Amberlight book sylvia kelso
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And turned his attention, as my mother drew open the signalers’ scroll and began to read.
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He must have passed some eye-message, though, because my father Alkhes rolled his own eyes half-up. I knew they were both part of my mother’s consort, if I could not yet understand more. Troublecrew extraordinary, Zuri slid in beside Sarth. Like the enduring, so-slight tension that spoke from them both, warning, troublecrew: alert, war, danger. Opposite us sat my father Alkhes, that wing of silky black hair such an anomaly among the brown, crinkle-curly heads of native Amberlight, but his green and brown gear a match for the cloth under my feet. Twisting in his arm, trampling for balance on his thigh’s familiar warm solidity, I got upright enough to see over the table edge.Īt its head my mother was just ready to speak: high-boned Amberlight nose leveled, brandy-brown eyes narrowed, rampant curls escaping a Crafter’s single plait. Then she scanned the table, scooped up and dropped me in my father Sarth’s lap, growling, “Take care of this.” Catching the back of my smock, she grunted again as Two sparked at her, however mildly. I ducked between her shin and the swinging door and she grunted as she mis-stepped clear of me. The council-room latch was beyond my reach, but Zuri, Trouble-head and hence perpetually belated, was the last person in.
#AMBERLIGHT BOOK SYLVIA KELSO FULL#
So she had pushed us into the council room after that mirror-signal came: double urgent, passed up from the River at Marbleport, triggering a full council, Telluir House and Iskarda village both. Learning to speak, my word-hoard already a prodigy, though Two understood far more than I. I tried to explain that to my father Sarth, when in human time I was just three. So for our first five years in human time, Dhasdein to me remained some fabulous insect empire, ruled by the most glorious flying creatures of them all. When I was old enough to place the word, Two gave me an image to match: insects like jewelled daggerettes darting, hovering above water, glittering scarlet, glistening lapis lazuli, and the gauze shimmer of their wings. “Prince? The man’s a blighted dragonfly!” more to a prince than that?” My father Alkhes’ plosive consonants, clinching home the broad Quetzistani “a”: It comes first in a rare snippet from within my cradle: my mother’s quick, slightly burred Uphill Amberlight accent, its vibrations familiar from the womb. And even before we could speak aloud, the recollections of this flesh involve that name. But I need human terms to measure space and interval, to divide Two’s memories from those of my own flesh and blood. Small wonder, since my mother estimates Two’s memory runs for seven centuries and more, back to the founding of the oldest House of Amberlight. I say human time, though Two grows impatient with such words as “years” and “human,” especially where we are concerned. Yet when the crown prince of Dhasdein first crossed our path in the flesh, by human time I was already twelve years old. His nickname is woven through my life’s oldest memories.
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Many more thanks to the ever-patient Carla Coupe, a model among editors, and to Chris Howard for matching patience over the cover art.
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Cover art copyright © 2017 by Chris Howard