Tombs of Atuan
Product Description Arha's isolated existence as high priestess in the tombs of Atuan is jarred by a thief who seeks a special treasure. Review "New and longtime Earthsea fans will be drawn to these impressive new editions." ( The Horn Book ) --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From the Publisher Ursula K. Le Guin's Earthsea cycle has become one of the best-loved fantasies of our time. The windswept world of Earthsea is one of the greatest creations in all fantasy literature, frequently compared with J.R.R. Tolkien's Middle Earth or C.S. Lewis' Narnia . The magnificent saga begins with A Wizard Of Earthsea , continues in The Tombs Of Atuan and The Farthest Shore , and concludes with Tehanu --each book a treasure of wisdom, wonder, and literary wizardry. When she was still a child, Tenar was stripped of her name and family and dedicated as high priestess to the Nameless Ones, dark powers of The Tombs of Atuan . This is the tale of the young wizard, Ged, who came to the forbidden labyrinth to steal its greatest treasure--the Ring of Erreth-Akbe--and stayed to set Tenar free and lead her out of darkness. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From AudioFile THE TOMBS OF ATUAN introduces Arha, high priestess of the nameless Powers of the Earth, and Ged, a wizard bent on recovering a priceless relic from these Powers. On the one hand, Fantastic Audio's recording presents a rare treat for readers, featuring author LeGuin's performance of the beginning and ending of her book. Unfortunately, narrator Gabrielle de Cuir is a poor match for this wonderful tale. Many of de Cuir's declarative sentences end in a questioning tone, her dialogue is flat, and her characters are difficult to distinguish. Several passages were enhanced by the lightest touch of music. Part of LeGuin's Earthsea Cycle, this book provides the jumping-off point into unknown worlds for many fantasy readers and deserves a more animated reader. P.H.M. © AudioFile 2003, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One: The Eaten One One high horn shrilled and ceased. The silence that followed was shaken only by the sound of many footsteps keeping time with a drum struck softly at a slow heart-pace. Through cracks in the roof of the Hall of the Throne, gaps between columns where a whole section of masonry and tile had collapsed, unsteady sunlight shone aslant. It was an hour after sunrise. The air was still and cold. Dead leaves of weeds that had forced up between marble pavement-tiles were outlined with frost, and crackled, catching on the long black robes of the priestesses. They came, four by four, down the vast hall between double rows of columns. The drum beat dully. No voice spoke, no eye watched. Torches carried by black-clad girls burned reddish in the shafts of sunlight, brighter in the dusk between. Outside, on the steps of the Hall of the Throne, the men stood, guards, trumpeters, drummers; within the great doors only women had come, dark-robed and hooded, walking slowly four by four towards the empty throne. Two came, tall women looming in their black, one of them thin and rigid, the other heavy, swaying with the planting of her feet. Between these two walked a child of about six. She wore a straight white shift. Her head and arms and legs were bare, and she was barefoot. She looked extremely small. At the foot of the steps leading up to the throne, where the others now waited in dark rows, the two tall women halted. They pushed the child forward a little. The throne on its high platform seemed to be curtained on each side with great webs of blackness dropping from the gloom of the roof; whether these were curtains, or only denser shadows, the eye could not make certain. The throne itself was black, with a dull glimmer of precious stones or gold on the arms and back, and it was huge. A man sitting in it would have been dwarfed; it was not of human dimensions. It was empty. Nothing sat in it but shadows. Alone, the child climbed up four of the seven steps of red-veined marble. They were so broad and high that she had to get both feet onto one step before attempting the next. On the middle step, directly in front of the throne, stood a large, rough block of wood, hollowed out on top. The child knelt on both knees and fitted her head into the hollow, turning it a little sideways. She knelt there without moving. A figure in a belted gown of white wool stepped suddenly out of the shadows at the right of the throne and strode down the steps to the child. His face was masked with white. He held a sword of polished steel five feet long. Without word or hesitation he swung the sword, held in both hands, up over the little girl's neck. The drum stopped beating. As the blade swung to its highest point and poised, a figure in black darted out from the left side of the throne, leapt down the stairs, and stayed the sacrificer's arms with slenderer arms. The sharp edge of the sword glittered in mid-air. So they balanced for a moment, the white figure and the black, both faceless, dancer-like above the motionless child whose white neck was bared by the parting of her black hair. In silence each leapt aside and up the stairs again, vanishing in the darkness behind the enormous throne. A priestess came forward and poured out a bowl of liquid on the steps beside the kneeling child. The stain looked black in the dimness of the hall. The child got up and descended the four stairs laboriously. When she stood at the bottom, the two tall priestesses put on her a black robe and hood and mantle, and turned her around again to face the steps, the dark stain, the throne. "O let the Nameless Ones behold the girl given to them, who is verily the one born ever nameless. Let them accept her life and the years of her life until her death, which is also theirs. Let them find her acceptable. Let her be eaten!" Other voices, shrill and harsh as trumpets, replied: "She is eaten! She is eaten!" The little girl stood looking from under her black cowl up at the throne. The jewels inset in the huge clawed arms and the back were glazed with dust, and on the carven back were cobwebs and whitish stains of owl droppings. The three highest steps directly before the throne, above the step on which she had knelt, had never been climbed by mortal feet. They were so thick with dust that they looked like one slant of gray soil, the planes of the red-veined marble wholly hidden by the unstirred, untrodden siftings of how many years, how many centuries. "She is eaten! She is eaten!" Now the drum, abrupt, began to sound again, beating a quicker pace. Silent and shuffling, the procession formed and moved away from the throne, eastward towards the bright, distant square of the doorway. On either side, the thin double columns, like the calves of immense pale legs, went up to the dusk under the ceiling. Among the priestesses, and now all in black like them, the child walked, her small bare feet treading solemnly over the frozen weeds, the icy stones. When sunlight slanting through the ruined roof flashed across her way, she did not look up. Guards held the great doors wide. The black procession came out into the thin, cold light and wind of early morning. The sun dazzled, swimming above the eastern vastness. Westward, the mountains caught its yellow light, as did the faÇade of the Hall of the Throne. The other buildings, lower on the hill, still lay in purplish shadow, except for the Temple of the God-Brothers across the way on a little knoll: its roof, newly gilt, flashed the day back in glory. The black line of the priestesses, four by four, wound down the Hill of the Tombs, and as they went they began softly to chant. The tune was on three notes only, and the word that was repeated over and over was a word so old it had lost its meaning, like a signpost still standing when the road is gone. Over and over they chanted the empty word. All that day of the Remaking of the Priestess was filled with the low chanting of women's voices, a dry unceasing drone. The little girl was taken from room to room, from temple to temple. In one place salt was placed upon her tongue; in another she knelt facing west while her hair was cut short and washed with oil and scented vinegar; in another she lay face down on a slab of black marble behind an altar while shrill voices sang a lament for the dead. Neither she nor any of the priestesses ate food or drank water all that day. As the evening star set, the little girl was put to bed, naked between sheepskin rugs, in a room she had never slept in before. It was in a house that had been locked for years, unlocked only that day. The room was higher than it was long, and had no windows. There was a dead smell in its, still and stale. The silent women left her there in the dark. She held still, lying just as they had put her. Her eyes were wide open. She lay so for a long time. She saw light shake on the high wall. Someone came quietly along the corridor, shielding a rushlight so it showed no more light than a firefly. A husky whisper: "Ho, are you there, Tenar?" The child did not reply. A head poked in the doorway, a strange head, hairless as a peeled potato, and of the same yellowish color. The eyes were like potato-eyes, brown and tiny. The nose was dwarfed by great, flat slabs of cheek, and the mouth was a lipless slit. The child stared unmoving at this face. Her eyes were large, dark, fixed. "Ho, Tenar, my little honeycomb, there you are!" The voice was husky, high as a woman's voice but not a woman's voice. "I shouldn't be here, I belong outside the door, on the porch, that's where I go. But I had to see how my little Tenar is, after all the long day of it, eh, how's my poor little honeycomb?" He moved towards her, noiseless and burly, and put out his hand as if to smooth back her hair. "I am not Tenar any more," the child said, staring up at him. His hand stopped; he did not touch her. "No," he said, after a moment, whispering. "I know. I know. Now you're the little Eaten One. But IŠ" She said nothing. "It was a hard day for a little one," the man said, shuffling the tiny light flickering in his big yellow hand. "You should not be in this house, Manan." "No. No. I know. I shouldn't be in this House. Well, good night, little oneŠ Good night." The child said nothing. Manan slowly turned around and went away. The glimmer died from the high cell walls. The little girl, who had no name any more but Ahra, the Eaten One, lay on her back looking steadily at the dark. Copyright © 2004 by Ursula K. Le Guin --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Amazon.com Review Often compared to Tolkien's Middle-earth or Lewis's Narnia, Ursula K. Le Guin's Earthsea is a stunning fantasy world that grabs quickly at our hearts, pulling us deeply into its imaginary realms. Four books ( A Wizard of Earthsea , The Tombs of Atuan , The Farthest Shore , and Tehanu ) tell the whole Earthsea cycle--a tale about a reckless, awkward boy named Sparrowhawk who becomes a wizard's apprentice after the wizard reveals Sparrowhawk's true name. The boy comes to realize that his fate may be far more important than he ever dreamed possible. Le Guin challenges her readers to think about the power of language, how in the act of naming the world around us we actually create that world. Teens, especially, will be inspired by the way Le Guin allows her characters to evolve and grow into their own powers. In this second book of Le Guin's Earthsea series, readers will meet Tenar, a priestess to the "Nameless Ones" who guard the catacombs of the Tombs of Atuan. Only Tenar knows the passageways of this dark labyrinth, and only she can lead the young wizard Sparrowhawk, who stumbles into its maze, to the greatest treasure of all. Will she? --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Ursula K. Le Guin is one of the most distinguished fantasy and science fiction writers of all time. She has won numerous awards for her work, including the Nebula Award, the Hugo Award, the National Book Award, and the Newbery Honor. She lives in Portland, Oregon. Visit her online at UrsulaKLeguin.com. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From the Inside Flap Ursula K. Le Guin's Earthsea cycle has become one of the best-loved fantasies of our time.  The windswept world of Earthsea is one of the greatest creations in all fantasy literature, frequently compared with J.R.R. Tolkien's Middle Earth or C.S. Lewis' Narnia .  The magnificent saga begins with A Wizard Of Earthsea ,  continues in The Tombs Of Atuan and The Farthest Shore , and concludes with Tehanu --each book a treasure of wisdom, wonder, and literary wizardry.  When she was still a child, Tenar was stripped of her name and family and dedicated as high priestess to the Nameless Ones, dark powers of The Tombs of Atuan .  This is the tale of the young wizard, Ged, who came to the forbidden labyrinth to steal its greatest treasure--the Ring of Erreth-Akbe--and stayed to set Tenar free and lead her out of darkness. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. See more
Ursula K. Le Guin   Format: Audio CD
{"Language": "English", "Product Dimensions": "5.39 x 1.02 x 5.59 inches; 5.6 Ounces", "Date First Available": "October 8, 2011"}