About a week's ride from Aberwyn, on what might as well have been the western border of Eldidd since no one lived beyond it, there was a dun standing on the wide grassy clifftop overlooking the ocean. A stone wall, badly in need of repair, ringed a big ward where grass poked up through the cobbles. Inside was a squat stone broch, a clutter of wooden sheds, and a narrow tower like a stork standing among chickens. Every afternoon, Avascaen climbed the hundred and fifty spiraling steps to the flat top of the tower. Using a heavy winch and pulley, he would haul up loads of firewood, which his sons had put in the sling far down below, and stack them under the little shelter above the beacon pit. Just at sunset, he would light a torch and fire the first load. Not far out to sea were submerged rocks, a little ripple of white water from his vantage, but virtually invisible to a ship sailing toward them. Any captain who saw the Cannobaen light knew enough to swing wide out to the safety of the open sea.

From Darkspell, by Katharine Kerr

Copyright © 1996-2005 Katharine Kerr. All rights reserved. No portion of this site may be copied, in whole or in part.