Random Books from the Bookshelf

Ghosts in the Snow by Tamara Siler Jones

 The first page reads:

Dubric Byerly, Castellan of Faldorrah, sat alone at a small table in the castle kitchen, his mangled breakfast congealing before him. He sipped his tea and frowned as he poked a chunk of sausage with his fork. Having spent the past half bell toying with the food on his plate, he worried he had wasted too much time pretending to eat. The beginning of an inquiry always seemed disjointed to him. Finding the first clue, the first mistake, the first hint of guilt.

Responsible for the safety and well-being of Lord Bushgar’s demesne, Dubric tried to make his presence felt on a regular basis in all areas of the castle. But as he glanced up from his plate, he wondered if he had eaten too many breakfasts alone in the kitchen. The staff gave him a wide and respectful berth as they hurried through their labors, but none gave him second glance.

The Anvil of the World by Kage Baker

The first page reads:

Troon, the golden city, sat within high walls on a plain a thousand miles wide. The plain was golden with barley.

The granaries of Troon were immense, towering over the city like giants, taller even than its endlessly revolving windmills. Dust sifted down into its streets and filled its air in the Month of the Red Moon and in every other month, for that matter, but most especially in that month, when the harvest was brought in from the plain in long lines of creaking carts, raising more dust, which lay like a fine powder of gold on every dome and spire and harvester’s hut.

All the people of Troon suffered from chronic emphysema. Priding itself as it did, however, on being the world’s breadbasket, Troon put up with the emphysema. Wheezing was considered refined, and the social event of the year was the Festival of Respiratory Masks.

Bright of the Sky by Kay Kenyon

The first page reads:

Marcus Sund came awake all at once. “Lights,” he said.

The cabin remained dark. “Lights,” he repeated, louder this time, but with the same result. He sat up. The station hummed with life support – the ProFabber engines churned in their colossal duties – but something was missing from that profound vibration.

He dressed hurriedly, toggling the operations deck as he yanked his shirt on. “Report.”

“Sir, we have some minor failures in noncritical functions. We’re on it.”

Marcus left his cabin and hurried down the corridor. The lights browned and surged back again. The station exec knew his rig, down to the last bolt and data structure, and therefore he could feel through the soles of his feet that the hum was wrong, the vibration of the carbon polysteel deck plates a few cycles off. That worried fair more than the flickering lights.