This week I’m reading The Towers of Sunset, by L.E. Modesitt, Jr., in which a young prince (sort-of — I haven’t quite figured out the exact nature of royal roles in this book) decides to skip town instead of allowing himself to be married off to a nearby ruler’s daughter. Because the “town” in question is a castle that’s basically situated in the middle of an arctic plateau, skipping it is a pretty major undertaking.
Apparently this is book two in the “Recluce” saga, but it’s also apparently a prequel to the goings-on in the first book, so I’m okay with reading it first. Sort of like reading The Magician’s Nephew before The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, right? Right? Anyone?
Setting his pack on the cold stones, he begins to peel slivers of wood from the thinnest log until he has a pile at the back of the hearth. He steps back outside, breaks off several green fir branches and carries them within. His efforts with the striker are successful, and soon a small fire warms the hut. Later, he enjoys hot tea and nearly the last of his field rations. In time, he sleeps, his body relaxing in the comparative warmth.
In this scene, our sort-of prince has found himself a deserted way station along an empty road, and is using it for shelter for the night. This kind of reminds me of the warming hut along the trails at Egypt Road, back in the “mithikal land of noo york”, as Dennis would call it, which is where my wife and I went the one and only time we tried cross-country skiing. I don’t remember enjoying the skiing part, but boy, was it nice when we got to the warming hut.
Meanwhile, editing continues on Father’s Books! I just finished going through and marking up the paper copy and am back on applying the changes. There aren’t that many at the beginning, but towards the end, where I have made some major overhauls to the plot and the characters, it’s quite graffitied with slash marks and notations. So I’ll definitely be printing it out again.
The attendant muttered something and picked up the arm and put it back into place. It fell off again, swept back and forth, a stiff pendulum counting out the seconds of the old man’s death.