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“The violence of nature masks the beauty and joy that hide just beneath the surface.”
― The Lost City: An Epic YA Fantasy Novel
― The Lost City: An Epic YA Fantasy Novel
“The trial awaiting Helen was known among the Toltecs as a Kazil,
a special court convened to consider only those state crimes serious
enough to be punished by death. It consisted of a joint session of
the Kinshazen and the highest-ranking priests of the Temple of Kronos,
who were referred to as the Host of the Faithful.
A Kazil was always conducted at Kindred House, the building where
the members of the Kinshazen met. Its outer layer consisted of massive
blocks of polished pink granite, which had a decidedly dark cast to it.
Kindred House was closest to Lake Shambhala of all the structures in
the Nighthall government complex.
Those summoned before a Kazil and convicted of the charges were invariably put to death within three days of the proceeding. And in only a few, very rare, instances had anyone been found innocent on trial before a Kazil.”
― Stoneslayer: Book One Scandal
a special court convened to consider only those state crimes serious
enough to be punished by death. It consisted of a joint session of
the Kinshazen and the highest-ranking priests of the Temple of Kronos,
who were referred to as the Host of the Faithful.
A Kazil was always conducted at Kindred House, the building where
the members of the Kinshazen met. Its outer layer consisted of massive
blocks of polished pink granite, which had a decidedly dark cast to it.
Kindred House was closest to Lake Shambhala of all the structures in
the Nighthall government complex.
Those summoned before a Kazil and convicted of the charges were invariably put to death within three days of the proceeding. And in only a few, very rare, instances had anyone been found innocent on trial before a Kazil.”
― Stoneslayer: Book One Scandal
“Most nights, her body was commerce. She traded vacuous affection for survival. Her wounded soul, bandaged by the deceptive nature of the
Zone had served no purpose in aiding her.”
― Down and Rising
Zone had served no purpose in aiding her.”
― Down and Rising
“Здесь, в этом доме, до прошлого месяца царили уверенность, определенный комфорт, респектабельность; безделушки для этого дома собирались всю жизнь. Этот дом и есть чья-то жизнь. А потом - бабах! Бомбардировщики, снаряды. И эта жизнь, подобно домам вокруг, разлетается вдребезги. Уверенность, респектабельность, надежды испарились в один миг. И вы со своей женой, а может быть, и с детьми бредете вдоль дороги, жаждущие глотка воды, словно животные или, в лучшем случае, - кто бы мог представить это месяц назад, - словно пещерные люди.”
―
―
“I walked past Malison, up Lower Main to Main and across the road. I didn’t need to look to know he was behind me. I entered Royal Wood, went a short way along a path and waited. It was cool and dim beneath the trees. When Malison entered the Wood, I continued eastward.
I wanted to place his body in hallowed ground. He was born a Mearan. The least I could do was send him to Loric. The distance between us closed until he was on my heels. He chose to come, I told myself, as if that lessened the crime I planned. He chose what I have to offer.
We were almost to the cemetery before he asked where we were going. I answered with another question. “Do you like living in the High Lord’s kitchens?”
He, of course, replied, “No.”
“Well, we’re going to a better place.”
When we reached the edge of the Wood, I pushed aside a branch to see the Temple of Loric and Calec’s cottage. No smoke was coming from the chimney, and I assumed the old man was yet abed. His pony was grazing in the field of graves. The sun hid behind a bank of clouds.
Malison moved beside me. “It’s a graveyard.”
“Are you afraid of ghosts?” I asked.
“My father’s a ghost,” he whispered.
I asked if he wanted to learn how to throw a knife. He said, “Yes,” as I knew he would. He untucked his shirt, withdrew the knife he had stolen and gave it to me. It was a thick-bladed, single-edged knife, better suited for dicing celery than slitting a young throat. But it would serve my purpose. That I also knew. I’d spent all night projecting how the morning would unfold and, except for indulging in the tea, it had happened as I had imagined.
Damut kissed her son farewell. Malison followed me of his own free will. Without fear, he placed the instrument of his death into my hand. We were at the appointed place, at the appointed time. The stolen knife was warm from the heat of his body. I had only to use it. Yet I hesitated, and again prayed for Sythene to show me a different path.
“Aren’t you going to show me?” Malison prompted, as if to echo my prayer.”
― Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master
I wanted to place his body in hallowed ground. He was born a Mearan. The least I could do was send him to Loric. The distance between us closed until he was on my heels. He chose to come, I told myself, as if that lessened the crime I planned. He chose what I have to offer.
We were almost to the cemetery before he asked where we were going. I answered with another question. “Do you like living in the High Lord’s kitchens?”
He, of course, replied, “No.”
“Well, we’re going to a better place.”
When we reached the edge of the Wood, I pushed aside a branch to see the Temple of Loric and Calec’s cottage. No smoke was coming from the chimney, and I assumed the old man was yet abed. His pony was grazing in the field of graves. The sun hid behind a bank of clouds.
Malison moved beside me. “It’s a graveyard.”
“Are you afraid of ghosts?” I asked.
“My father’s a ghost,” he whispered.
I asked if he wanted to learn how to throw a knife. He said, “Yes,” as I knew he would. He untucked his shirt, withdrew the knife he had stolen and gave it to me. It was a thick-bladed, single-edged knife, better suited for dicing celery than slitting a young throat. But it would serve my purpose. That I also knew. I’d spent all night projecting how the morning would unfold and, except for indulging in the tea, it had happened as I had imagined.
Damut kissed her son farewell. Malison followed me of his own free will. Without fear, he placed the instrument of his death into my hand. We were at the appointed place, at the appointed time. The stolen knife was warm from the heat of his body. I had only to use it. Yet I hesitated, and again prayed for Sythene to show me a different path.
“Aren’t you going to show me?” Malison prompted, as if to echo my prayer.”
― Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master
Jacklyn’s 2025 Year in Books
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