Posted by: Arkay | March 18, 2008

Read this Author

Guy Gavriel Kay is a Canadian historical fantasy author, and one of my very favorites. The imagery he invokes, along with the characters he develops put him (in my opinion) up with the greatest fantasy writers of all time.



Here is an excerpt I just read from his latest offering The Last Light of the Sun:



She knows the instant he enters among the first oaks and alders, apprehending his aura before she sees him. She stands in a glade by a beech tree, as she did the first time, a hand laid on it for sustenance, sap-strength. She is afraid. But not only that.

He appears at the edge of the glade and stops. Her hair goes to silver. Purest hue, essence of what she is, what they all are: silver around them in the first mound, gleaming. Now lost, undersea. They sing to greet the white moon when it rises.

Only the blue one tonight, hidden from where they stand within the wood. She knows exactly where it is, however. They always know where both moons are. The blue one is different, more…inward; hues one does not always share with others. Just as she has not shared her coming east, this journey. She took a soul for the queen at the beginning of summer, will not suffer for this following. Or not at the hands of the Ride. There are others in the wood, though, nearby and south. To be feared.

She sees him step forward, approaching over grass, amid trees. A dark wood, far from home (for both of them). There is a spruaugh somewhere about, which has angered and surprised her, for she dislikes them all, their green hovering. She’d shown her hair violet to him earlier, and seethed, and he’d retreated, chattering, agitated. She scans with the eye of her mind, doesn’t find his aura now. Didn’t think he would be anywhere near after seeing her.

She makes herself let go of the tree. Takes a step forward. He is near enough to touch, to be touched. Her hair is shining. She is all the light in this glade, the trees in summer leaf occluding the stars and the moon, shielding the two of them. A shelter, between worlds, though there are dangers all around. She remembers touching his face on the slope above the farm and the blood-soaked yard, as he knelt before her.

The memory changes the colour of her hair again. It is not only fear she feels. He does not kneel this time. No iron about him. He has left it behind, coming to her, knowing.




Do yourself a great favour and go and get one of his books from the library and immerse yourself in his words.


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