| molina さんのプロフィール书海捞鱼フォトブログリスト |  ツール  ヘルプ |
|
|
2005/11/10 亚马逊2005最佳科幻奇幻（编评版）Amazon Best Books of 2005 Top 10 Editors' Picks: Science Fiction & Fantasy ——1—— The Algebraist by Iain M. Banks ——2—— Accelerando by Charles Stross ——3—— Looking for Jake : Stories by China Mieville ——4—— Olympos by Dan Simmons ——5—— Magic Street by Orson Scott Card ——6—— Anansi Boys : A Novel by Neil Gaiman ——7—— Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time, Book 11) by Robert Jordan ——8—— A Feast for Crows (A Song of Ice and Fire, Book 4) by George R. R. Martin ——9—— The Narrows by Alexander Irvine ——10—— Woken Furies (Takeshi Kovacs Novels) by Richard K. Morgan 2005/11/09 世界奇幻奖得主名单
2005/10/17 《冰与火之歌四：群鸦盛宴》试阅章节原文链接： 以下是直接粘贴，给可能连不上以上地址的人：
THE PROPHET Either the boy could not hear him with his head beneath the waves, or else his faith had utterly deserted him. He began to kick and thrash so wildly that Aeron had to call for help. Four of his drowned men waded out to seize the wretch and hold him underwater. "Lord God who drowned for us," the priest prayed, in a voice as deep as the sea, "let Emmond your servant be reborn from the sea, as you were. Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel." Finally, it was done. No more air was bubbling from his mouth, and all the strength had gone out of his limbs. Facedown in the shallow sea floated Emmond, pale and cold and peaceful. That was when the Damphair realized that three horsemen had joined his drowned men on the pebbled shore. Aeron knew the Sparr, a hatchet-faced old man with watery eyes whose quavery voice was law on this part of Great Wyk. His son Steffarion accompanied him, with another youth whose dark red fur-lined cloak was pinned at the shoulder with an ornate brooch that showed the black-and-gold warhorn of the Goodbrothers. One of Gorold’s sons, the priest decided at a glance. Three tall sons had been born to Goodbrother’s wife late in life, after a dozen daughters, and it was said that no man could tell one son from the others. Aeron Damphair did not deign to try. Whether this be Greydon or Gormond or Gran, the priest had no time for him. He growled a brusque command, and his drowned men seized the dead boy by his arms and legs to carry him above the tideline. The priest followed, naked but for a sealskin clout that covered his private parts. Goosefleshed and dripping, he splashed back onto land, across cold wet sand and sea-scoured pebbles. One of his drowned men handed him a robe of heavy roughspun dyed in mottled greens and blues and greys, the colors of the sea and the Drowned God. Aeron donned the robe and pulled his hair free. Black and wet, that hair; no blade had touched it since the sea had raised him up. It draped his shoulders like a ragged, ropy cloak, and fell down past his waist. Aeron wove strands of seaweed through it, and through his tangled, uncut beard. His drowned men formed a circle around the dead boy, praying. Norjen worked his arms whilst Rus knelt astride him, pumping on his chest, but all moved aside for Aeron. He pried apart the boy’s cold lips with his fingers and gave Emmond the kiss of life, and again, and again, until the sea came gushing from his mouth. The boy began to cough and spit, and his eyes blinked open, full of fear. Another one returned. It was a sign of the Drowned God’s favor, men said. Every other priest lost a man from time to time, even Tarle the Thrice-Drowned, who had once been thought so holy that he was picked to crown a king. But never Aeron Greyjoy. He was the Damphair, who had seen the god’s own watery halls and returned to tell of it. "Rise," he told the sputtering boy as he slapped him on his naked back. "You have drowned and been returned to us. What is dead can never die." "But rises." The boy coughed violently, bringing up more water. "Rises again." Every word was bought with pain, but that was the way of the world; a man must fight to live. "Rises again." Emmond staggered to his feet. "Harder. And stronger." "You belong to the god now," Aeron told him. The other drowned men gathered round and each gave him a punch and a kiss to welcome him to the brotherhood. One helped him don a roughspun robe of mottled blue and green and grey. Another presented him with a driftwood cudgel. "You belong to the sea now, so the sea has armed you," Aeron said. "We pray that you shall wield your cudgel fiercely, against all the enemies of our god." Only then did the priest turn to the three riders, watching from their saddles. "Have you come to be drowned, my lords?" The Sparr coughed. "I was drowned as a boy," he said, "and my son upon his name day." Aeron snorted. That Steffarion Sparr had been given to the Drowned God soon after birth he had no doubt. He knew the manner of it too, a quick dip into a tub of seawater that scarce wet the infant’s head. Small wonder the ironborn had been conquered, they who once held sway everywhere the sound of waves was heard. "That is no true drowning," he told the riders. "He that does not die in truth cannot hope to rise from death. Why have you come, if not to prove your faith?" "Lord Gorold’s son came seeking you, with news." The Sparr indicated the youth in the red cloak. The boy looked to be no more than six-and-ten. "Aye, and which are you?" Aeron demanded. "Gormond. Gormond Goodbrother, if it please my lord." "It is the Drowned God we must please. Have you been drowned, Gormond Goodbrother?" "On my name day, Damphair. My father sent me to find you and bring you to him. He needs to see you." "Here I stand. Let Lord Gorold come and feast his eyes." Aeron took a leather skin from Rus, freshly filled with water from the sea. The priest pulled out the cork and took a swallow. "I am to bring you to the keep," insisted young Gormond, from atop his horse. He is afraid to dismount, lest he get his boots wet. "I have the god’s work to do." Aeron Greyjoy was a prophet. He did not suffer petty lords ordering him about like some thrall. "Gorold’s had a bird," said the Sparr. "A maester’s bird, from Pyke," Gormond confirmed. Dark wings, dark words. "The ravens fly o’er salt and stone. If there are tidings that concern me, speak them now." "Such tidings as we bear are for your ears alone, Damphair," the Sparr said. "These are not matters I would speak of here before these others." "These others are my drowned men, god’s servants, just as I am. I have no secrets from them, nor from our god, beside whose holy sea I stand." The horsemen exchanged a look. "Tell him," said the Sparr, and the youth in the red cloak summoned up his courage. "The king is dead," he said, as plain as that. Four small words, yet the sea itself trembled when he uttered them. Four kings there were in Westeros, yet Aeron did not need to ask which one was meant. Balon Greyjoy ruled the Iron Islands, and no other. The king is dead. How can that be? Aeron had seen his eldest brother not a moon’s turn past, when he had returned to the Iron Islands from harrying the Stony Shore. Balon’s grey hair had gone half-white whilst the priest had been away, and the stoop in his shoulders was more pronounced than when the longships sailed. Yet all in all the king had not seemed ill. Aeron Greyjoy had built his life upon two mighty pillars. Those four small words had knocked one down. Only the Drowned God remains to me. May he make me as strong and tireless as the sea. "Tell me the manner of my brother’s death." "His Grace was crossing a bridge at Pyke when he fell and was dashed upon the rocks below." The Greyjoy stronghold stood upon a broken headland, its keeps and towers built atop massive stone stacks that thrust up from the sea. Bridges knotted Pyke together; arched bridges of carved stone and swaying spans of hempen rope and wooden planks. "Was the storm raging when he fell?" Aeron demanded of them. "Aye," the youth said, "it was." "The Storm God cast him down," the priest announced. For a thousand thousand years sea and sky had been at war. From the sea had come the ironborn, and the fish that sustained them even in the depths of winter, but storms brought only woe and grief. "My brother Balon made us great again, which earned the Storm God’s wrath. He feasts now in the Drowned God’s watery halls, with mermaids to attend his every want. It shall be for us who remain behind in this dry and dismal vale to finish his great work." He pushed the cork back into his waterskin. "I shall speak with your lord father. How far from here to Hammerhorn?" "Six leagues. You may ride pillion with me." "One can ride faster than two. Give me your horse, and the Drowned God will bless you." "Take my horse, Damphair," offered Steffarion Sparr. "No. His mount is stronger. Your horse, boy." The youth hesitated half a heartbeat, then dismounted and held the reins for the Damphair. Aeron shoved a bare black foot into a stirrup and swung himself onto the saddle. He was not fond of horses—they were creatures from the green lands and helped to make men weak—but necessity required that he ride. Dark wings, dark words. A storm was brewing, he could hear it in the waves, and storms brought naught but evil. "Meet with me at Pebbleton beneath Lord Merlyn’s tower," he told his drowned men, as he turned the horse’s head. The way was rough, up hills and woods and stony defiles, along a narrow track that oft seemed to disappear beneath the horse’s hooves. Great Wyk was the largest of the Iron Islands, so vast that some of its lords had holdings that did not front upon the holy sea. Gorold Goodbrother was one such. His keep was in the Hardstone Hills, as far from the Drowned God’s realm as any place in the isles. Gorold’s folk toiled down in Gorold’s mines, in the stony dark beneath the earth. Some lived and died without setting eyes upon salt water. Small wonder that such folk are crabbed and queer. As Aeron rode, his thoughts turned to his brothers. Nine sons had been born from the loins of Quellon Greyjoy, the Lord of the Iron Islands. Harlon, Quenton, and Donel had been born of Lord Quellon’s first wife, a woman of the Stonetrees. Balon, Euron, Victarion, Urrigon, and Aeron were the sons of his second, a Sunderly of Saltcliffe. For a third wife Quellon took a girl from the green lands, who gave him a sickly idiot boy named Robin, the brother best forgotten. The priest had no memory of Quenton or Donel, who had died as infants. Harlon he recalled but dimly, sitting grey-faced and still in a windowless tower room and speaking in whispers that grew fainter every day as the greyscale turned his tongue and lips to stone. One day we shall feast on fish together in the Drowned God’s watery halls, the four of us and Urri too. Nine sons had been born from the loins of Quellon Greyjoy, but only four had lived to manhood. That was the way of this cold world, where men fished the sea and dug in the ground and died, whilst women brought forth short-lived children from beds of blood and pain. Aeron had been the last and least of the four krakens, Balon the eldest and boldest, a fierce and fearless boy who lived only to restore the ironborn to their ancient glory. At ten he scaled the Flint Cliffs to the Blind Lord’s haunted tower. At thirteen he could run a longship’s oars and dance the finger dance as well as any man in the isles. At fifteen he had sailed with Dagmer Cleftjaw to the Stepstones and spent a summer reaving. He slew his first man there and took his first two salt wives. At seventeen Balon captained his own ship. He was all that an elder brother ought to be, though he had never shown Aeron aught but scorn. I was weak and full of sin, and scorn was more than I deserved. Better to be scorned by Balon the Brave than beloved of Euron Crow’s Eye. And if age and grief had turned Balon bitter with the years, they had also made him more determined than any man alive. He was born a lord’s son and died a king, murdered by a jealous god, Aeron thought, and now the storm is coming, a storm such as these isles have never known. It was long after dark by the time the priest espied the spiky iron battlements of the Hammerhorn clawing at the crescent moon. Gorold’s keep was hulking and blocky, its great stones quarried from the cliff that loomed behind it. Below its walls, the entrances of caves and ancient mines yawned like toothless black mouths. The Hammerhorn’s iron gates had been closed and barred for the night. Aeron beat on them with a rock until the clanging woke a guard. The youth who admitted him was the image of Gormond, whose horse he’d taken. "Which one are you?" Aeron demanded. "Gran. My father awaits you within." The hall was dank and drafty, full of shadows. One of Gorold’s daughters offered the priest a horn of ale. Another poked at a sullen fire that was giving off more smoke than heat. Gorold Goodbrother himself was talking quietly with a slim man in fine grey robes, who wore about his neck a chain of many metals that marked him for a maester of the Citadel. "Where is Gormond?" Gorold asked when he saw Aeron. "He returns afoot. Send your women away, my lord. And the maester as well." He had no love of maesters. Their ravens were creatures of the Storm God, and he did not trust their healing, not since Urri. No proper man would choose a life of thralldom, nor forge a chain of servitude to wear about his throat. "Gysella, Gwin, leave us," Goodbrother said curtly. "You as well, Gran. Maester Murenmure will stay." "He will go," insisted Aeron. "This is my hall, Damphair. It is not for you to say who must go and who remains. The maester stays." The man lives too far from the sea, Aeron told himself. "Then I shall go," he told Goodbrother. Dry rushes rustled underneath the cracked soles of his bare black feet as he turned and stalked away. It seemed he had ridden a long way for naught. Aeron was almost at the door when the maester cleared his throat, and said, "Euron Crow’s Eye sits the Seastone Chair." The Damphair turned. The hall had suddenly grown colder. The Crow’s Eye is half a world away. Balon sent him off two years ago, and swore that it would be his life if he returned. "Tell me," he said hoarsely. "He sailed into Lordsport the day after the king’s death, and claimed the castle and the crown as Balon’s eldest brother," said Gorold Goodbrother. "Now he sends forth ravens, summoning the captains and the kings from every isle to Pyke, to bend their knees and do him homage as their king." "No." Aeron Damphair did not weigh his words. "Only a godly man may sit the Seastone Chair. The Crow’s Eye worships naught but his own pride." "You were on Pyke not long ago, and saw the king," said Goodbrother. "Did Balon say aught to you of the succession?" Aye. They had spoken in the Sea Tower, as the wind howled outside the windows and the waves crashed restlessly below. Balon had shaken his head in despair when he heard what Aeron had to tell him of his last remaining son. "The wolves have made a weakling of him, as I feared," the king had said. "I pray god that they killed him, so he cannot stand in Asha’s way." That was Balon’s blindness; he saw himself in his wild, headstrong daughter, and believed she could succeed him. He was wrong in that, and Aeron tried to tell him so. "No woman will ever rule the iron-born, not even a woman such as Asha," he insisted, but Balon could be deaf to things he did not wish to hear. Before the priest could answer Gorold Goodbrother, the maester’s mouth flapped open once again. "By rights the Seastone Chair belongs to Theon, or Asha if the prince is dead. That is the law." "Green land law," said Aeron with contempt. "What is that to us? We are ironborn, the sons of the sea, chosen of the Drowned God. No woman may rule over us, nor any godless man." "And Victarion?" asked Gorold Goodbrother. "He has the Iron Fleet. Will Victarion make a claim, Damphair?" "Euron is the elder brother..." began the maester. Aeron silenced him with a look. In little fishing towns and great stone keeps alike such a look from Damphair would make maids feel faint and send children shrieking to their mothers, and it was more than sufficient to quell the chain-neck thrall. "Euron is elder," the priest said, "but Victarion is more godly." "Will it come to war between them?" asked the maester. "Ironborn must not spill the blood of ironborn." "A pious sentiment, Damphair," said Goodbrother, "but not one that your brother shares. He had Sawane Botley drowned for saying that the Seastone Chair by rights belonged to Theon." "If he was drowned, no blood was shed," said Aeron. The maester and the lord exchanged a look. "I must send word to Pyke, and soon," said Gorold Goodbrother. "Damphair, I would have your counsel. What shall it be, homage or defiance?" Aeron tugged his beard, and thought. I have seen the storm, and its name is Euron Crow’s Eye. "For now, send only silence," he told the lord. "I must pray on this." "Pray all you wish," the maester said. "It does not change the law. Theon is the rightful heir, and Asha next." "Silence!" Aeron roared. "Too long have the ironborn listened to you chain-neck maesters prating of the green lands and their laws. It is time we listened to the sea again. It is time we listened to the voice of god." His own voice rang in that smoky hall, so full of power that neither Gorold Goodbrother nor his maester dared a reply. The Drowned God is with me, Aeron thought. He has shown me the way. Goodbrother offered him the comforts of the castle for the night, but the priest declined. He seldom slept beneath a castle roof, and never so far from the sea. "Comforts I shall know in the Drowned God’s watery halls beneath the waves. We are born to suffer, that our sufferings might make us strong. All that I require is a fresh horse to carry me to Pebbleton." That Goodbrother was pleased to provide. He sent his son Greydon as well, to show the priest the shortest way through the hills down to the sea. Dawn was still an hour off when they set forth, but their mounts were hardy and surefooted, and they made good time despite the darkness. Aeron closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, and after a while began to drowse in the saddle. The sound came softly, the scream of a rusted hinge. "Urri," he muttered, and woke, fearful. There is no hinge here, no door, no Urri. A flying axe took off half of Urri’s hand when he was ten-and-four, playing at the finger dance whilst his father and his elder brothers were away at war. Lord Quellon’s third wife had been a Piper of Pinkmaiden Castle, a girl with big soft breasts and brown doe’s eyes. Instead of healing Urri’s hand the Old Way, with fire and seawater, she gave him to her green land maester, who swore that he could sew back the missing fingers. He did that, and later he used potions and poltices and herbs, but the hand mortified and Urri took a fever. By the time the maester sawed his arm off, it was too late. Lord Quellon never returned from his last voyage; the Drowned God in his goodness granted him a death at sea. It was Lord Balon who came back, with his brothers Euron and Victarion. When Balon heard what had befallen Urri, he removed three of the maester’s fingers with a cook’s cleaver and sent his father’s Piper wife to sew them back on. Poltices and potions worked as well for the maester as they had for Urrigon. He died raving, and Lord Quellon’s third wife followed soon thereafter, as the midwife drew a stillborn daughter from her womb. Aeron had been glad. It had been his axe that sheared off Urri’s hand, whilst they danced the finger dance together, as friends and brothers will. It shamed him still to recall the years that followed Urri’s death. At six-and-ten he called himself a man, but in truth he had been a sack of wine with legs. He would sing, he would dance (but not the finger dance, never again), he would jape and jabber and make mock. He played the pipes, he juggled, he rode horses, and could drink more than all the Wynches and the Botleys, and half the Harlaws too. The Drowned God gives every man a gift, even him; no man could piss longer or farther than Aeron Greyjoy, as he proved at every feast. Once he bet his new longship against a herd of goats that he could quench a hearthfire with no more than his cock. Aeron feasted on goat for a year, and named the longship Golden Storm, though Balon threatened to hang him from her mast when he heard what sort of ram his brother proposed to mount upon her prow. In the end the Golden Storm went down off Fair Isle during Balon’s first rebellion, cut in half by a towering war galley called Fury when Stannis Baratheon caught Victarion in his trap and smashed the Iron Fleet. Yet the god was not done with Aeron, and carried him to shore. Some fishermen took him captive and marched him down to Lannisport in chains, and he spent the rest of the war in the bowels of Casterly Rock, proving that krakens can piss farther and longer than lions, boars, or chickens. That man is dead. Aeron had drowned and been reborn from the sea, the god’s own prophet. No mortal man could frighten him, no more than the darkness could... nor memories, the bones of the soul. The sound of a door opening, the scream of a rusted iron hinge. Euron has come again. It did not matter. He was the Damphair priest, beloved of the god. "Will it come to war?" asked Greydon Goodbrother as the sun was lightening the hills. "A war of brother against brother?" "If the Drowned God wills it. No godless man may sit the Seastone Chair." The Crow’s Eye will fight, that is certain. No woman could defeat him, not even Asha; women were made to fight their battles in the birthing bed. And Theon, if he lived, was just as hopeless, a boy of sulks and smiles. At Winterfell he proved his worth, such that it was, but the Crow’s Eye was no crippled boy. The decks of Euron’s ship were painted red, to better hide the blood that soaked them. Victarion. The king must be Victarion, or the storm will slay us all. Greydon left him when the sun was up, to take the news of Balon’s death to his cousins in their towers at Downdelving, Crow Spike Keep, and Corpse Lake. Aeron continued on alone, up hills and down vales along a stony track that drew wider and more traveled as he neared the sea. In every village he paused to preach, and in the yards of petty lords as well. "We were born from the sea, and to the sea we all return," he told them. His voice was as deep as the ocean, and thundered like the waves. "The Storm God in his wrath plucked Balon from his castle and cast him down, and now he feasts beneath the waves in the Drowned God’s watery halls." He raised his hands. "Balon is dead! The king is dead! Yet a king will come again! For what is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger! A king will rise!" Some of those who heard him threw down their hoes and picks to follow, so by the time he heard the crash of waves a dozen men walked behind his horse, touched by god and desirous of drowning. Pebbleton was home to several thousand fisherfolk, whose hovels huddled round the base of a square towerhouse with a turret at each corner. Twoscore of Aeron’s drowned men there awaited him, camped along a grey sand beach in sealskin tents and shelters built of driftwood. Their hands were roughened by brine, scarred by nets and lines, callused from oars and picks and axes, but now those hands gripped driftwood cudgels hard as iron, for the god had armed them from his arsenal beneath the sea. They had built a shelter for the priest just above the tideline. Gladly he crawled into it, after he had drowned his newest followers. My god, he prayed, speak to me in the rumble of the waves, and tell me what to do. The captains and the kings await your word. Who shall be our king in Balon’s place? Sing to me in the language of leviathan, that I may know his name. Tell me, O Lord beneath the waves, who has the strength to fight the storm on Pyke? Though his ride to Hammerhorn had left him weary, Aeron Damphair was restless in his driftwood shelter, roofed over with black weeds from the sea. The clouds rolled in to cloak the moon and stars, and the darkness lay as thick upon the sea as it did upon his soul. Balon favored Asha, the child of his body, but a woman cannot rule the ironborn. It must be Victarion. Nine sons had been born from the loins of Quellon Greyjoy, and Victarion was the strongest of them, a bull of a man, fearless and dutiful. And therein lies our danger. A younger brother owes obedience to an elder, and Victarion was not a man to sail against tradition. He has no love for Euron, though. Not since the woman died. Outside, beneath the snoring of his drowned men and the keening of the wind, he could hear the pounding of the waves, the hammer of his god calling him to battle. Aeron crept from his little shelter into the chill of the night. Naked he stood, pale and gaunt and tall, and naked he walked into the black salt sea. The water was icy cold, yet he did not flinch from his god’s caress. A wave smashed against his chest, staggering him. The next broke over his head. He could taste the salt on his lips and feel the god around him, and his ears rang with the glory of his song. Nine sons were born from the loins of Quellon Greyjoy, and I was the least of them, as weak and frightened as a girl. But no longer. That man is drowned, and the god has made me strong. The cold salt sea surrounded him, embraced him, reached down through his weak man’s flesh and touched his bones. Bones, he thought. The bones of the soul. Balon’s bones, and Urri’s. The truth is in our bones, for flesh decays and bone endures. And on the hill of Nagga, the bones of the Grey King’s Hall... And gaunt and pale and shivering, Aeron Damphair struggled back to the shore, a wiser man than he had been when he stepped into the sea. For he had found the answer in his bones, and the way was plain before him. The night was so cold that his body seemed to steam as he stalked back toward his shelter, but there was a fire burning in his heart, and sleep came easily for once, unbroken by the scream of iron hinges. When he woke the day was bright and windy. Aeron broke his fast on a broth of clams and seaweed cooked above a driftwood fire. No sooner had he finished than the Merlyn descended from his towerhouse with half a dozen guards to seek him out. "The king is dead," the Damphair told him. "Aye. I had a bird. And now another." The Merlyn was a bald round fleshy man who styled himself "Lord" in the manner of the green lands, and dressed in furs and velvets. "One raven summons me to Pyke, another to Ten Towers. You krakens have too many arms, you pull a man to pieces. What say you, priest? Where should I send my longships?" Aeron scowled. "Ten Towers, do you say? What kraken calls you there?" Ten Towers was the seat of the Lord of Harlaw. "The Princess Asha. She has set her sails for home. The Reader sends out ravens, summoning all her friends to Harlaw. He says that Balon meant for her to sit the Seastone Chair." "The Drowned God shall decide who sits the Seastone Chair," the priest said. "Kneel, that I might bless you." Lord Merlyn sank to his knees, and Aeron uncorked his skin and poured a stream of seawater on his bald pate. "Lord God who drowned for us, let Meldred your servant be born again from the sea. Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel." Water ran down Merlyn’s fat cheeks to soak his beard and fox-fur mantle. "What is dead may never die," Aeron finished, "but rises again, harder and stronger." But when Merlyn rose, he told him, "Stay and listen, that you may spread god’s word." Three feet from the water’s edge the waves broke around a rounded granite boulder. It was there that Aeron Damphair stood, so all his school might see him, and hear the words he had to say. "We were born from the sea, and to the sea we all return," he began, as he had a hundred times before. "The Storm God in his wrath plucked Balon from his castle and cast him down, and now he feasts beneath the waves." He raised his hands. "The iron king is dead! Yet a king will come again! For what is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger!" "A king shall rise!" the drowned men cried. "He shall. He must. But who?" The Damphair listened a moment, but only the waves gave answer. "Who shall be our king?" The drowned men began to slam their driftwood cudgels one against the other. "Damphair!" they cried. "Damphair King! Aeron King! Give us Damphair!" Aeron shook his head. "If a father has two sons and gives to one an axe and to the other a net, which does he intend should be the warrior?" "The axe is for the warrior," Rus shouted back, "the net for a fisher of the seas." "Aye," said Aeron. "The god took me deep beneath the waves and drowned the worthless thing I was. When he cast me forth again he gave me eyes to see, ears to hear, and a voice to spread his word, that I might be his prophet and teach his truth to those who have forgotten. I was not made to sit upon the Seastone Chair...no more than Euron Crow’s Eye. For I have heard the god, who says, No godless man may sit my Sea-stone Chair!" The Merlyn crossed his arms against his chest. "Is it Asha, then? Or Victarion? Tell us, priest!" "The Drowned God will tell you, but not here." Aeron pointed at the Merlyn’s fat white face. "Look not to me, nor to the laws of men, but to the sea. Raise your sails and unship your oars, my lord, and take yourself to Old Wyk. You, and all the captains and the kings. Go not to Pyke, to bow before the godless, nor to Harlaw, to consort with scheming women. Point your prow toward Old Wyk, where stood the Grey King’s Hall. In the name of the Drowned God I summon you. I summon all of you! Leave your halls and hovels, your castles and your keeps, and return to Nagga’s hill to make a kingsmoot!" The Merlyn gaped at him. "A kingsmoot? There has not been a true kingsmoot in..." ". . . too long a time!" Aeron cried in anguish. "Yet in the dawn of days the ironborn chose their own kings, raising up the worthiest amongst them. It is time we returned to the Old Way, for only that shall make us great again. It was a kingsmoot that chose Urras Ironfoot for High King, and placed a driftwood crown upon his brows. Sylas Flatnose, Harrag Hoare, the Old Kraken, the kingsmoot raised them all. And from this kingsmoot shall emerge a man to finish the work King Balon has begun and win us back our freedoms. Go not to Pyke, nor to the Ten Towers of Harlaw, but to Old Wyk, I say again. Seek the hill of Nagga and the bones of the Grey King’s Hall, for in that holy place when the moon has drowned and come again we shall make ourselves a worthy king, a godly king." He raised his bony hands on high again. "Listen! Listen to the waves! Listen to the god! He is speaking to us, and he says, We shall have no king but from the kingsmoot!" A roar went up at that, and the drowned men beat their cudgels one against the other. "A kingsmoot!" they shouted. "A kingsmoot, a kingsmoot. No king but from the kingsmoot!" And the clamor that they made was so thunderous that surely the Crow’s Eye heard the shouts on Pyke, and the vile Storm God in his cloudy hall. And Aeron Damphair knew he had done well. 2005/10/10 2005 Sunburst Award Winner有点意外，我以为会是凯伊《最后一缕阳光》得奖的。虽然实话实说，这书我只看到第五章……2005 Sunburst Award WinnerToronto (October 5, 2005) The Sunburst Award Committee is pleased to AIR The Sunburst jury said, "'Mae lived in the last village in the world to THE LAST LIGHT OF
THE SUN by Guy Gavriel Kay (Viking) THE MEMORY AIRBORN
2005/10/06 大～不列颠奇幻奖得主Karl Edward Wagner Award for Special Achievement - Nigel Kneale, creator of Quatermass Best Small Press - Elastic Press (Andrew Hook) Best Artist - Les Edwards Best Anthology - The Alsiso Project, Andrew Hook (ed.), Elastic Press Best Collection - Out of His Mind, Stephen Gallagher, PS Publishing Best Short Story - Paul Meloy, “Black Static” (The Third Alternative #40) Best Novella - Christopher Fowler, Breath (Telos Publications) Best Novel (The August Derleth Fantasy Award) - Stephen King, The Dark Tower VII: The Dark Tower (Hodder & Stoughton) 2005/10/05 肉体论的《幻兽少年》 刚读完梦枕貘的《幻兽少年》，与《阴阳师》安倍晴明那种悠然出尘的清雅完全不同，这个系列的肉欲感比较重，感觉跟常被人不齿的某类玄幻很相似。
《幻兽少年》的译序里称之为学园风味的格斗冒险小说，第一本《幻兽少年》算是学园流格斗成长小说，男主角大凤从一直被人欺负的“软男”成 长为可以跟幻兽化的久鬼一拼长短的“强者”，总之是越战越勇，越战越强，越战越不像人类。感觉上像是典型的热血少年成长漫画文字版，阅读过程中时常会跳出 《功夫旋风儿》、《猎人X猎人》或《火影忍者》之类的画面。 第二集《胧变》正如其名，讲述幻兽化的久鬼和抵制幻兽化的大凤，以及与他们相关的其他人物的反应，气氛接近伊藤润二的作品。 第三集《饿狼变》我几乎没有读完的愿望。开篇几章给人的感觉是要往修真仙侠方向发展，中国的气功、抱朴子、泥丸加上印度的八位外法、七脉轮都蹦了出来。真是YY啊YY，胡扯啊胡扯…… 作者的后记里有一段—— 我的这番话，指的是最上胜平先生在《书的杂志》及《ＳＦ之书》当中，对本书所做的评论。“崭新的肉体论就此诞生”，他的这段文字映入我眼中，给了我相当大的勇气，光是短短的这几页版面，实难详述我心中的感受。…… 肉体论？嗯，的确是很合适这本书的观感。 坚决无视此书续集。 2005/10/02 爱猪的女人 Woman Who Loved Pigs, the (1993) [short story]
by Stephen Donaldson 60页的short story... 山村里一个爱着猪的贫穷弱智女子 为逃避追杀而变形成一头猪的巫师 他为了让她配制出能使自己回复人形的药水，彻底改变了她。 她学会了说话，学会了理解别人“发出的声音的真正含义”。 她在村民们眼里变成了擅长运用各种草药治病救人的医师， 她却觉得自己在夺取本不属于她的东西。 每次她想退缩，回复她原有的样子，他就说“如果你爱我，你就会照我的话做。” 她确实爱着这头自己从死亡线上救回的猪，当时的她并不知道他曾是全国最强大的巫师，她爱的只是那头猪。 王者的追兵迫近，他喝下她调制的药水回复人形，满以为她会在众人之前为他辩白，感激他让她做出的改变。 但她说：“我不是自愿的。他强迫我变成一个乞丐，骗子，小偷。我希望他得到应有的惩罚。” 他被烧死了。 她回复了没有他之前的生活。 “如果你爱我，你就会照我的话做。” 以爱的名义，可行多少罪恶？ 2005/09/27 那些遥远国度里的凡人生活 有本书一出版我就买了，但在事隔一年半以后的今天才第一次读。理由？忘记了。 －－－－－－－－我是严肃的分隔线－－－－－－－－ 法国平民小说《我希望有人在什么地方等我》 JE VOUDRAIS QUE QUELQU'UN M'ATTENDE QUELQUE PART 作者：安娜·加瓦尔达〔Anna Gavalda〕  I Wish Someone Were Waiting for Me Somewhere 无名小卒的处女作 名不见经传的小出版社（一年只出十来本书，把出版当业余爱好，甚至社标都是一只懒猫趴在书上呼呼大睡） 悄无声息卖掉二十万册以后，媒体才后知后觉一窝蜂报道，使之狂销百万册 2000年RTK-Lire文学大奖得主 扉页上三行字： 中法文化年 傅雷出版资助计划 由法国外交部资助出版 －－－－－－－－我是严肃的分隔线－－－－－－－－ 陌生的男女街头相遇调情，而好事却意外被搅了；女兽医遭人强暴，以暴抗暴，把对方的睾丸切下来；没有孩子没有爱 情的夫妇在周末度假途中无话可说；大兵在生日晚会上获得一份特别的“礼物”；怀孕妇女满怀喜悦地等着孩子出世却发现肚子里是个死胎；一个已婚男人突然接到 他的初恋情人的电话；暗恋女同事的男子在终于赢得她的爱情、准备享受云雨之欢时却不知道如何把沙发床打开；梦想当作家的女人在出版社表示无法出版她的作品 时突然瘫痪不起…… 本书描绘了一对典型的法国小资形象，他们在享受浪漫生活的同时陷入琐碎无聊的想象或绝望的精神状态，他们总想改变生活方式却又无能为力。作品将现实与理
想、悲剧与喜剧融合得恰到好处，在法国出后大受欢迎，销量突破100万册，并荣获2000年度RTL-Lire文学大奖。作者也因此被视为“救世主作
家”，法国媒体称“千千万万的法国读者像等待救世主一样迫不及待地等着阅读她的新作”。
－－－－－－－－我是严肃的分隔线－－－－－－－－ 超星的书评 亚马逊的 2005/09/09 以色列人在读什么呢？2005 Gefen Award Nominees
The final nominees for the 2005 Gefen Award are:
Translated Science Fiction Books The Chronoliths / Robert Charles Wilson (Graf Press) The Speed of Dark / Elizabeth Moon (Graf Press) Burndive / Karin Lowachee (Opus Press) Sky Coyote / Kage Baker (Modan Publishing) Childhood's End / Arthur C. Clarke (Yanshuf Press) Translated Fantasy Books The Lions of Al-Rassan / Guy Gavriel Kay (Opus Press) 《阿兰萨雄狮》[仿西班牙帝制复辟背景，三大宗教战争] Transformation / Carol Berg (Graf Press) The Amber Spyglass / Philip Pullman (Keter Publishing) [描写人性黑暗面，向基督教宣战] Wizard of the Pigeons / Megan Lindholm (Opus Press) Guilty Pleasures / Laurell K. Hamilton (Modan Publishing) Original Hebrew SF&F Short Stories The Perfect Girl / Guy Hasson (Dreams in Aspamia) Silent Nature / Rotem Baruchin (Dreams in Aspamia) A Fairy Tale / Guy WIener (Dreams in Aspamia) The Story of a Virgin / Yulia Gantman (Don't Panic Online Magazine) Faraway Neighbors / Yulia Gantman (Don't Panic Online Magazine) Captured Babies / Hagy Averbuch (The Israeli Society for Science Fiction and Fantasy Online Magazine) Original Hebrew Books Let It Be Morning / Said Kashua Lily La Tigresse / Alona Kimhi Life: The Game / Guy Hasson Iroshalem / Efrat Roman-Asher End's World / Ofir Touche Gafla 2005/09/08 又一只蜗牛先生？ Robin
Hobb的新三部曲登场。然……这第一部在亚马逊上只有一星半的评价。评论里认为主角是单薄无趣，过于顺从的滥好人一个，缺根脊梁骨，其他有趣的人物则只
是标准龙套，闪现之后再无下文。情节方面，则是把十九世纪的美国拓荒史改头换面，把白人换成“贵族”，印第安人换成“平原人”就直接出书了。 另一篇评论则毫不客气地说—— The book was dry, boring and uneventful and struggled through the 500+ pages. 附上书中地图。  2005/09/01 不厚道的《阴阳师》只要琵琶“铮铮”奏起，花瓣就翩然飞舞。 铮铮。 翩翩飞舞。 铮铮。 翩翩飞舞。 铮铮。 翩翩飞舞。 铮铮，翩翩飞舞；铮铮，翩翩飞舞。 铮铮，翩翩飞舞；铮铮，翩翩飞舞…… ——《阴阳师·龙笛卷 呼唤声》 就这样，半页书就没了…… 随手一翻，常常可见大段的对话，而且都是一句一行，每句通常不超过五个字的。例如—— “是咒吗？” “是咒。” “那该怎么办？可以明天就去伊成家吗？” “不。” 晴明轻轻摇了摇头： “还是今晚去吧。” “方便吗？” “没关系。” “嗯。” “走吗？” “好。” “走！” “走！” 事情就这样定下来了。 ——《阴阳师·龙笛卷 呼唤声》 另外，阴阳师第六部的《生成姬》号称是全系列唯一一个长篇，独占一本的。然，这故事就是《铁圈》那个短篇的扩展版。 这么出书不厚道呐。 还我的银子……  后面还有一本太极卷，一本晴明除瘤。再也不买了！！！  2005/08/18 2005雨果奖得奖名单
John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer [Not a Hugo]
英国奇幻奖提名名单Best Novel (The August Derleth Fantasy Award) Best Novella Best Short Fiction Best Anthology Best Collection Best Artist Best Small Press 2005/08/01 世界奇幻奖终选名单2005 World Fantasy Award Nominees世界奇幻奖，台译名互联网纾奇幻奖
|
|
|
