The Tombs of Atuan
P
RAISE FOR THE
E
ARTHSEA
N
OVELS BY
U
RSULA
K. L
E
G
UIN
“Le Guin, one of modern science fiction’s most acclaimed writers, is also a fantasist of genius. . . . [Earthsea] is among her finest creations.”
—
The New York Times
“Thrilling, wise, and beautiful . . . written in prose as taut and clean as a ship’s sail. Every word is perfect.”
—
The Guardian
“Among the looms of fantasy fiction, Ursula K. Le Guin weaves on where J. R. R. Tolkien cast off. . . . Earthsea—fuming with dragons and busy with magic—has replaced Tolkien’s Middle Earth as the chosen land for high, otherworldly adventure.”
—
Sunday Times
(London)
“Readers will be beguiled by the flawless, poetic prose, the philosophy expressed in thoughtful, potent metaphor, and the consummately imagined world.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
“A thoughtful, brilliant achievement.”
—
Horn Book
“A treasure . . . It is at the top of any list of fantasy to be cherished.”
—award-winning science fiction and fantasy writer Andre Norton
“Stellar . . . Le Guin is still at the height of her powers, a superb stylist with a knack for creating characters who are both wise and deeply humane.”
—
Publishers Weekly
in a starred review for
Tales from Earthsea
“Here there be dragons, and Ms. Le Guin’s dragons are some of the best in literature.”
—award-winning fantasy writer Robin McKinley,
The New York Times Book Review
“Richly told. . . . [Le Guin] draws us into the magical land and its inhabitants’ doings immediately.”
—
Booklist
“Strong work from a master storyteller.”
—
Library Journal
“All of Ursula Le Guin’s strengths are abundantly present . . . narrative power, tautly controlled and responsive prose, an imagination that never loses touch with the reality of things as they are.”
—
The Economist
“Le Guin is not only one of the purest stylists writing in English, but the most transcendently truthful of writers.”
—
The Nation
“Le Guin understands magic and dragons better than anyone, and her writing only gets better with each new book.”
—Michael Swanwick, author of
Stations of the Tide
CONTENTS
For the redhead
from Telluride
PROLOGUE“C
OME HOME
, T
ENAR!
C
OME HOME!
”
In the deep valley, in the twilight, the apple trees were on the eve of blossoming; here and there among the shadowed boughs one flower had opened early, rose and white, like a faint star. Down the orchard aisles, in the thick, new, wet grass, the little girl ran for the joy of running; hearing the call she did not come at once, but made a long circle before she turned her face toward home. The mother waiting in the doorway of the hut, with the firelight behind her, watched the tiny figure running and bobbing like a bit of thistledown blown over the darkening grass beneath the trees.
By the corner of the hut, scraping clean an earth-clotted hoe, the father said, “Why do you let your heart hang on the child? They’re coming to take her away next month. For good. Might as well bury her and be done with it. What’s the good of clinging to one you’re bound to lose? She’s no good to us. If they’d pay for her when they took her, which would be something, but they won’t. They’ll take her and that’s an end of it.”
The mother said nothing, watching the child who had stopped to look up through the trees. Over the high hills, above the orchards, the evening star shone piercing clear.
“She isn’t ours, she never was since they came here and said she must be the Priestess at the Tombs. Why can’t you see that?” The man’s voice was harsh with complaint and bitterness. “You have four others. They’ll stay here, and this one won’t. So, don’t set your heart on her. Let her go!”
“When the time comes,” the woman said, “I will let her go.” She bent to meet the child who came running on little, bare, white feet across the muddy ground, and gathered her up in her arms. As she turned to enter the hut she bent her head to kiss the child’s hair, which was black; but her own hair, in the flicker of firelight from the hearth, was fair.
The man stood outside, his own feet bare and cold on the ground, the clear sky of spring darkening above him. His face in the dusk was full of grief, a dull, heavy, angry grief that he would never find the words to say. At last he shrugged, and followed his wife into the firelit room that rang with children’s voices.
CHAPTER 1 