By C. J. Cherryh
Deep in an deserted, shattered citadel, an outdated guy of the previous Magic muttered virtually forgotten phrases. His goal -- to create out of the insubstance of the air, from a shimmering of sunshine and a fluttering of shadows. that almost all wonderous of spells, a Shaping. A Shaping within the type of a, younger guy who should be despatched east at the street the outdated was once to outdated to trip. To correct the wrongs of a long-forgotten wizard warfare, and get in touch with new wars into being. this is the long-awaited significant new novel from one of many brightest stars within the myth and technology fiction firmament.C.J.Cherryh's haunting tale of the wizard Mauryl, kingmaker for one thousand years of guys, and Tristen, fated to sow mistrust among a prince and his father being. A story as deep as legend and a intimate as love, it tells of a conflict past Time, within which all future activates the wheel of an previous man's ambition, a tender man's innocence, and the unkept promised of a king to come.
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Additional resources for Fortress in the Eye of Time (Fortress, Book 1)
Both of the men looked pale, the mud spatters that covered them dark by contrast. “General,” Othel said to Reht, as his horse turned a circle, neighed, and pawed the earth. Enken tossed Othel a waterskin. The scout took a long draw then wiped his mouth. “Report,” Reht said. “It is cool within the fog and grew cooler as we advanced,” Othel said. “Visibility is poor but light can cut through it. ” “As did I,” Phlen agreed, nodding. Othel passed him the waterskin and he drank. Othel said, “We rode in half a league and encountered nothing.
The priest stood a hand taller than Reht, and a stone heavier. “Your commander, which means you follow my orders. ” More spit. “He is. But in this army, you answer to me first, to your god second. Otherwise, you ride off now. ” “You disliked Vors. ” “I hated him passionately,” Reht said, eliciting a growl from Kelgar. “But he was a soldier in this army. My army. ” The Talassan stared into Reht’s eyes, measuring him. Reht gave no ground. Finally the priest smirked, stepped back, and nodded. No spit.
Home,” Cale shouted in answer. ” It was also in the center of the storm. They stood in the meadow not far from the small cottage where Cale had lived with Varra. The sentinel elm, towering over them, whispered and creaked in the wind, sizzled in the rain. The furniture Cale had made from deadwood lay overturned in the grass. The wildflowers Varra had planted were browned and dead on the stalks. The window shutters and door of the cottage flapped in the gusts, all of them beating as if in anger against the cottage’s walls.