Alison Croggon is an award-winning poet whose work has been published around the globe. She started to write the books of Pellinor when her oldest son, Josh, began to read fantasy, and is currently working on the third and fourth books of the quartet. She lives in Australia.
"I live," said Arkan with a peculiar arrogance as they walked. "And
I do not die. The wind lives, the snow lives, the ice lives, the
mountains live. Rick and ice have their own voices, their own
lives, their own breath, their own pulse. Do you deny them that?"
"No," said Maerad, unable to conceal the sadness in her voice. "But
I like flowers." "I will make you flowers if you desire them."
"They would be flowers of ice. Beautiful, but cold. It wouldn't be
the same. But thank you." They walked in silence for a time through
the endless, beautiful corridors, and despite herself Maerad found
she was admiring the beauties of Arkan-da with different eyes. The
design of the pillars had changed subtly, she thought; she saw
flowers within them, all with six petals, but infinitely various
and intricate. She was always conscious of the man pacing beside
her, although she did not look at him. "Why do you wish to please
me?" she asked, breaking the silence. "You could just as easily
cast me into some dark dungeon. What difference would it make to
you?" "It is better if you do not hate or fear me," said Arkan.
"Song cannot be made out of hatred and fear. That is what Sharma
failed to understand." "What is needed to make Song, then?" Arkan
turned and looked her full in the face, and Maerad's heart skipped
a beat. "Do you not know?" he asked. Maerad looked down at the
floor and watched her feet. She did not want to answer.
_________ THE RIDDLE by Alison Croggon. Copyright (c) 2006 by
Alison Croggon. Published by Candlewick Press, Inc., Cambridge,
MA.
" I live, " said Arkan with a peculiar arrogance as they walked. "
And I do not die. The wind lives, the snow lives, the ice lives,
the mountains live. Rick and ice have their own voices, their own
lives, their own breath, their own pulse. Do you deny them
that?"
" No, " said Maerad, unable to conceal the sadness in her voice. "
But I like flowers."
" I will make you flowers if you desire them."
" They would be flowers of ice. Beautiful, but cold. It wouldn't be
the same. But thank you."
They walked in silence for a time through the endless, beautiful
corridors, and despite herself Maerad found she was admiring the
beauties of Arkan-da with different eyes. The design of the pillars
had changed subtly, she thought; she saw flowers within them, all
with six petals, but infinitely various and intricate. She was
always conscious of the man pacing beside her, although she did not
look at him.
" Why do you wish to please me?" she asked, breaking the silence. "
You could just as easily cast me into some dark dungeon. What
difference would it make to you?"
" It is better if you do not hate or fear me, " said Arkan. " Song
cannot be made out of hatred and fear. That is what Sharma failed
to understand."
" What is needed to make Song, then?"
Arkan turned and looked her full in the face, and Maerad's heart
skipped a beat. " Do you not know?" he asked.
Maerad looked down at the floor and watched her feet. She did not
want to answer.
_________
THE RIDDLE by Alison Croggon. Copyright (c) 2006 by Alison Croggon.
Published by CandlewickPress, Inc., Cambridge, MA.
"I live," said Arkan with a peculiar arrogance as they walked. "And I do not die. The wind lives, the snow lives, the ice lives, the mountains live. Rick and ice have their own voices, their own lives, their own breath, their own pulse. Do you deny them that?"
"No," said Maerad, unable to conceal the sadness in her voice.
"But I like flowers." "I will make you flowers if you desire them."
"They would be flowers of ice. Beautiful, but cold. It wouldn't be
the same. But thank you." They walked in silence for a time through
the endless, beautiful corridors, and despite herself Maerad found
she was admiring the beauties of Arkan-da with different eyes. The
design of the pillars had changed subtly, she thought; she saw
flowers within them, all with six petals, but infinitely various
and intricate. She was always conscious of the man pacing beside
her, although she did not look at him. "Why do you wish to please
me?" she asked, breaking the silence. "You could just as easily
cast me into some dark dungeon. What difference would it make to
you?" "It is better if you do not hate or fear me," said Arkan.
"Song cannot be made out of hatred and fear. That is what Sharma
failed to understand." "What is needed to make Song, then?" Arkan
turned and looked her full in the face, and Maerad's heart skipped
a beat. "Do you not know?" he asked. Maerad looked down at the
floor and watched her feet. She did not want to answer.
_________ THE RIDDLE by Alison Croggon. Copyright (c) 2006 by
Alison Croggon. Published by Candlewick Press, Inc., Cambridge,
MA.
 |
Ask a Question About this Product More... |
|
