant asy master comes the third book of an epic saga, a tale of astoun ding magic, unrelenting evil, and redemptive courage. Travis Wil der and Grace Beckett have returned to modern Earth on a mission of mercy: to get medical help for the severely wounded Beltan, a knight from the otherworld of Eldh. But as Beltan lies unconsciou s in the ICU of a Denver hospital, a shadowy organization plots t o kidnap him for use in its cruel experiments, while sinister for ces of dark magic cross the boundary from Eldh in a murderous sea rch for Travis and Grace. Meanwhile, in Eldh itself, a young bar oness, her witch companion, and their mortal and immortal friends journey to a dying city, there to confront a nameless evil that has begun to annihilate the very gods. Somehow Travis and Grace must save Beltan and themselves, and then make their way back to Eldh, for only in this realm of gods and monsters, myth and runec raft, can they hope to defeat a demonic ene From the Back Cover Don't miss Books One and Two of The Last Rune Beyond The Pale Na med the Best First Fantasy Novel by the Rocky Mountain News The Keep Of Fire Offers a diverse cast of characters and a well-reali zed world in which the expected does not happen. Anthony is unspa ring of the details of castle life, enriching the book with a sol id sense of place and time. -- Robin Hobb A stunningly rich nove l filled with magic, intrigue, great character, horror and humor. -- Michael Stackpole Available wherever Bantam Spectra Books ar e sold Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. One It was in the final, burnished days of summer -- when cool mornings gave way to languid afternoons under hazy skies, when th e wheat bowed in the fields, shafts heavy with fruit, and all the land was still as if drinking in one last, long draught of gold -- that the Mournish came to Ar-tolor. Through the window of her chamber, Aryn watched the line of wagons creep along the road th at led to the castle. At this distance the wagons were smaller th an toys, but the young woman's blue eyes were sharp, and she coul d make out many of the fantastical shapes into which they had bee n wrought. There were swans with high, curving prows and snowy w ings folded against their sides, and snails painted pink with sma ll round windows set into their spiraled shells. A lion crouched low to the road, as if ready to pounce on a hart crowned by tree- branch antlers, while an emerald frog bounced behind. More wagons rolled into view: tortoises, fish cresting carved blue waves, li zards, tawny hares, and a dozen other creatures that Aryn had nev er seen before, except perhaps coiled along the edges of pages in old books. One by one the wagons vanished beneath the green cur ve of the hill, and the road was empty again. But even at that mo ment, Aryn knew the wagons were coming to halt in the field outsi de the village, opening painted doors to release the spicy scent of incense, the cool clink of silver, and the undulating rhythms of music. The young woman turned from the window, her sapphire e yes bright. Let's go see the Mournish! Lirith, who sat in a chai r on the other side of the small sitting room, did not look up fr om her embroidery. And then let's get tossed in the dungeon and m ake the acquaintance of a few dozen rats. For you know as I do, s ister, that Queen Ivalaine has made it plain she wishes no one in her court to associate with the wandering folk. Their entertainm ents are for villagers and farmers. Annoyed, but not surprised, Aryn indulged herself in a particularly noxious frown. And what a fine baroness you'll make after your face freezes that way, sis ter, Lirith mused, her dark eyes still focused on the embroidery hoop in her lap. Even bold dukes and proud knights will quail bef ore you. As well they should, Aryn said. Although she smoothed h er features and made a quick glance at a silver mirror on the wal l nearby to be sure she hadn't done permanent damage. I saw that , Lirith said. Rather than reply, Aryn gazed back out the window . The most interesting sight she saw now was a flock of sheep dot ting the side of a distant hill like flowers. She amused herself for a few moments, imagining plucking tiny sheep from the grass, weaving them into a squirming, bleating chain, and placing them a round her neck. Then she considered the smell, and that fancy pas sed. I'm bored, she said, not caring how petulant she sounded. S he felt petulant. All the better reason for you to stay and work on your embroidery. Aryn scowled at the black-haired witch. I k now perfectly well that you loathe embroidery, Lirith. Indeed. A nd my loathing keeps me well occupied, so that I do not become bo red. Now sew. Sister Tressa will be here soon, and she'll expect to see some progress. Aryn turned from the window, pulled close the wooden stand that held her embroidery hoop steady for her, an d did her best to pretend that sewing unicorns was really more fa scinating than buying packets of sugared nuts, laughing at perfor ming monkeys, and watching men who swallowed knives and burning b rands. Yrsaia knows, you should be more grateful for your boredo m, Aryn of Elsandry, she scolded herself. Where are Grace and Goo dman Travis and Lord Beltan now? Sitting in a comfortable chair i n a safe castle with a cup of sweet wine at hand? She sighed, an d Lirith looked up, an expression of concern on her face. I am c ertain they are well, sister. It is to their homeland they have j ourneyed. And no one has power to heal as does Lady Grace. I imag ine Sir Beltan is telling bawdy jokes and drinking ale even as we speak. Aryn wished she had such a good imagination. It had bee n a month since they had begged their leave of Queen Inara and se t out from Castle Spardis. They had left the seat of Perridon in good order. The young queen had rescinded all of the usurper Daka rreth's proclamations, and with the help of the Spider Aldeth -- who was making a steady recovery from his injury -- had cemented her position as regent to her infant son, Prince Perseth. While t here would continue to be plots against the queen -- this was Per ridon, after all -- Aryn expected Inara to rule long and well. A fter only a day of traveling they had bid farewell to Melia and F alken, for the bard and the lady intended to journey north to fin d their friend Tome -- who, like Melia, was a former god. Aryn wo uld have liked to see the golden-eyed old man again; he had the p ower to make her laugh no matter the sorrow she felt. However, In ara had already sent a messenger to Ivalaine. Aryn and Lirith wer e expected in Ar-tolor, and Durge had agreed to escort them there . Although Lirith was her friend and teacher, and Durge was good -- if sober -- company, the ride across Perridon and Toloria see med lonely. Grace and Travis had returned with Beltan to their wo rld in hopes of healing the knight's old wound. Melia and Falken had their own journeys. Even Tira was gone. Except that wasn't t rue, was it? For sometimes, when Aryn woke in the gray dawn, she glimpsed a star as red as fire low in the southern sky. She still didn't understand what had happened in Spardis, when Travis gave Tira the Stone of Fire. But Melia said the red-haired girl was a goddess now, and Melia should know. Aryn supposed that, in a way , Tira would always be with them. They had reached Ar-tolor with little event, and Aryn had been more glad than she expected to s ee its seven spires soaring over fields of jade. Queen Ivalaine h ad welcomed them with a rare smile, and at once dispatched a man to Calavere to inform King Boreas that Aryn would be visiting at the court of Ar-tolor for a time. You shall resume your instruct ion with Sister Lirith at once, Ivalaine told her that first day in the castle, and Aryn had not disagreed. The weeks since had p assed pleasantly -- walking the castle grounds, sewing under Tres sa's attention, reaching out with the Touch to grasp the magic of the Weirding as Lirith whispered calm instructions in her ear. A nd if at times it all seemed dull compared to their desperate jou rney east to the Keep of Fire, Aryn knew she should be grateful f or that dullness. With the Necromancer Dakarreth's scourge of fi re ended, the land had recovered more quickly than she had believ ed possible. Crops had been hastily resown, flourishing under gol den sun and gentle rain. Now Keldath was nearly over, and there w ould be a good -- if late -- harvest this year. It seemed a wonde r, but perhaps there was a lesson in it; perhaps she should never underestimate the power of life. Then don't underestimate Belta n's life. Or Grace's or Travis's. They're going to be fine. So yo u might as well stop worrying. However, Aryn might as easily pre vent the stars from spinning in the night sky. And she knew it gn awed at Lirith and Durge as much as it did her. They all feared f or the others, who were beyond their reach now. Which was precis ely why a diversion like the Mournish caravan was in order. A kn ock sounded at the chamber door. Aryn bit her lip. She had hardly sewn three, Spectra, 2001, 2.5, Holiday House, 2002-10-01. Hardcover. Like New. MULTIPLE COPIES HAS DUST COVER LIKE NEW - NEVER ISSUED-MAY HAVE SCHOOL STAMP, NUMBER, MINIMAL SHELF WEAR - EXPERIENCE AMAZING CUSTOMER SERVICE - WE SHIP DAILY, Holiday House, 2002-10-01, 5, Front Row Experience, 1994. Paperback. Very Good. May have limited writing in cover pages. Pages are unmarked. ~ ThriftBooks: Read More, Spend Less.Dust jacket quality is not guaranteed., Front Row Experience, 1994, 3, Laurel Leaf, 1983-03-15. Mass Market Paperback. Very Good. MULTIPLE COPIES AVAILABLE USED VERY GOOD CONDITION MAY HAVE SLIGHT CORNER WEAR EXPERIENCE AMAZING CUSTOMER SERVICE - WE SHIP DAILY, Laurel Leaf, 1983-03-15, 3<

2010, ISBN: 9780440938842

Pasta dura

Viking. Good. Paperback. 2010. 228 pages. Cover worn.<br>The inimitable William Trevor returns w ith a story of suspicion, guilt, forbidden love and the possibili ty of starting ove… Más…

Viking. Good. Paperback. 2010. 228 pages. Cover worn.<br>The inimitable William Trevor returns w ith a story of suspicion, guilt, forbidden love and the possibili ty of starting over. It s summer, and nothing much is happening in Rathmoye. So it doesn t go unnoticed when a dark-haired stran ger begins photographing the mourners at Mrs. Connulty s funeral. Florian Kilderry couldn t know that the Connultys were said to o wn half the town. But Miss Connulty resolves to keep an eye on Fl orian ... and she becomes a witness to the ensuing events. In a c haracteristically masterful way, Trevor evokes the passions and f rustrations in an Irish town during one long summer. Editorial R eviews From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. The tragic consequ ences of a woman's lost honor and a family's shame haunt several generations in Trevor's masterful 14th novel. His prose precisely nuanced and restrained, Trevor depicts a society beginning to lo osen itself from the Church's implacable condemnation of sexual i mmorality. Years ago, Miss Connulty's dragon of a mother forced h er into lifelong atonement after she was abandoned by her lover. Now, in the mid-1950s, middle-aged and forever marked for spinste rhood in her small Irish town, she is intent on protecting Ellie Dillahan, the naïve young wife of an older farmer. A foundling ra ised by nuns, Ellie was sent to housekeep for the widowed farmer, and she is content until her dormant emotions are awakened by a charming but feckless bachelor, Florian Kilderry, who has plans t o soon leave Ireland. Their affair is bittersweet, evoking Floria n's regretful knowledge that he will cause heartbreak and Ellie's shy but urgent passion and culminating in a surprising resolutio n. Trevor renders the fictional town of Rathmoye with the precise detail of a photograph, while his portrait of its inhabitants is more subtle and painterly, suggesting their interwoven secrets, respectful traditions and stoic courtesy. (Sept.) Copyright ® Re ed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rig hts reserved. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. Revie w Trevor is fantastically effective at foreboding; he can make a reader squirm just by withholding the next bit of some long-past anterior action he's been recounting. . . . Love and Summer, the latest item from his venerable suitcase, is a thrilling work of a rt. -- Thomas Mallon, The New York Times Marvellously written, c onsummately plotted. . . . One of the joys of Love and Summer is the perfection of its Irish geography and the wealth of emotions attached to it. . . . As brief and beautiful as summer itself, it is a book to be read and reread, as perfect a thing as our blemi shed world can offer -- The Globe and Mail A triumph of style an d content. -- The Herald Love and Summer is so exquisite I had t o pace myself reading it, so it wouldn't end too soon. -- Belfast Telegraph --This text refers to the hardcover edition. From Boo kmarks Magazine Trevor is a master storyteller, and Love and Summ er exhibits all the hallmarks of his most luminous works: his sta rk and graceful prose; his profound insight into the human heart; and his hauntingly authentic characters, precisely sketched in j ust a few short lines. In Trevor's provincial Ireland, every pers on has a story--a secret hope or a heartache--and he teases them out and weaves them together subtly and seamlessly. Gentle, naïve Ellie is the highlight of this spare and nuanced portrayal of fr agile humans dwarfed by life's circumstances (Philadelphia Inquir er), and while Trevor offers no easy answers or tidy endings, he provides a believable and satisfying denouement. Readers, along w ith the critic from the Boston Globe, will find it hard to leave Rathmoye. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. About the Author William Trevor has won the Hawthornden Prize and he is a four-time nominee for the Man Booker Prize. He received the David Cohen Literature Prize recognizing a lifetime s literary achieve ment, and he was knighted for his services to literature. Born in Michelstown, County Cork, he now lives in Devon. --This text ref ers to the hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission . All rights reserved. 1. On a June evening some years after the middle of the last century Mrs Eileen Connulty passed through th e town of Rathmoye: from Number 4 The Square to Magennis Street, into Hurley Lane, along Irish Street, across Cloughjordan Road to the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer. Her night was spent there. The life that had come to an end had been one of good works and resolution, with a degree of severity in domestic and family mat ters. The anticipation of personal contentment, which had long ag o influenced Mrs Connulty's acceptance of the married state and t he bearing of two children, had since failed her: she had been di sappointed in her husband and in her daughter. As death approache d, she had feared she would now be obliged to join her husband an d prayed she would not have to. Her daughter she was glad to part from; her son - now in his fiftieth year, her pet since first he lay in her arms as an infant - Mrs Connulty had wept to leave be hind. The blinds of private houses, drawn down as the coffin wen t by, were released soon after it had passed. Shops that had clos ed opened again. Men who had uncovered their heads replaced caps or hats, children who had ceased to play in Hurley Lane were no l onger constrained. The undertakers descended the steps of the chu rch. Tomorrow's Mass would bring a bishop; until the very last, M rs Connulty would be given her due. People at that time said the family Mrs Connulty had married into owned half of Rathmoye, an impression created by their licensed premises in Magennis Street, their coal yards in St Matthew Street, and Number 4 The Square, a lodging house established by the Connultys in 1903. During the decades that had passed since then there had been the acquisition of other properties in the town; repaired and generally put righ t, they brought in modest rents that, accumulating, became a size able total. But even so it was an exaggeration when people said t hat the Connultys owned half of Rathmoye. Compact and ordinary, it was a town in a hollow that had grown up there for no reason t hat anyone knew or wondered about. Farmers brought in livestock o n the first Monday of every month, and borrowed money from one of Rathmoye's two banks. They had their teeth drawn by the dentist who practised in the Square, from time to time consulted a solici tor there, inspected the agricultural machinery at Des Devlin's o n the Nenagh road, dealt with Heffernan the seed merchant, drank in one of the town's many public houses. Their wives shopped for groceries from the warehouse shelves of the Cash and Carry, or in McGovern's if they weren't economizing; for shoes in Tyler's; fo r clothes, curtain material and oilcloth in Corbally's drapery. T here had once been employment at the mill, and at the mill's elec tricity plant before the Shannon Scheme came; there was employmen t now at the creamery and the condensed-milk factory, in builders ' yards, in shops and public houses, at the bottled-water plant. There was a courthouse in the Square, an abandoned railway statio n at the end of Mill Street. There were two churches and a conven t, a Christian Brothers' school and a technical school. Plans for a swimming-pool were awaiting the acquisition of funds. Nothing happened in Rathmoye, its people said, but most of them went on living there. It was the young who left - for Dublin or Cork or L imerick, for England, sometimes for America. A lot came back. Tha t nothing happened was an exaggeration too. The funeral Mass was on the morning of the following day, and when it was over Mrs Co nnulty's mourners stood about outside the cemetery gates, declari ng that she would never be forgotten in the town and beyond it. T he women who had toiled beside her in the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer asserted that she had been an example to them all. They recalled how no task had been too menial for her to undertake, h ow the hours spent polishing a surfeit of brass or scraping away old candle-grease had never been begrudged. The altar flowers had not once in sixty years gone in need of fresh water; the mission ary leaflets were replaced when necessary. Small repairs had been effected on cassocks and surplices and robes. Washing the chance l tiles had been a sacred duty. While such recollections were sh ared, and the life that had ended further lauded, a young man in a pale tweed suit that stood out a bit on a warm morning surrepti tiously photographed the scene. He had earlier cycled the seven a nd a half miles from where he lived, and was then held up by the funeral traffic. He had come to photograph the town's burnt-out c inema, which he had heard about in a similar small town where rec ently he had photographed the perilous condition of a terrace of houses wrenched from their foundations in a landslip. Dark-haire d and thin, in his early twenties, the young man was a stranger i n Rathmoye. A suggestion of stylishness - in his general demeanou r, in his jaunty green-and-bluestriped tie - was repudiated by th e comfortable bagginess of his suit. His features had a misleadin g element of seriousness in their natural cast, contributing furt her to this impression of contradiction. His name was Florian Kil derry. 'Whose funeral?' he enquired in the crowd, returning to i t from where he had temporarily positioned himself behind a parke d car in order to take his photographs. He nodded when he was tol d, then asked for directions to the ruined cinema. 'Thanks,' he s aid politely, his smile friendly. 'Thanks,' he said again, and pu shed his bicycle through the throng of mourners. Neither Mrs Con nulty's son nor her daughter knew that the funeral attendance had been recorded in such a manner, and when they made their way, se parately, back to Number 4 The Square they remained ignorant of t his unusual development. The crowd began to disperse then, many t o gather again in Number 4, others to return to their interrupted morning. The last to go was an old Protestant called Orpen Wren, who believed the coffin that had been interred contained the mor tal remains of an elderly kitchenmaid whose death had occurred th irty-four years ago in a household he had known well. The respect ful murmur of voices around him dwindled to nothing; cars drove o ff. Alone where he stood, Orpen Wren remained for a few moments l onger before he, too, went on his way. * Cycling out of the tow n, Ellie wondered who the man who'd been taking photographs was. The way he'd asked about the old picture house you could tell he didn't know Rathmoye at all, and she'd never seen him on the stre ets or in a shop. She wondered if he was connected with the Connu ltys, since it was the Connultys who owned the picture house and since it had been Mrs Connulty's funeral. She'd never seen photog raphs taken at a funeral before, and supposed the Connultys could have employed him to do it. Or he was maybe off a newspaper, the Nenagh News or the Nationalist, because sometimes in a paper you 'd see a picture of a funeral. If she'd gone back to the house af terwards she could have asked Miss Connulty, but the artificial-i nsemination man was expected and she'd said she'd be there. She hurried in case she'd be late, although she had worked it out tha t she wouldn't be. She would have liked to go back to the house. She'd have liked to see the inside of it, which she never had, al though she'd been supplying Mrs Connulty with eggs for a long tim e. It could be the photographs were something the priests wanted , that maybe Father Balfe kept a parish book like she'd once been told by Sister Clare a priest might. Keeping a book would be mor e like Father Balfe than Father Millane, not that she knew what i t would contain. She wondered if she'd be in a photograph herself . When the camera was held up to take a picture she remembered sl ender, fragile-seeming hands. The white van was in the yard and Mr Brennock was getting out of it. She said she was sorry, and he said what for? She said she'd make him a cup of tea. * After h e had spent only a few minutes at the remains of the cinema, Flor ian Kilderry broke his journey at a roadside public house called the Dano Mahoney. He had been interrupted at the cinema by a man who had noticed his bicycle and came in to tell him he shouldn't be there. The man had pointed out that there was a notice and Flo rian said he hadn't seen it, although in fact he had. 'There's pe rmission needed,' the man crossly informed him, admitting when he snapped shut the two padlocks securing the place that they shoul dn't have been left open. 'See Miss O'Keeffe in the coal yards,' he advised. 'You'll get permission if she thinks fit.' But when F lorian asked about the whereabouts of the coal yards he was told they were closed today as a mark of respect. 'You'll have noticed a funeral,' the man said. In the bar Florian took a glass of wi ne to a corner and lit a cigarette. He had had a wasted journey, the unexpected funeral his only compensation, and from memory he tried to recall the images of it he had gathered. The mourners ha d conversed in twos and threes, a priest among them, several nuns . A few, alone, had begun to move away; others had stood awkwardl y, as if feeling they should stay longer. The scene had been a fa miliar one: he had photographed funerals before, had once or twic e been asked to desist. Sometimes there was a moment of drama, or a display of uncontrollable grief, but today there had been neit her. On the other hand, what he had been allowed to see of the c inema was promising. Through smashed glass a poster still adverti sed Idiot's Delight, the features of Norma Shearer cut about and distorted. He'd been scrutinizing them when the man shouted at hi m, but he never minded something like that. The Coliseum the cine ma had been called, Western Electric sound newly installed. A sm ell of frying bacon wafted into the bar, and voices on a radio. S porting heroes - wrestlers, boxers, jockeys, hurlers - decorated the walls, with greyhounds and steeple-chasers. The publican, a f ramed newspaper item declared, had been a pugilist himself, had g one five rounds with Jack Doyle, the gloves he'd worn hanging fro m a shelf behind the bar. 'Give a rap on the old counter if you'd want a refill,' he advise, Viking, 2010, 2.5, Spectra. Good. 6.25 x 1.25 x 9 inches. Paperback. 2001. 512 pages. Text buckled<br>From an exciting and brilliant new fan tasy master comes the third book of an epic saga, a tale of astou nding magic, unrelenting evil, and redemptive courage. Travis Wi lder and Grace Beckett have returned to modern Earth on a mission of mercy: to get medical help for the severely wounded Beltan, a knight from the otherworld of Eldh. But as Beltan lies unconscio us in the ICU of a Denver hospital, a shadowy organization plots to kidnap him for use in its cruel experiments, while sinister fo rces of dark magic cross the boundary from Eldh in a murderous se arch for Travis and Grace. Meanwhile, in Eldh itself, a young ba roness, her witch companion, and their mortal and immortal friend s journey to a dying city, there to confront a nameless evil that has begun to annihilate the very gods. Somehow Travis and Grace must save Beltan and themselves, and then make their way back to Eldh, for only in this realm of gods and monsters, myth and rune craft, can they hope to defeat a demonic enemy that can shatter t ime, devour space, and turn existence into nothingness. Editoria l Reviews From Publishers Weekly Overwritten and overwrought, An thony's third installment of a projected six-book fantasy series overwhelms readers with a clich?d magical universe and a crowded cast of characters. Beyond the Pale (1998), the deservedly popula r first book, introduced Travis Wilder, a likable Colorado barten der, and the equally personable doctor, Grace Beckett, with other worldly ties to Eldh, an alternate universe full of kingdoms that are highly derivative versions of Egyptian, Norse, Celtic, Roman and Greek mythology. Somehow Beckett and Wilder became saviors o n planet Eldh, escaping in the, alas, more tedious sequel, The Ke ep of Fire (1999), with grievously injured knight Beltan to Earth in order for Beltan to receive advanced medical treatment. In th is third book the evil Duratek company, twin of countless other s ubversive corporations found in various entertainment media, capt ures Beltan for purposes of genetic experimentation and exploitat ion. While Grace and Travis try to save Beltan on Earth, on Eldh the Weirding that witches use to communicate is unraveling and go ds and goddesses are dropping like flies. By overdoing trite magi cal devices and using too many characters to move the plot forwar d, this hodgepodge comes off as an overblown homage to other writ ers whose fantasy worlds are far more original than Anthony's and who know the power of simplicity despite complex plots. Hopefull y book four, Blood of Mystery, will find Anthony back on track. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc. From Library Journal As their friend Beltan, a native of the world known as E ldh, languishes in a coma in a Denver hospital, cross-world trave lers Grace Beckett and Travis Wilder sense an urgency that demand s their return to the mystical world that shares a destiny and a danger with Earth. The latest installment of Anthony's multivolum e fantasy epic (Beyond the Pale; The Keep of Fire) brings togethe r characters from both Earth and Eldh to the ruins of a dying cit y where an ancient enemy waits to destroy the twin fabrics of tim e and space. A good choice for libraries where epic fantasy is po pular. Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Libr ary Journal As their friend Beltan, a native of the world known a s Eldh, languishes in a coma in a Denver hospital, cross-world tr avelers Grace Beckett and Travis Wilder sense an urgency that dem ands their return to the mystical world that shares a destiny and a danger with Earth. The latest installment of Anthony's multivo lume fantasy epic (Beyond the Pale; The Keep of Fire) brings toge ther characters from both Earth and Eldh to the ruins of a dying city where an ancient enemy waits to destroy the twin fabrics of time and space. A good choice for libraries where epic fantasy is popular. Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc. From B ooklist The third book of the Last Rune series continues its vers ion of a staple fantasy situation, that of people from Earth bein g transported to a magical otherworld, where they prove indispens able to its survival. Travis Wilder and Dr. Grace Beckett have re turned from Eldh to Earth to get medical treatment for Sir Beltan , a severely wounded knight. Meanwhile, back at the castle, two y oung women and two former gods undertake their own journey to con front a nameless evil powerful enough to destroy the present gods and capable of leaping from one reality to another, which means that Travis, Grace, and Sir Beltan are hardly safe on Earth. Anth ony provides sufficient back story to orient readers new to the s aga, for which he clearly has at least one more book in mind, sin ce this one ends with a cliffhanger. A well-told fantasy tale, qu ite suitable for those who like well-told fantasy tales. Roland G reen Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserve d Review Don't miss Books One and Two of The Last Rune: Beyond the Pale Named the Best First Fantasy Novel by the Rocky Mountain News The Keep of Fire Offers a diverse cast of characters and a well-realized world in which the expected does not happen. Antho ny is unsparing of the details of castle life, enriching the book with a solid sense of place and time. - Robin Hobb A stunningly rich novel filled with magic, intrigue, great character, horror and humor. - Michael Stackpole Available wherever Bantam Spectra Books are sold From the Inside Flap ting and brilliant new fant asy master comes the third book of an epic saga, a tale of astoun ding magic, unrelenting evil, and redemptive courage. Travis Wil der and Grace Beckett have returned to modern Earth on a mission of mercy: to get medical help for the severely wounded Beltan, a knight from the otherworld of Eldh. But as Beltan lies unconsciou s in the ICU of a Denver hospital, a shadowy organization plots t o kidnap him for use in its cruel experiments, while sinister for ces of dark magic cross the boundary from Eldh in a murderous sea rch for Travis and Grace. Meanwhile, in Eldh itself, a young bar oness, her witch companion, and their mortal and immortal friends journey to a dying city, there to confront a nameless evil that has begun to annihilate the very gods. Somehow Travis and Grace must save Beltan and themselves, and then make their way back to Eldh, for only in this realm of gods and monsters, myth and runec raft, can they hope to defeat a demonic ene From the Back Cover Don't miss Books One and Two of The Last Rune Beyond The Pale Na med the Best First Fantasy Novel by the Rocky Mountain News The Keep Of Fire Offers a diverse cast of characters and a well-reali zed world in which the expected does not happen. Anthony is unspa ring of the details of castle life, enriching the book with a sol id sense of place and time. -- Robin Hobb A stunningly rich nove l filled with magic, intrigue, great character, horror and humor. -- Michael Stackpole Available wherever Bantam Spectra Books ar e sold Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. One It was in the final, burnished days of summer -- when cool mornings gave way to languid afternoons under hazy skies, when th e wheat bowed in the fields, shafts heavy with fruit, and all the land was still as if drinking in one last, long draught of gold -- that the Mournish came to Ar-tolor. Through the window of her chamber, Aryn watched the line of wagons creep along the road th at led to the castle. At this distance the wagons were smaller th an toys, but the young woman's blue eyes were sharp, and she coul d make out many of the fantastical shapes into which they had bee n wrought. There were swans with high, curving prows and snowy w ings folded against their sides, and snails painted pink with sma ll round windows set into their spiraled shells. A lion crouched low to the road, as if ready to pounce on a hart crowned by tree- branch antlers, while an emerald frog bounced behind. More wagons rolled into view: tortoises, fish cresting carved blue waves, li zards, tawny hares, and a dozen other creatures that Aryn had nev er seen before, except perhaps coiled along the edges of pages in old books. One by one the wagons vanished beneath the green cur ve of the hill, and the road was empty again. But even at that mo ment, Aryn knew the wagons were coming to halt in the field outsi de the village, opening painted doors to release the spicy scent of incense, the cool clink of silver, and the undulating rhythms of music. The young woman turned from the window, her sapphire e yes bright. Let's go see the Mournish! Lirith, who sat in a chai r on the other side of the small sitting room, did not look up fr om her embroidery. And then let's get tossed in the dungeon and m ake the acquaintance of a few dozen rats. For you know as I do, s ister, that Queen Ivalaine has made it plain she wishes no one in her court to associate with the wandering folk. Their entertainm ents are for villagers and farmers. Annoyed, but not surprised, Aryn indulged herself in a particularly noxious frown. And what a fine baroness you'll make after your face freezes that way, sis ter, Lirith mused, her dark eyes still focused on the embroidery hoop in her lap. Even bold dukes and proud knights will quail bef ore you. As well they should, Aryn said. Although she smoothed h er features and made a quick glance at a silver mirror on the wal l nearby to be sure she hadn't done permanent damage. I saw that , Lirith said. Rather than reply, Aryn gazed back out the window . The most interesting sight she saw now was a flock of sheep dot ting the side of a distant hill like flowers. She amused herself for a few moments, imagining plucking tiny sheep from the grass, weaving them into a squirming, bleating chain, and placing them a round her neck. Then she considered the smell, and that fancy pas sed. I'm bored, she said, not caring how petulant she sounded. S he felt petulant. All the better reason for you to stay and work on your embroidery. Aryn scowled at the black-haired witch. I k now perfectly well that you loathe embroidery, Lirith. Indeed. A nd my loathing keeps me well occupied, so that I do not become bo red. Now sew. Sister Tressa will be here soon, and she'll expect to see some progress. Aryn turned from the window, pulled close the wooden stand that held her embroidery hoop steady for her, an d did her best to pretend that sewing unicorns was really more fa scinating than buying packets of sugared nuts, laughing at perfor ming monkeys, and watching men who swallowed knives and burning b rands. Yrsaia knows, you should be more grateful for your boredo m, Aryn of Elsandry, she scolded herself. Where are Grace and Goo dman Travis and Lord Beltan now? Sitting in a comfortable chair i n a safe castle with a cup of sweet wine at hand? She sighed, an d Lirith looked up, an expression of concern on her face. I am c ertain they are well, sister. It is to their homeland they have j ourneyed. And no one has power to heal as does Lady Grace. I imag ine Sir Beltan is telling bawdy jokes and drinking ale even as we speak. Aryn wished she had such a good imagination. It had bee n a month since they had begged their leave of Queen Inara and se t out from Castle Spardis. They had left the seat of Perridon in good order. The young queen had rescinded all of the usurper Daka rreth's proclamations, and with the help of the Spider Aldeth -- who was making a steady recovery from his injury -- had cemented her position as regent to her infant son, Prince Perseth. While t here would continue to be plots against the queen -- this was Per ridon, after all -- Aryn expected Inara to rule long and well. A fter only a day of traveling they had bid farewell to Melia and F alken, for the bard and the lady intended to journey north to fin d their friend Tome -- who, like Melia, was a former god. Aryn wo uld have liked to see the golden-eyed old man again; he had the p ower to make her laugh no matter the sorrow she felt. However, In ara had already sent a messenger to Ivalaine. Aryn and Lirith wer e expected in Ar-tolor, and Durge had agreed to escort them there . Although Lirith was her friend and teacher, and Durge was good -- if sober -- company, the ride across Perridon and Toloria see med lonely. Grace and Travis had returned with Beltan to their wo rld in hopes of healing the knight's old wound. Melia and Falken had their own journeys. Even Tira was gone. Except that wasn't t rue, was it? For sometimes, when Aryn woke in the gray dawn, she glimpsed a star as red as fire low in the southern sky. She still didn't understand what had happened in Spardis, when Travis gave Tira the Stone of Fire. But Melia said the red-haired girl was a goddess now, and Melia should know. Aryn supposed that, in a way , Tira would always be with them. They had reached Ar-tolor with little event, and Aryn had been more glad than she expected to s ee its seven spires soaring over fields of jade. Queen Ivalaine h ad welcomed them with a rare smile, and at once dispatched a man to Calavere to inform King Boreas that Aryn would be visiting at the court of Ar-tolor for a time. You shall resume your instruct ion with Sister Lirith at once, Ivalaine told her that first day in the castle, and Aryn had not disagreed. The weeks since had p assed pleasantly -- walking the castle grounds, sewing under Tres sa's attention, reaching out with the Touch to grasp the magic of the Weirding as Lirith whispered calm instructions in her ear. A nd if at times it all seemed dull compared to their desperate jou rney east to the Keep of Fire, Aryn knew she should be grateful f or that dullness. With the Necromancer Dakarreth's scourge of fi re ended, the land had recovered more quickly than she had believ ed possible. Crops had been hastily resown, flourishing under gol den sun and gentle rain. Now Keldath was nearly over, and there w ould be a good -- if late -- harvest this year. It seemed a wonde r, but perhaps there was a lesson in it; perhaps she should never underestimate the power of life. Then don't underestimate Belta n's life. Or Grace's or Travis's. They're going to be fine. So yo u might as well stop worrying. However, Aryn might as easily pre vent the stars from spinning in the night sky. And she knew it gn awed at Lirith and Durge as much as it did her. They all feared f or the others, who were beyond their reach now. Which was precis ely why a diversion like the Mournish caravan was in order. A kn ock sounded at the chamber door. Aryn bit her lip. She had hardly sewn three, Spectra, 2001, 2.5, Holiday House, 2002-10-01. Hardcover. Like New. MULTIPLE COPIES HAS DUST COVER LIKE NEW - NEVER ISSUED-MAY HAVE SCHOOL STAMP, NUMBER, MINIMAL SHELF WEAR - EXPERIENCE AMAZING CUSTOMER SERVICE - WE SHIP DAILY, Holiday House, 2002-10-01, 5, Laurel Leaf, 1983-03-15. Mass Market Paperback. Very Good. MULTIPLE COPIES AVAILABLE USED VERY GOOD CONDITION MAY HAVE SLIGHT CORNER WEAR EXPERIENCE AMAZING CUSTOMER SERVICE - WE SHIP DAILY, Laurel Leaf, 1983-03-15, 3<

2010, ISBN: 9780440938842

Pasta dura

Viking. Good. Paperback. 2010. 228 pages. Cover worn.<br>The inimitable William Trevor returns w ith a story of suspicion, guilt, forbidden love and the possibili ty of starting ove… Más…

Viking. Good. Paperback. 2010. 228 pages. Cover worn.<br>The inimitable William Trevor returns w ith a story of suspicion, guilt, forbidden love and the possibili ty of starting over. It s summer, and nothing much is happening in Rathmoye. So it doesn t go unnoticed when a dark-haired stran ger begins photographing the mourners at Mrs. Connulty s funeral. Florian Kilderry couldn t know that the Connultys were said to o wn half the town. But Miss Connulty resolves to keep an eye on Fl orian ... and she becomes a witness to the ensuing events. In a c haracteristically masterful way, Trevor evokes the passions and f rustrations in an Irish town during one long summer. Editorial R eviews From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. The tragic consequ ences of a woman's lost honor and a family's shame haunt several generations in Trevor's masterful 14th novel. His prose precisely nuanced and restrained, Trevor depicts a society beginning to lo osen itself from the Church's implacable condemnation of sexual i mmorality. Years ago, Miss Connulty's dragon of a mother forced h er into lifelong atonement after she was abandoned by her lover. Now, in the mid-1950s, middle-aged and forever marked for spinste rhood in her small Irish town, she is intent on protecting Ellie Dillahan, the naïve young wife of an older farmer. A foundling ra ised by nuns, Ellie was sent to housekeep for the widowed farmer, and she is content until her dormant emotions are awakened by a charming but feckless bachelor, Florian Kilderry, who has plans t o soon leave Ireland. Their affair is bittersweet, evoking Floria n's regretful knowledge that he will cause heartbreak and Ellie's shy but urgent passion and culminating in a surprising resolutio n. Trevor renders the fictional town of Rathmoye with the precise detail of a photograph, while his portrait of its inhabitants is more subtle and painterly, suggesting their interwoven secrets, respectful traditions and stoic courtesy. (Sept.) Copyright ® Re ed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rig hts reserved. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. Revie w Trevor is fantastically effective at foreboding; he can make a reader squirm just by withholding the next bit of some long-past anterior action he's been recounting. . . . Love and Summer, the latest item from his venerable suitcase, is a thrilling work of a rt. -- Thomas Mallon, The New York Times Marvellously written, c onsummately plotted. . . . One of the joys of Love and Summer is the perfection of its Irish geography and the wealth of emotions attached to it. . . . As brief and beautiful as summer itself, it is a book to be read and reread, as perfect a thing as our blemi shed world can offer -- The Globe and Mail A triumph of style an d content. -- The Herald Love and Summer is so exquisite I had t o pace myself reading it, so it wouldn't end too soon. -- Belfast Telegraph --This text refers to the hardcover edition. From Boo kmarks Magazine Trevor is a master storyteller, and Love and Summ er exhibits all the hallmarks of his most luminous works: his sta rk and graceful prose; his profound insight into the human heart; and his hauntingly authentic characters, precisely sketched in j ust a few short lines. In Trevor's provincial Ireland, every pers on has a story--a secret hope or a heartache--and he teases them out and weaves them together subtly and seamlessly. Gentle, naïve Ellie is the highlight of this spare and nuanced portrayal of fr agile humans dwarfed by life's circumstances (Philadelphia Inquir er), and while Trevor offers no easy answers or tidy endings, he provides a believable and satisfying denouement. Readers, along w ith the critic from the Boston Globe, will find it hard to leave Rathmoye. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. About the Author William Trevor has won the Hawthornden Prize and he is a four-time nominee for the Man Booker Prize. He received the David Cohen Literature Prize recognizing a lifetime s literary achieve ment, and he was knighted for his services to literature. Born in Michelstown, County Cork, he now lives in Devon. --This text ref ers to the hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission . All rights reserved. 1. On a June evening some years after the middle of the last century Mrs Eileen Connulty passed through th e town of Rathmoye: from Number 4 The Square to Magennis Street, into Hurley Lane, along Irish Street, across Cloughjordan Road to the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer. Her night was spent there. The life that had come to an end had been one of good works and resolution, with a degree of severity in domestic and family mat ters. The anticipation of personal contentment, which had long ag o influenced Mrs Connulty's acceptance of the married state and t he bearing of two children, had since failed her: she had been di sappointed in her husband and in her daughter. As death approache d, she had feared she would now be obliged to join her husband an d prayed she would not have to. Her daughter she was glad to part from; her son - now in his fiftieth year, her pet since first he lay in her arms as an infant - Mrs Connulty had wept to leave be hind. The blinds of private houses, drawn down as the coffin wen t by, were released soon after it had passed. Shops that had clos ed opened again. Men who had uncovered their heads replaced caps or hats, children who had ceased to play in Hurley Lane were no l onger constrained. The undertakers descended the steps of the chu rch. Tomorrow's Mass would bring a bishop; until the very last, M rs Connulty would be given her due. People at that time said the family Mrs Connulty had married into owned half of Rathmoye, an impression created by their licensed premises in Magennis Street, their coal yards in St Matthew Street, and Number 4 The Square, a lodging house established by the Connultys in 1903. During the decades that had passed since then there had been the acquisition of other properties in the town; repaired and generally put righ t, they brought in modest rents that, accumulating, became a size able total. But even so it was an exaggeration when people said t hat the Connultys owned half of Rathmoye. Compact and ordinary, it was a town in a hollow that had grown up there for no reason t hat anyone knew or wondered about. Farmers brought in livestock o n the first Monday of every month, and borrowed money from one of Rathmoye's two banks. They had their teeth drawn by the dentist who practised in the Square, from time to time consulted a solici tor there, inspected the agricultural machinery at Des Devlin's o n the Nenagh road, dealt with Heffernan the seed merchant, drank in one of the town's many public houses. Their wives shopped for groceries from the warehouse shelves of the Cash and Carry, or in McGovern's if they weren't economizing; for shoes in Tyler's; fo r clothes, curtain material and oilcloth in Corbally's drapery. T here had once been employment at the mill, and at the mill's elec tricity plant before the Shannon Scheme came; there was employmen t now at the creamery and the condensed-milk factory, in builders ' yards, in shops and public houses, at the bottled-water plant. There was a courthouse in the Square, an abandoned railway statio n at the end of Mill Street. There were two churches and a conven t, a Christian Brothers' school and a technical school. Plans for a swimming-pool were awaiting the acquisition of funds. Nothing happened in Rathmoye, its people said, but most of them went on living there. It was the young who left - for Dublin or Cork or L imerick, for England, sometimes for America. A lot came back. Tha t nothing happened was an exaggeration too. The funeral Mass was on the morning of the following day, and when it was over Mrs Co nnulty's mourners stood about outside the cemetery gates, declari ng that she would never be forgotten in the town and beyond it. T he women who had toiled beside her in the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer asserted that she had been an example to them all. They recalled how no task had been too menial for her to undertake, h ow the hours spent polishing a surfeit of brass or scraping away old candle-grease had never been begrudged. The altar flowers had not once in sixty years gone in need of fresh water; the mission ary leaflets were replaced when necessary. Small repairs had been effected on cassocks and surplices and robes. Washing the chance l tiles had been a sacred duty. While such recollections were sh ared, and the life that had ended further lauded, a young man in a pale tweed suit that stood out a bit on a warm morning surrepti tiously photographed the scene. He had earlier cycled the seven a nd a half miles from where he lived, and was then held up by the funeral traffic. He had come to photograph the town's burnt-out c inema, which he had heard about in a similar small town where rec ently he had photographed the perilous condition of a terrace of houses wrenched from their foundations in a landslip. Dark-haire d and thin, in his early twenties, the young man was a stranger i n Rathmoye. A suggestion of stylishness - in his general demeanou r, in his jaunty green-and-bluestriped tie - was repudiated by th e comfortable bagginess of his suit. His features had a misleadin g element of seriousness in their natural cast, contributing furt her to this impression of contradiction. His name was Florian Kil derry. 'Whose funeral?' he enquired in the crowd, returning to i t from where he had temporarily positioned himself behind a parke d car in order to take his photographs. He nodded when he was tol d, then asked for directions to the ruined cinema. 'Thanks,' he s aid politely, his smile friendly. 'Thanks,' he said again, and pu shed his bicycle through the throng of mourners. Neither Mrs Con nulty's son nor her daughter knew that the funeral attendance had been recorded in such a manner, and when they made their way, se parately, back to Number 4 The Square they remained ignorant of t his unusual development. The crowd began to disperse then, many t o gather again in Number 4, others to return to their interrupted morning. The last to go was an old Protestant called Orpen Wren, who believed the coffin that had been interred contained the mor tal remains of an elderly kitchenmaid whose death had occurred th irty-four years ago in a household he had known well. The respect ful murmur of voices around him dwindled to nothing; cars drove o ff. Alone where he stood, Orpen Wren remained for a few moments l onger before he, too, went on his way. * Cycling out of the tow n, Ellie wondered who the man who'd been taking photographs was. The way he'd asked about the old picture house you could tell he didn't know Rathmoye at all, and she'd never seen him on the stre ets or in a shop. She wondered if he was connected with the Connu ltys, since it was the Connultys who owned the picture house and since it had been Mrs Connulty's funeral. She'd never seen photog raphs taken at a funeral before, and supposed the Connultys could have employed him to do it. Or he was maybe off a newspaper, the Nenagh News or the Nationalist, because sometimes in a paper you 'd see a picture of a funeral. If she'd gone back to the house af terwards she could have asked Miss Connulty, but the artificial-i nsemination man was expected and she'd said she'd be there. She hurried in case she'd be late, although she had worked it out tha t she wouldn't be. She would have liked to go back to the house. She'd have liked to see the inside of it, which she never had, al though she'd been supplying Mrs Connulty with eggs for a long tim e. It could be the photographs were something the priests wanted , that maybe Father Balfe kept a parish book like she'd once been told by Sister Clare a priest might. Keeping a book would be mor e like Father Balfe than Father Millane, not that she knew what i t would contain. She wondered if she'd be in a photograph herself . When the camera was held up to take a picture she remembered sl ender, fragile-seeming hands. The white van was in the yard and Mr Brennock was getting out of it. She said she was sorry, and he said what for? She said she'd make him a cup of tea. * After h e had spent only a few minutes at the remains of the cinema, Flor ian Kilderry broke his journey at a roadside public house called the Dano Mahoney. He had been interrupted at the cinema by a man who had noticed his bicycle and came in to tell him he shouldn't be there. The man had pointed out that there was a notice and Flo rian said he hadn't seen it, although in fact he had. 'There's pe rmission needed,' the man crossly informed him, admitting when he snapped shut the two padlocks securing the place that they shoul dn't have been left open. 'See Miss O'Keeffe in the coal yards,' he advised. 'You'll get permission if she thinks fit.' But when F lorian asked about the whereabouts of the coal yards he was told they were closed today as a mark of respect. 'You'll have noticed a funeral,' the man said. In the bar Florian took a glass of wi ne to a corner and lit a cigarette. He had had a wasted journey, the unexpected funeral his only compensation, and from memory he tried to recall the images of it he had gathered. The mourners ha d conversed in twos and threes, a priest among them, several nuns . A few, alone, had begun to move away; others had stood awkwardl y, as if feeling they should stay longer. The scene had been a fa miliar one: he had photographed funerals before, had once or twic e been asked to desist. Sometimes there was a moment of drama, or a display of uncontrollable grief, but today there had been neit her. On the other hand, what he had been allowed to see of the c inema was promising. Through smashed glass a poster still adverti sed Idiot's Delight, the features of Norma Shearer cut about and distorted. He'd been scrutinizing them when the man shouted at hi m, but he never minded something like that. The Coliseum the cine ma had been called, Western Electric sound newly installed. A sm ell of frying bacon wafted into the bar, and voices on a radio. S porting heroes - wrestlers, boxers, jockeys, hurlers - decorated the walls, with greyhounds and steeple-chasers. The publican, a f ramed newspaper item declared, had been a pugilist himself, had g one five rounds with Jack Doyle, the gloves he'd worn hanging fro m a shelf behind the bar. 'Give a rap on the old counter if you'd want a refill,' he advise, Viking, 2010, 2.5, Spectra. Good. 6.25 x 1.25 x 9 inches. Paperback. 2001. 512 pages. Text buckled<br>From an exciting and brilliant new fan tasy master comes the third book of an epic saga, a tale of astou nding magic, unrelenting evil, and redemptive courage. Travis Wi lder and Grace Beckett have returned to modern Earth on a mission of mercy: to get medical help for the severely wounded Beltan, a knight from the otherworld of Eldh. But as Beltan lies unconscio us in the ICU of a Denver hospital, a shadowy organization plots to kidnap him for use in its cruel experiments, while sinister fo rces of dark magic cross the boundary from Eldh in a murderous se arch for Travis and Grace. Meanwhile, in Eldh itself, a young ba roness, her witch companion, and their mortal and immortal friend s journey to a dying city, there to confront a nameless evil that has begun to annihilate the very gods. Somehow Travis and Grace must save Beltan and themselves, and then make their way back to Eldh, for only in this realm of gods and monsters, myth and rune craft, can they hope to defeat a demonic enemy that can shatter t ime, devour space, and turn existence into nothingness. Editoria l Reviews From Publishers Weekly Overwritten and overwrought, An thony's third installment of a projected six-book fantasy series overwhelms readers with a clich?d magical universe and a crowded cast of characters. Beyond the Pale (1998), the deservedly popula r first book, introduced Travis Wilder, a likable Colorado barten der, and the equally personable doctor, Grace Beckett, with other worldly ties to Eldh, an alternate universe full of kingdoms that are highly derivative versions of Egyptian, Norse, Celtic, Roman and Greek mythology. Somehow Beckett and Wilder became saviors o n planet Eldh, escaping in the, alas, more tedious sequel, The Ke ep of Fire (1999), with grievously injured knight Beltan to Earth in order for Beltan to receive advanced medical treatment. In th is third book the evil Duratek company, twin of countless other s ubversive corporations found in various entertainment media, capt ures Beltan for purposes of genetic experimentation and exploitat ion. While Grace and Travis try to save Beltan on Earth, on Eldh the Weirding that witches use to communicate is unraveling and go ds and goddesses are dropping like flies. By overdoing trite magi cal devices and using too many characters to move the plot forwar d, this hodgepodge comes off as an overblown homage to other writ ers whose fantasy worlds are far more original than Anthony's and who know the power of simplicity despite complex plots. Hopefull y book four, Blood of Mystery, will find Anthony back on track. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc. From Library Journal As their friend Beltan, a native of the world known as E ldh, languishes in a coma in a Denver hospital, cross-world trave lers Grace Beckett and Travis Wilder sense an urgency that demand s their return to the mystical world that shares a destiny and a danger with Earth. The latest installment of Anthony's multivolum e fantasy epic (Beyond the Pale; The Keep of Fire) brings togethe r characters from both Earth and Eldh to the ruins of a dying cit y where an ancient enemy waits to destroy the twin fabrics of tim e and space. A good choice for libraries where epic fantasy is po pular. Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Libr ary Journal As their friend Beltan, a native of the world known a s Eldh, languishes in a coma in a Denver hospital, cross-world tr avelers Grace Beckett and Travis Wilder sense an urgency that dem ands their return to the mystical world that shares a destiny and a danger with Earth. The latest installment of Anthony's multivo lume fantasy epic (Beyond the Pale; The Keep of Fire) brings toge ther characters from both Earth and Eldh to the ruins of a dying city where an ancient enemy waits to destroy the twin fabrics of time and space. A good choice for libraries where epic fantasy is popular. Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc. From B ooklist The third book of the Last Rune series continues its vers ion of a staple fantasy situation, that of people from Earth bein g transported to a magical otherworld, where they prove indispens able to its survival. Travis Wilder and Dr. Grace Beckett have re turned from Eldh to Earth to get medical treatment for Sir Beltan , a severely wounded knight. Meanwhile, back at the castle, two y oung women and two former gods undertake their own journey to con front a nameless evil powerful enough to destroy the present gods and capable of leaping from one reality to another, which means that Travis, Grace, and Sir Beltan are hardly safe on Earth. Anth ony provides sufficient back story to orient readers new to the s aga, for which he clearly has at least one more book in mind, sin ce this one ends with a cliffhanger. A well-told fantasy tale, qu ite suitable for those who like well-told fantasy tales. Roland G reen Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserve d Review Don't miss Books One and Two of The Last Rune: Beyond the Pale Named the Best First Fantasy Novel by the Rocky Mountain News The Keep of Fire Offers a diverse cast of characters and a well-realized world in which the expected does not happen. Antho ny is unsparing of the details of castle life, enriching the book with a solid sense of place and time. - Robin Hobb A stunningly rich novel filled with magic, intrigue, great character, horror and humor. - Michael Stackpole Available wherever Bantam Spectra Books are sold From the Inside Flap ting and brilliant new fant asy master comes the third book of an epic saga, a tale of astoun ding magic, unrelenting evil, and redemptive courage. Travis Wil der and Grace Beckett have returned to modern Earth on a mission of mercy: to get medical help for the severely wounded Beltan, a knight from the otherworld of Eldh. But as Beltan lies unconsciou s in the ICU of a Denver hospital, a shadowy organization plots t o kidnap him for use in its cruel experiments, while sinister for ces of dark magic cross the boundary from Eldh in a murderous sea rch for Travis and Grace. Meanwhile, in Eldh itself, a young bar oness, her witch companion, and their mortal and immortal friends journey to a dying city, there to confront a nameless evil that has begun to annihilate the very gods. Somehow Travis and Grace must save Beltan and themselves, and then make their way back to Eldh, for only in this realm of gods and monsters, myth and runec raft, can they hope to defeat a demonic ene From the Back Cover Don't miss Books One and Two of The Last Rune Beyond The Pale Na med the Best First Fantasy Novel by the Rocky Mountain News The Keep Of Fire Offers a diverse cast of characters and a well-reali zed world in which the expected does not happen. Anthony is unspa ring of the details of castle life, enriching the book with a sol id sense of place and time. -- Robin Hobb A stunningly rich nove l filled with magic, intrigue, great character, horror and humor. -- Michael Stackpole Available wherever Bantam Spectra Books ar e sold Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. One It was in the final, burnished days of summer -- when cool mornings gave way to languid afternoons under hazy skies, when th e wheat bowed in the fields, shafts heavy with fruit, and all the land was still as if drinking in one last, long draught of gold -- that the Mournish came to Ar-tolor. Through the window of her chamber, Aryn watched the line of wagons creep along the road th at led to the castle. At this distance the wagons were smaller th an toys, but the young woman's blue eyes were sharp, and she coul d make out many of the fantastical shapes into which they had bee n wrought. There were swans with high, curving prows and snowy w ings folded against their sides, and snails painted pink with sma ll round windows set into their spiraled shells. A lion crouched low to the road, as if ready to pounce on a hart crowned by tree- branch antlers, while an emerald frog bounced behind. More wagons rolled into view: tortoises, fish cresting carved blue waves, li zards, tawny hares, and a dozen other creatures that Aryn had nev er seen before, except perhaps coiled along the edges of pages in old books. One by one the wagons vanished beneath the green cur ve of the hill, and the road was empty again. But even at that mo ment, Aryn knew the wagons were coming to halt in the field outsi de the village, opening painted doors to release the spicy scent of incense, the cool clink of silver, and the undulating rhythms of music. The young woman turned from the window, her sapphire e yes bright. Let's go see the Mournish! Lirith, who sat in a chai r on the other side of the small sitting room, did not look up fr om her embroidery. And then let's get tossed in the dungeon and m ake the acquaintance of a few dozen rats. For you know as I do, s ister, that Queen Ivalaine has made it plain she wishes no one in her court to associate with the wandering folk. Their entertainm ents are for villagers and farmers. Annoyed, but not surprised, Aryn indulged herself in a particularly noxious frown. And what a fine baroness you'll make after your face freezes that way, sis ter, Lirith mused, her dark eyes still focused on the embroidery hoop in her lap. Even bold dukes and proud knights will quail bef ore you. As well they should, Aryn said. Although she smoothed h er features and made a quick glance at a silver mirror on the wal l nearby to be sure she hadn't done permanent damage. I saw that , Lirith said. Rather than reply, Aryn gazed back out the window . The most interesting sight she saw now was a flock of sheep dot ting the side of a distant hill like flowers. She amused herself for a few moments, imagining plucking tiny sheep from the grass, weaving them into a squirming, bleating chain, and placing them a round her neck. Then she considered the smell, and that fancy pas sed. I'm bored, she said, not caring how petulant she sounded. S he felt petulant. All the better reason for you to stay and work on your embroidery. Aryn scowled at the black-haired witch. I k now perfectly well that you loathe embroidery, Lirith. Indeed. A nd my loathing keeps me well occupied, so that I do not become bo red. Now sew. Sister Tressa will be here soon, and she'll expect to see some progress. Aryn turned from the window, pulled close the wooden stand that held her embroidery hoop steady for her, an d did her best to pretend that sewing unicorns was really more fa scinating than buying packets of sugared nuts, laughing at perfor ming monkeys, and watching men who swallowed knives and burning b rands. Yrsaia knows, you should be more grateful for your boredo m, Aryn of Elsandry, she scolded herself. Where are Grace and Goo dman Travis and Lord Beltan now? Sitting in a comfortable chair i n a safe castle with a cup of sweet wine at hand? She sighed, an d Lirith looked up, an expression of concern on her face. I am c ertain they are well, sister. It is to their homeland they have j ourneyed. And no one has power to heal as does Lady Grace. I imag ine Sir Beltan is telling bawdy jokes and drinking ale even as we speak. Aryn wished she had such a good imagination. It had bee n a month since they had begged their leave of Queen Inara and se t out from Castle Spardis. They had left the seat of Perridon in good order. The young queen had rescinded all of the usurper Daka rreth's proclamations, and with the help of the Spider Aldeth -- who was making a steady recovery from his injury -- had cemented her position as regent to her infant son, Prince Perseth. While t here would continue to be plots against the queen -- this was Per ridon, after all -- Aryn expected Inara to rule long and well. A fter only a day of traveling they had bid farewell to Melia and F alken, for the bard and the lady intended to journey north to fin d their friend Tome -- who, like Melia, was a former god. Aryn wo uld have liked to see the golden-eyed old man again; he had the p ower to make her laugh no matter the sorrow she felt. However, In ara had already sent a messenger to Ivalaine. Aryn and Lirith wer e expected in Ar-tolor, and Durge had agreed to escort them there . Although Lirith was her friend and teacher, and Durge was good -- if sober -- company, the ride across Perridon and Toloria see med lonely. Grace and Travis had returned with Beltan to their wo rld in hopes of healing the knight's old wound. Melia and Falken had their own journeys. Even Tira was gone. Except that wasn't t rue, was it? For sometimes, when Aryn woke in the gray dawn, she glimpsed a star as red as fire low in the southern sky. She still didn't understand what had happened in Spardis, when Travis gave Tira the Stone of Fire. But Melia said the red-haired girl was a goddess now, and Melia should know. Aryn supposed that, in a way , Tira would always be with them. They had reached Ar-tolor with little event, and Aryn had been more glad than she expected to s ee its seven spires soaring over fields of jade. Queen Ivalaine h ad welcomed them with a rare smile, and at once dispatched a man to Calavere to inform King Boreas that Aryn would be visiting at the court of Ar-tolor for a time. You shall resume your instruct ion with Sister Lirith at once, Ivalaine told her that first day in the castle, and Aryn had not disagreed. The weeks since had p assed pleasantly -- walking the castle grounds, sewing under Tres sa's attention, reaching out with the Touch to grasp the magic of the Weirding as Lirith whispered calm instructions in her ear. A nd if at times it all seemed dull compared to their desperate jou rney east to the Keep of Fire, Aryn knew she should be grateful f or that dullness. With the Necromancer Dakarreth's scourge of fi re ended, the land had recovered more quickly than she had believ ed possible. Crops had been hastily resown, flourishing under gol den sun and gentle rain. Now Keldath was nearly over, and there w ould be a good -- if late -- harvest this year. It seemed a wonde r, but perhaps there was a lesson in it; perhaps she should never underestimate the power of life. Then don't underestimate Belta n's life. Or Grace's or Travis's. They're going to be fine. So yo u might as well stop worrying. However, Aryn might as easily pre vent the stars from spinning in the night sky. And she knew it gn awed at Lirith and Durge as much as it did her. They all feared f or the others, who were beyond their reach now. Which was precis ely why a diversion like the Mournish caravan was in order. A kn ock sounded at the chamber door. Aryn bit her lip. She had hardly sewn three, Spectra, 2001, 2.5, Laurel Leaf, 1983-03-15. Mass Market Paperback. Very Good. MULTIPLE COPIES AVAILABLE USED VERY GOOD CONDITION MAY HAVE SLIGHT CORNER WEAR EXPERIENCE AMAZING CUSTOMER SERVICE - WE SHIP DAILY, Laurel Leaf, 1983-03-15, 3<

ISBN: 9780440938842

Laurel Leaf. Mass Market Paperback. GOOD. Spine creases, wear to binding and pages from reading. May contain limited notes, underlining or highlighting that does affect the text. Possib… Más…

Laurel Leaf. Mass Market Paperback. GOOD. Spine creases, wear to binding and pages from reading. May contain limited notes, underlining or highlighting that does affect the text. Possible ex library copy, will have the markings and stickers associated from the library. Accessories such as CD, codes, toys, may not be included., Laurel Leaf, 2.5<

1983, ISBN: 9780440938842

New York, NY, U.S.A.: Laure Leaf; Reis, 1983. Book. As New. Paper Back. 0.54 x 6.73 x 4.15. As new unread vintage paperback, an amazing buy from a literature professor.., Laure Leaf; Rei… Más…

New York, NY, U.S.A.: Laure Leaf; Reis, 1983. Book. As New. Paper Back. 0.54 x 6.73 x 4.15. As new unread vintage paperback, an amazing buy from a literature professor.., Laure Leaf; Reis, 1983, 5<