Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe
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Perhaps no living author of imaginative fiction has earned the awards, accolades, respect, and literary reputation of Gene Wolfe. His prose has been called subtle and brilliant, inspiring not just lovers of fantasy and science fiction, but readers of every stripe, transcending genre and defying preconceptions.
In this volume, a select group of Wolfe's fellow authors pay tribute to the award-winning creator of The Book of the New Sun, The Fifth Head of Cerberus, Soldier of the Mist, The Wizard Knight and many others, with entirely new stories written specifically to honor the writer hailed by The Washington Post as "one of America's finest."
Shadows of the New Sun features contributions by Neil Gaiman, David Brin, David Drake, Nancy Kress, and many others, plus two new short stories by Gene Wolfe himself.
greater comfort, close to home? “Comfort, but also time,” she told me, on one of the rare occasions when mother explained anything at all. “The czar and Cossacks live by a code. If we survive, and pay our fines, then you and your sister can never again be charged for being related to traitors. Other crimes, perhaps. But not that.” I thought about it while spending my free hour as I normally did—earning a couple of added kopeks by working in the stables. Mucking out the stalls of draft animals
Maitresse laughed lightly, a delicate trill of silver bells. “My dear, how do you think I got involved in this mess in the first place?” Our tea came and we drank, a quiet parody of domesticity. What felt like hours dragged by. Finally, there came a roar of many voices through the wall and the dwarf deferentially reappeared at the door. “Ah.” Maitresse put down her teacup. “It is time.” We entered our theater box between bouts, as the winner was being wrestled to the ground and sedated and his
the hem snapped as if angered to be sharing the camp with Kellach. Wood had been gathered inside a ring of stone, awaiting the kiss of a spark. A metal pot for tea, a cup for same, a different cup for wine, a thick sleeping carpet and blanket to cover, and a small folding chair had all been arranged on one side with measured precision. Back away, beyond the carpet, sat a small leather chest. Straps, now loose, would bind it; the brown skin had been worked with a variety of symbols arcane. The
breathe; it is all the same. Like totalitarianism. Life itself is a species of suffocation. We are now on the clock. An imaginary clock of course, but no less determinant for all of this. I await your move.” I understood, finally, that the situation was somewhat more complex than I had previously thought. Bavaria is more than Bavarian: It is the world itself. This is a species of contemplation with which I had never been previously engaged. In consequence and somewhat reluctantly, I moved the
hill on which he found himself was a village tucked away in a well- watered valley in the rolling land. Distant voices of singing came to his ears. All around him, the slopes of the hills were covered with vines heavy with grapes. And on the hilltop to his north, a house—a mansion of many wings and stories, white walls reflecting the bright summer sun, roof capped with rust-brown slates richly contrasting in color with the vines. Renault took it all in. Then, for the first time in the century of