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What to Read While You Wait for The Wheel of Time Season 3

by Kaleb Russell

In 2021, Amazon’s long awaited The Wheel of Time TV series arrived onto the scene to instant acclaim for its sumptuous production, compelling cast of characters, and its gorgeously rendered world; brimming with sprawl and wonder. Simply put, a faithful adaptation of the late Robert Jordan’s iconic fantasy series. Unfortunately, the first season ended as soon as it came, leaving many starved for more fantastical storytelling. And then season 2 released and it rocked! But also same problem—what do you do once you’re done watching? Fret not, for we have prepared a feast! Here are 7 fantasy series to tide you over until season 3 arrives!


opens in a new windowThe First Binding by R. R. Virdi opens in a new windowTales of Tremaine — R.R. Virdi

The first book in R.R. Virdi’s Tales of Tremaine series follows an enigmatic singer/storyteller named Ari and his journey to outrun his sinful past. Crafted in the tradition of stories like Patrick Rothfuss’ The Name of the Wind, opens in a new windowThe First Binding is a harrowing love letter to the fantasy genre and the art of storytelling. Based in a South Asian mythos, readers will find themselves enraptured by Virdi’s dashing prose and elegant world building. And as if you needed even more reasons to start reading,  opens in a new windowThe First Binding is now available in paperback! 


opens in a new windowThe Mystic Trilogy opens in a new windowMystic Skies by Jason Denzel — Jason Denzel

So you loved The Wheel of Time (of course!). You know who else loved Wheel? Jason Denzel. This stalwart Robert Jordan fan founded community fansite Dragonmount.com, and then went on to pen his own trilogy of epic fantasy. In this trilogy, a primal force called Myst pulses at the heart of the world. One young magi will defy law and tradition to unravel its secrets… One lucky reader who’s scrolling this post right now will discover their next fantasy binge… That’s right! The trilogy’s epic conclusion, opens in a new windowMystic Skies, is out now, so you can dive through this entire series in one go!


opens in a new windowThe Craft Sequence opens in a new windowThe Craft Sequence by Max Gladstone — Max Gladstone

The Craft Sequence takes place in a 21st century fantasy world where, after a terrible war that left significant swaths decimated, Gods deal and compete with wizard-run corporations for power and influence while necromantic lawyers levy dark magic to litigate their conflicts. Imagine rogue magicians flying to work on lightning bolts. CEOs taking the form of business suit clad skeletons whose flesh has worn away after years of manipulating elements of the universe. Monasteries operated by the lifeless corpses of their devote followers. Part fantasy epic, part legal thriller, Gladstone explores a myriad of topics including but not limited to religion, faith, finance, climate change, and so much more with an alarming level of wit and innovation. It’s a series that’s strange, wondrous, and terrifying in equal measure. Better yet, one could start with any book in the series as each book functions as interconnected standalones!

AND even BETTER yet, Max has returned to the world of the craft with opens in a new windowThe Craft Wars—a new series and entry point to this universe. This series is perfect for readers that just itch to squabble with gods and hate capitalism, and starts with opens in a new windowDead Country and will continue in  opens in a new windowWicked Problems.

opens in a new windowDead Country by Max Gladstone


opens in a new windowThe Stormlight Archive opens in a new windowRhythm of War by Brandon Sanderson — Brandon Sanderson

Who better to read than the author chosen by Robert Jordan himself to bring the The Wheel of Time series to a satisfying conclusion? Sanderson went on to craft a myriad of his own sprawling fantasy worlds, one such being Roshar, a world wracked by storms so violent, the planet’s ecology has taken a rather peculiar evolutionary track with animals growing shells to escape into and plant life developing internal evasive measures to survive. Then there are the Knights Radiant, 10 ancient orders whose magical weapons are the impetus for a cataclysmic war taking place on a ruined landscape known as the Shattered Plains. 10 years in the making, The Stormlight Archive promises to be another operatic fantasy on par with The Wheel of Time.


 

opens in a new windowA Chorus of Dragons opens in a new windowThe Ruin of Kings by Jenn Lyons — Jenn Lyons

After learning he’s the long-lost son of a treacherous prince, young Kihrin quickly realises the storybooks he was raised on – fanciful tales of heroic royals achieving heroic victories– are the furthest thing from the truth. Trapped in his new family’s web of deceit and maniacal ambitions, Kihrin must fight to find his own path. A path removed from the ruinous fate laid before him, a fate where he’s the villain destined to destroy the world. Intricately weaving two compelling narratives together, Lyons tells a compelling story about harrowing family drama and a boy vying for freedom.


opens in a new windowMoonfall opens in a new windowThe Cradle of Ice by James Rollins — James Rollins

New York Times bestselling author James Rollins flexes his storytelling chops by seamlessly transitioning from the realm of thrillers to that of science fantasy in the exciting debut of his new Moonfall series: opens in a new windowThe Starless Crown. The world of Urth has stopped rotating on its axis. Leaving one side of the planet sun swept, the other wreathed in shadow and ice. Follow Nyx, a gifted student who sees visions of a bleak apocalypse, and her band of outcasts in their journey to uncover the secrets of old that might just give them answers necessary to save their world. Wheel of Time fans will surely love this world of floating ships and prophetic gods.

And watch out for its sequel,  opens in a new windowThe Cradle of Ice, on sale now!


opens in a new windowWake the Dragon opens in a new windowGods and Dragons by Kevin J. Anderson — Kevin J. Anderson

his series marks Kevin J. Anderson’s triumphant return to epic fantasy in this tale of two warring continents setting aside their millenia-long blood feud to fight a common enemy. The reawakening of an ancient race that wants to see the world remade forces the the Three Kingdoms and Ishara to put aside past bloodshed to stand a fighting chance of saving their respective homes from ruin. Dragons, political intrigue, bombastic battles. What’s not to like?

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Is a Bat a Dragon? We Asked James Rollins

opens in a new windowThe Cradle of Ice by James RollinsBy now, Tor is at the forefront of research into what exactly constitutes “dragon.” We’ve entertained many queries throughout the years, determining if the umbrella of dragon extends to opens in a new windowhippos, opens in a new windowsnakes, and opens in a new windowGodzilla. Now, we turn to the expertise of James Rollins to advise on the dragonic status of bats. If you’ve read opens in a new windowThe Starless Crown and its sequel  opens in a new windowThe Cradle of Ice, you probably know the answer.

Check it out!


by James Rollins      

My love for the natural world and all its myriad creatures was one of my main drives for pursuing a career in veterinary medicine. Even today as a full-time writer, I’ve not fully stepped away from that profession. As I’ve stated many times during book talks—yes, I can still neuter a cat in under thirty seconds.

Still, my greatest fascination about Nature is how it adheres to a dictate stated so succinctly in Jurassic Park:  Life will find a way.  I’ve always been captivated by the manner in which animals and plants discover innovative survival strategies to fill different environmental niches and how that fight has resulted in all the marvels (and horrors) found in the natural world.

While growing up, I found a new way of exploring this subject matter:  in science fiction and fantasy novels set on different worlds. I found myself especially drawn to material that explored life’s resilience across fantastic worlds. Whether it was the sandworms of Herbert’s Dune, the engineered landscape of Niven’s Ringworld, the many species of Card’s Ender’s Game, or a universe of other writers tackling how life finds a way.

Even when it came to those novels that featured dragons, I found myself most interested in the biology and the circumstance of their origins. How did the telepathy and bonding in Anne McCaffrey’s Pern books come about? What steps were taken to harness the physicality of dragons to become warriors in Novik’s Temeraire series? In Martin’s books, could dragon eggs truly be encysted for ages and require fire to bring them back to life? If so, how and why?

When it came to crafting my own fantastic world in the Moonfall Saga, I took a similar scientific eye to its construction. The series takes place on a tidally locked planet, a world that circles its sun with one side forever facing the sun, the other locked in eternal darkness. The only truly livable clime is the band between those extremes of ice and fire. Across such a harsh and unforgiving landscape, I wanted to build a biosphere of flora and fauna that made evolutionary sense. How would species survive the extreme cold and lack of sunlight? Could life find a way in the sunblasted hemisphere?

And what about dragons?

In the novel, one of the apex predators is a species of massive bat, with a wingspan of ten meters or more. We first see them in Book One (The Starless Crown). They inhabit the vast swamplands of Mýr—found in that more temperate climate of the world. They are nocturnal, haunting a drowned forest and roosting in a volcanic mountain. I wanted those bats to make biological sense, to have them fit that environmental niche in a natural way. Being arboreal, they would likely have evolved prehensile tails. As nocturnal creatures, they would need bell-shaped ears and still use ultrasonics to navigate. And without giving away any of the surprises in the books, there is a significant aspect to their biology that will allow them to bond to certain people.

In the books, I also wanted to add a level of verisimilitude to the bestiary by adding naturalistic sketches, drawings that you might find in a turn-of-the-century research journal.

Here is the Mýr bat:

sketch of a winged giant bats

Keep in mind, life will find a way, so this species is not limited to those swamplands. A subspecies evolved in the dark, frozen half of the world. It adapted to fit that harsh niche, becoming smaller and stockier, with shaggy fur, and nasal flaps that could seal to conserve body heat. Likewise, in this treeless landscape, that prehensile tail would no longer be needed. They make an appearance in the second book in the series, The Cradle of Ice.

Here is their sketch:

sketch of a winged giant batt

But what about the title of this blog post: Is a bat a dragon?

In the third volume in the series (A Dragon of Black Glass), which will be coming out in 2024, this species has also adapted to the sunblasted half of the world. To survive, they would need to burrow to survive, growing larger claws for digging, and bodies that would be hairless and elongated, with fanned tails for aerial maneuvering when out of their burrows. They would become known as “sanddragons.”

Here is a sneak peek at their preliminary incarnation (with the final version still to come):

preliminary sketch  massive crawling bat

I must note that all of these drawings were beautifully executed by graphic artist, opens in a new windowDanea Fidler—as were all the other creature sketches featured in the books. I look forward to sharing the final versions of these “dragons” in 2024 when A Dragon of Black Glass hits bookshelves.

Order The Cradle of Ice Here:

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Tor Books Presents…Dragon Week 5eva: Aliens Vs. Dragons

We at Tor are SO excited to bring you Dragon Week 5eva, and we’ve—BZZZZZZZT—incoming transmission. Signal Source: The stars. Message: “Dragons beware. We are aliens. We are here.”

Uh oh. Looks like we’ve got company for Dragon Week 5eva, but good news! We’ve also got a whole slew of mythically extraterrestrial content lifting off in the coming week. Check out our roundup of everything to watch out for during Dragon Week 5eva: Aliens Vs. Dragons!


Monday, 7/10

opens in a new windowQuiz: What Kind of Dragon Are You?

opens in a new windowbackground is a volcano, which is also a dragon. many different dragons populate the foreground including traditional, snake, polygonal, and dragonfly, plus semi-transparent ourobouros


Tuesday, 7/11

opens in a new windowHow to Worship Your Dragon: Julia Vee & Ken Bebelle Advise

opens in a new windowAncient Bronze Dragons Carving in the Ancient Dragon King Temple along Yangtze River,China.

opens in a new windowDevilishly Dragonic Moments from Dragon Week History

opens in a new windowa dragon the size of the world approaches the world in space


Wednesday, 7/12

opens in a new windowShowdown in the Skies: Aliens Vs. Dragons!

opens in a new windowarea 51, the desert, during the day. a sign warns of aliens and a flying dragon menaces a landed spacecraft

opens in a new window5 Dragons Daniel M. Ford’s Adept Wizard Could Beat in a Fight

opens in a new windowthe shadow of a woman punching with sunset background


Thursday, 7/13

opens in a new windowTor Staff Builds a Dragon

opens in a new windowan array of shiny metal gears with a series of vector dragon images in a circle around the biggest one

opens in a new windowIs a Bat a Dragon? James Rollins Answers

opens in a new windowBat sketches by danea fidler in front of a transparent moon


Friday, 7/14

opens in a new windowInterstellar Dragoncore Tunes for Soaring Through Space

opens in a new windowa dragon shadow curling in front of a bunch of rainbow music notes with little alien spaceships inside the shadow

 

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Which Fantasy Class Are You? (and what you should read next)

by a cat

Ever wonder what your fantasy ttrpg class is? Ever wonder what book you should read next? While seemingly disparate, these two questions are inextricably linked, and we’ll prove it with this quiz.

Check it out!



And while you’ve got books on the brain, Ebony Gate by Julia Vee & Ken Bebelle releases soon, and deserves a spot on the list of any fan of urban fantasy.

Pre-order opens in a new windowEbony Gate Here:

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May 7th: SUPER MEGA eBook Sale Day!!!

Who’s ready for some super hot ebook deals for ONE DAY ONLY?! Check out all the amazing books you can snag for only $2.99 today!


The Starless Crown by James Rollins opens in a new windowThe Starless Crown by James Rollins

A gifted student foretells an apocalypse. Her reward is a sentence of death. Fleeing into the unknown she is drawn into a team of outcasts: A broken soldier, who once again takes up the weapons he’s forbidden to wield and carves a trail back home. A drunken prince, who steps out from his beloved brother’s shadow and claims a purpose of his own. An imprisoned thief, who escapes the crushing dark and discovers a gleaming artifact – one that will ignite a power struggle across the globe. On the run, hunted by enemies old and new, they must learn to trust each other in order to survive in a world evolved in strange, beautiful, and deadly ways, and uncover ancient secrets that hold the key to their salvation. But with each passing moment, doom draws closer.

opens in a new windowkindle-1 opens in a new windownook-1 opens in a new windowebooks-1 opens in a new windowgoogle play-1 opens in a new windowibooks2 8 opens in a new windowkobo-1

The Book Eaters by Sunyi Dean opens in a new windowThe Book Eaters by Sunyi Dean

Out on the Yorkshire Moors lives a secret line of people for whom books are food, and who retain all of a book’s content after eating it. To them, spy novels are a peppery snack; romance novels are sweet and delicious. Eating a map can help them remember destinations, and children, when they misbehave, are forced to eat dry, musty pages from dictionaries. Devon is part of The Family, an old and reclusive clan of book eaters. Her brothers grow up feasting on stories of valor and adventure, and Devon—like all other book eater women—is raised on a carefully curated diet of fairy tales and cautionary stories. But real life doesn’t always come with happy endings, as Devon learns when her son is born with a rare and darker kind of hunger—not for books, but for human minds.

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Book of Night by Holly Black opens in a new windowBook of Night by Holly Black

Charlie Hall has never found a lock she couldn’t pick, a book she couldn’t steal, or a bad decision she wouldn’t make. She’s spent half her life working for gloamists, magicians who manipulate shadows to peer into locked rooms, strangle people in their beds, or worse. Gloamists guard their secrets greedily, creating an underground economy of grimoires. And to rob their fellow magicians, they need Charlie Hall. Now, she’s trying to distance herself from past mistakes, but getting out isn’t easy. Bartending at a dive, she’s still entirely too close to the corrupt underbelly of the Berkshires. Not to mention that her sister Posey is desperate for magic, and that Charlie’s shadowless, and possibly soulless, boyfriend has been hiding things from her. When a terrible figure from her past returns, Charlie descends into a maelstrom of murder and lies. Determined to survive, she’s up against a cast of doppelgangers, mercurial billionaires, gloamists, and the people she loves best in the world—all trying to steal a secret that will give them vast and terrible power.

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opens in a new windowPlaceholder of  -2Vengeful by V. E. Schwab

Magneto and Professor X. Superman and Lex Luthor. Victor Vale and Eli Ever. Sydney and Serena Clarke. Great partnerships, now soured on the vine. But Marcella Riggins needs no one. Flush from her brush with death, she’s finally gained the control she’s always sought—and will use her new-found power to bring the city of Merit to its knees. She’ll do whatever it takes, collecting her own sidekicks, and leveraging the two most infamous EOs, Victor Vale and Eli Ever, against each other. With Marcella’s rise, new enmities create opportunity–and the stage of Merit City will once again be set for a final, terrible reckoning.

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opens in a new windowThe Kaiju Preservation Society by John ScalziThe Kaiju Preservation Society by John Scalzi

When COVID-19 sweeps through New York City, Jamie Gray is stuck as a dead-end driver for food delivery apps. That is, until Jamie makes a delivery to an old acquaintance, Tom, who works at what he calls “an animal rights organization.” Tom’s team needs a last-minute grunt to handle things on their next field visit. Jamie, eager to do anything, immediately signs on. What Tom doesn’t tell Jamie is that the animals his team cares for are not here on Earth. Not our Earth, at least. In an alternate dimension, massive dinosaur-like creatures named Kaiju roam a warm, human-free world. They’re the universe’s largest and most dangerous panda and they’re in trouble.mIt’s not just the Kaiju Preservation Society who have found their way to the alternate world. Others have, too. And their carelessness could cause millions back on our Earth to die.

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Which Dysfunctional Fantasy Crew Should You Join?

by a bunch of raccoons in a trench coat & a cat

Rolling with a fantasy crew is no dream! Surprisingly, conflict management is actually not made easier with magic and swords.

Find out which dysfunctional fantasy crew you ride with by taking this quiz!



And while you’ve got books on the brain, the opens in a new windowMoonfall Series by James Rollins is pretty cool. You should read it.

Order opens in a new windowThe Cradle of Ice Here:

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Excerpt: The Starless Crown by James Rollins

opens in a new windowamazon one opens in a new windowbn one opens in a new windowbooksamillion one opens in a new windowibooks2 19 opens in a new windowindiebound one

Image Placeholder of - 76An alliance embarks on a dangerous journey to uncover the secrets of the distant past and save their world in this captivating, deeply visionary adventure from #1 New York Times bestselling thriller-master James Rollins.

A gifted student foretells an apocalypse. Her reward is a sentence of death.

Fleeing into the unknown she is drawn into a team of outcasts:

A broken soldier, who once again takes up the weapons he’s forbidden to wield and carves a trail back home.

A drunken prince, who steps out from his beloved brother’s shadow and claims a purpose of his own.

An imprisoned thief, who escapes the crushing dark and discovers a gleaming artifact – one that will ignite a power struggle across the globe.

On the run, hunted by enemies old and new, they must learn to trust each other in order to survive in a world evolved in strange, beautiful, and deadly ways, and uncover ancient secrets that hold the key to their salvation.

But with each passing moment, doom draws closer.

WHO WILL CLAIM THE STARLESS CROWN?

And with The Starless Crown available in paperback, now is the perfect time to leap into the full Moonfall series and continue with book two, opens in a new windowThe Cradle of Ice, available now!

Please enjoy this free excerpt of  opens in a new windowThe Starless Crown, on sale in trade paperback now!


1

Nyx sought to understand the stars with her fingertips.

Near blind, she had to lean far over the low table to reach to the heart of the orrery, to the warmth of the bronze sun at the center of the complicated astronomical mechanism. She knew the kettle-sized sphere had been filled with hot coals prior to the morning’s lesson, to mimic the life-giving heat of the Father Above, who made His home there. She held her palm toward that warmth, then took great care to count outward along the slowly turning rings that marked the paths of inner planets around the Father. Her fingers stopped at the third. She rested a tip there and felt the vibrations of the gears that turned this ring, heard the tick-tick-ticking as their teacher spun the wheel on the far side of the orrery to drive their world to Nyx’s waiting hand.

“Take care, child,” she was warned.

The device was four centuries old, one of the school’s most precious artifacts. It was said to have been stolen from the courts of Azantiia by the founding high prioress and brought to the Cloistery of Brayk. Others claimed it wasn’t stolen, but crafted by the prioress herself, using skills long lost to those who lived and taught here now.

Either way—

“Better not break it, Dumblefoot,” Byrd blurted out. His comment stirred snickers from the other students who sat in a circle around the domed chamber of the astronicum.

Their teacher—Sister Reed, a young novitiate of the Cloistery—growled them all to silence.

Nyx’s cheeks heated. While her fellow students could easily observe the intricate dance of spheres around the bronze sun, she could not. To her, the world was perpetually lost in a foggy haze, where movement could be detected in shifts of shadows and objects discerned in gradations of shimmering outlines in the brightest sunlight. Even colors were muted and watery to her afflicted eyes. Worst of all, when she was inside, like now, her sight was smothered to darkness.

She needed to touch to understand.

She took a deep breath and steadied her fingers as the small sphere that marked their world rotated into her hand. The bronze ring to which it was pinned continued to turn with the spin of the wheeled gears. To keep her fingertips in place atop the fist-sized sphere of their world, she had to scoot around the table. By now, the bronze sun had heated one surface of the sphere to a subtle warmth, while the opposite was cold metal, forever turned from the Father.

“Can you now better appreciate how the Mother always keeps one face perpetually gazing at the Father Above?” Sister Reed asked. “A side that eternally burns under His stern-but-loving attention.”

Nyx nodded, still circling the table to match the sphere’s path around the sun.

Sister Reed addressed both her and the other students. “And at the same time, the other side of our world is forever denied the Father’s fierce gaze and remains frozen in eternal darkness, where it is said the very air is ice.”

Nyx did not bother to acknowledge the obvious, her attention fixed as the Urth completed its circuit around the sun.

“It is why we live in the Crown,” the sister continued, “the circlet of the world that lies between the scorched lands on one side of the Urth and those forever frozen on the other.”

Nyx ran her fingertip around this circumference of the sphere, passing from north to south and back again. The Crown of the Urth marked the only hospitable lands where its peoples, flora, and fauna could flourish. Not that there weren’t stories of what lay beyond the Crown, terrifying tales— many blasphemous—whispered about those dreaded lands, those frozen on one side, scorched on the other.

Sister Reed stopped turning the wheel, bringing the dance of planets to a rest. “Now that Nyx has had her turn to study the orrery, can anyone tell me why the Mother Below eternally matches her gaze with the Father Above, without ever turning her face away?”

Nyx kept her post, her fingers still on the half-warmed sphere.

Kindjal answered the teacher’s question. She quoted from the text they had been assigned to study this past week. “She and our world are forever trapped in the hardened amber of the void, unable to ever turn away.”

“Very good,” Sister Reed said warmly.

Nyx could almost feel the beam of satisfaction from Kindjal, twin sister to Byrd, both children of the highmayor of Fiskur, the largest town along the northern coast of Mýr. Though the town lay a full day’s boat ride away, the two lorded their status among the students here, proffering gifts on those who fawned over them, while ridiculing all others, often resorting to physical affronts to reinforce their humiliations.

It was perhaps for that reason more than any other that Nyx spoke up, contradicting Kindjal. “But the Urth is not trapped in amber,” she mumbled to the orrery, her fingers still on the half-heated sphere. She hated to draw attention to herself, longing to return to the obscurity of her seat near the back of the class, but she refused to deny what her fingers discovered. “It still turns in the void.”

Byrd came to his twin’s defense, scoffing loudly. “Even blindfolded, any fool could tell the Mother always faces the Father. The Urth never turns away.”

“This is indeed immutable and unchangeable,” Sister Reed concurred. “As the Father burns forever in our skies, the Mother always stares with love and gratefulness toward the majesty of Him.”

“But the Urth does turn,” Nyx insisted, her mumble firming with frustration.

Though already nearly blind, she closed her eyes and viewed the orrery from above in her mind. She pictured the path of the sphere as it rotated around the bronze sun. She remembered the tiniest ticking under her fingertips as she had followed its course. She had felt it turn in her grip as it made a full passage around the sun.

She tried to explain. “It must turn. To keep the Mother forever facing the Father, the Urth turns once fully around as it makes a complete circuit through the seasons. One slow turn every year. It’s the only way for one side of the Urth to be continually burning under the sun’s gaze.”

Kindjal scoffed. “No wonder her mother tossed her away. She’s too stupid to understand the simplest truths.”

“But she’s right,” a voice said behind them, rising from the open door to the astronicum dome.

Nyx froze, only shifting her clouded gaze toward the patch of brightness that marked the open door. A shadow darkened the threshold. She did not need sight to know who stood there, recognizing the hard tones, presently undercut with a hint of amusement.

“Prioress Ghyle,” Sister Reed said. “What an honor. Please join us.”

The shadow moved away from the brightness as the head of the cloistered school entered. “It seems the youngest among you has proven that insight does not necessarily equate with the ability to see.”

“But surely—” Sister Reed started.

“Yes, surely,” Prioress Ghyle interrupted. “It is a subtlety of astronomical knowledge that is usually reserved for those in their first years of alchymical studies. Not for a seventhyear underclass. Even then, many alchymical students have difficulty seeing what is plain before their eyes.”

A shuffle of leather on stone marked the prioress’s approach to the orrery.

Finally releasing her grip on the world, Nyx straightened and bowed her head.

“Let us test what else this young woman of only fourteen winters can discern from today’s lesson.” The prioress’s finger lifted Nyx’s chin. “Can you tell us why those in the northern Crown experience seasons—from the icy bite of winter to the warmth of summer—even when one side of the Urth forever faces the sun?”

Nyx had to swallow twice to free her tongue. “It . . . It is to remind us of the gift of the Father to the Mother, so we better appreciate His kindness at being allowed to live in the Crown, in the safe lands between scorching heat and icy death. He gives us a taste of hot and cold with the passage of each year.”

The prioress sighed. “Yes, very good. Just as Hieromonk Plakk has droned into you.” The finger lifted her chin higher as if to study Nyx more intently. “But what does the orrery tell you?”

Nyx stepped back. Even with her hazy sight, she was unable to withstand the weight of Ghyle’s attention any longer. She returned to the orrery and again pictured the path of the Urth around the coal-heated sun. She had felt the waxing and waning of the warmth as the sphere rotated fully around.

“The Urth’s path is not a perfect circle around the sun,” Nyx noted aloud. “More like an oval.”

“An ellipse, it is called.”

Nyx nodded and cast a quizzical look at the prioress. “Maybe when the Urth’s path is farthest from the sun, farthest from the heat, could that be our wintertime?”

“It is not a bad guess. Even some of the most esteemed alchymists might tell you the same. But they are no more correct than Hieromonk Plakk.”

“Then why?” Nyx asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“What if I told you that when we have our dark winters here in the northern half of the Crown, that the lands to the far south enjoy a bright summer?”

“Truly?” Nyx asked. “At the same time?”

“Indeed.”

Nyx scrunched her brow at what sounded like absurdity. Still, she sensed the prioress was hinting at something with the words she had emphasized.

Dark and bright.

“Have you never wondered,” Ghyle pressed, “how in winter the Father sits lower in the sky, then higher again in the summer? Though the sun never vanishes, it makes a tiny circle in the sky over one year’s passing?”

Nyx gave a tiny shake of her head and a wave toward her eyes. There was no way she could appreciate such subtlety.

A hand touched her shoulder. “Of course, I’m sorry. But let me assure you this is true. And as such, can you guess from your study of the orrery why this might be?”

Nyx turned back to the convoluted rings of bronze on the table. She sensed she was being tested. She could almost feel the prioress’s intensity burning next to her. She took a deep breath, determined not to disappoint the head of the school. She reached out a hand to the orrery. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Nyx again took her time to center herself on the warm sun and fumble to the third ring. Once she found the sphere affixed there, she examined its shape more closely, taking care of the tiny bead of the moon that spun on its own ring around the Urth. She particularly noted how the sphere of the Urth was pinned to the ring beneath it.

Ghyle offered a suggestion. “Sister Reed, it might help our young student if you set everything in motion again.”

After a rustling of skirts, the mechanism’s complicated gears resumed their tick-ticking and the rings started to turn again. Nyx concentrated on how the Urth slowly spun in place as it made a full pass around the sun. She struggled to understand how the southern half could be brighter, while the northern side was darker. Then understanding traveled up her fingertips. The pin around which the Urth spun was not perfectly up and down. Instead, it was set at a slight angle from the sun.

Could that be the answer?

Certainty grew.

She spoke as she continued her own path around the sun. “As the Urth turns, its axis spins at a slight angle, rather than straight up and down. Because of that, for a time, the top half of the world leans toward the sun.”

“Creating our bright northern summer,” the prioress confirmed.

“And when that happens, the bottom half is left leaning away from the sun.”

“Marking the southern Crown’s gloomy winter.”

Nyx turned to the prioress, shocked. “So, seasons are due to the Urth spinning crookedly in place, leaning one side more fully toward the sun, then away again.”

Murmurs spread among the students. Some sounded distraught; others incredulous. But at least Byrd offered no overt ridicule, not in the presence of the prioress.

Still, Nyx felt her face heating up again.

Then a hand patted her shoulder, ending with a squeeze of reassurance.

Startled by the contact, she flinched away. She hated any unexpected touch. Many a boy—even some girls—had come of late to grab at her, often cruelly, pinching what was most tender and private. She could not even accuse and point a finger. Not that she often didn’t know who it was. Especially Byrd, who always reeked of rank sweat and a sour-yeasty breath. It was a cloud that he carried about him from the stores of ale secretly sent to him by his father in Fiskur.

“I’m sorry—” the prioress said softly, plainly noting Nyx’s reaction and unease.

Nyx tried to retreat, but one of her fingers had hooked through the Urth’s ring when she had flinched. Embarrassment turned to panic. She tried to extract her hand but twisted her finger wrong. A metallic pop sounded, which earned a gasp from Sister Reed. Free now, Nyx withdrew her hand from the orrery and clutched a fist to her chest.

Something tinged and tanged across the stone floor near her toes.

“She broke it!” Byrd blurted out, but there was no scorn, only shock.

Another hand grasped her elbow and yanked her back. Caught off guard, Nyx stumbled and tripped to her knees on the floor.

“What have you done, you clumsy girl?” Sister Reed still clutched her. “I’ll have you switched to your core for this.”

“No, you won’t,” Prioress Ghyle said. “It was an accident. One for which I’m equally at fault for startling the child. Would you have me tied to the rod and beaten, Sister Reed?”

“I would never . . .”

“Then neither will the child suffer. Leave her be.”

Nyx’s elbow was freed, but not before those same fingers squeezed hard, digging down to the bone. The message was clear. This matter was not over. It was a bruising promise. Sister Reed intended to exact payment for being humiliated in front of the students, in front of the prioress.

Ghyle’s robes swished as her voice lowered toward the floor. “See. It is just the Urth’s moon that has broken free.” Nyx pictured the prioress collecting the bronze marble from the floor. “It can easily be returned to its proper place and repaired.”

Nyx gained her feet, her face as hot as the sun, tears threatening.

“Sister Reed, mayhap it’s best that you end today’s lesson. I think your seventhyears have had more than enough celestial excitement for one morning.”

Nyx was already moving before Sister Reed dismissed the class to break for their midday meal. She raced her tears toward the brightness of the door. No one blocked her flight, perhaps fearing to catch her humiliation and shame. In her haste to escape, she left behind her cane—a sturdy length of polished elm—which she used to help guide her steps. Still, she refused to go back and fled out into the sunlight and shadows of a summer day.

2

As others headed to their dormitory hall, where a cold midday repast awaited the students, Nyx hurried in the other direction. She had no appetite. Instead, she reached one of the four staircases that led down from the seventh tier to the one below, where the sixthyears were likely already eating in their own hall.

Though the world around her was only shadows against that brightness, she did not slow. Even without her cane, she moved swiftly. She had lived half of her life in the walled Cloistery. By now, she knew every nook and crook of its tiers. The number of steps, turns, and stairs had been ingrained into her, allowing her to traverse the school with relative ease. At the edge of her full awareness, a silent count ran in the back of her skull. She instinctively reached out a hand every now and then—to a carved lintel, to a wooden post of a stall, to a stone flogging pillar—continually confirming her location and position.

As she descended through the tiers, she pictured the breadth of the Cloistery of Brayk. It rose like a stepped hill from the swamps of Mýr. At its base, the school stretched over a mile across, built atop a foundation of volcanic stone, one of the rare solid places among these watery marshlands and drowned forests. The school was the second oldest in the Kingdom of Hálendii—the oldest being on the outskirts of its capital, Azantiia—but the Cloistery was still considered the harshest and most esteemed due to its isolation. Students spent their entire nine years in Brayk, beginning at the lowermost tier where the young firstyears were instructed. From there, classes were winnowed smaller and smaller to match the ever-shrinking tiers of the school. Those that failed to rise were sent back to their families in shame, but that did not stop students from arriving here by boats and ships from all around the Crown. For those who succeeded in reaching the ninth tier at the school’s pinnacle, they were destined for honor and prominence, advancing either to the handful of alchymical academies where they’d be instructed into the deeper mysteries of the world or into one of the religious orders to be ordained into the highest devotions.

When Nyx reached the third tier, she glanced back to the summit of the school. Twin fires glowed amidst the shadows at the top, bright enough for even her clouded eyes to discern. One pyre smoked with alchymical mysteries; the other burned with clouds of sacred incense. It was said the shape and fires of the Cloistery mimicked the volcanic peak at the heart of Mýr, the steam-shrouded mountain of The Fist. In addition, the infused smoke rising from the top of the school served to keep the denizens of those cave-pocked slopes—the winged bats—from approaching too close. Still, in the gloom of winter, dark wings occasionally shredded through the low clouds. Screeches would send first- and secondyears cowering and crying for reassurance from the sisters and brothers who taught them—until eventually one grew to ignore the threat.

Nyx could not say the same was true for her. Even at her age, the hunting cries would set her heart to pounding, her head to burning. And when she was younger—a firstyear new to the school—terror would overwhelm her, sending her into a dead faint. But she had nothing to fear now. It was the middle of summer, and whether from the brightness or the heat, the massive bats kept away from the swamp’s edges, sticking close to their dark dens in The Fist.

By the time she finally reached the lowermost tier of the Cloistery, her shame and embarrassment had waned to a dull ache in her chest. She rubbed her bruised elbow, a reminder that there would still be repercussions to come.

Until then, she wanted reassurance and aimed for the only place she could find it. She headed out through the school gates and into the trading post of Brayk. The ramshackle village hugged the walls of the Cloistery. Brayk fed, supplied, and maintained the school. Goods were carted upward every morning, accompanied by lines of men and women who served as chambermaids, servitors, sculleries, and cooks. Nyx had thought this to be her own fate, having started at the school as a housegirl at the age of six.

Once out into the village, she moved just as surefooted. She not only counted her footsteps through the crooked streets, but her ears pricked to the rhythmic hammering of Smithy’s Row to her left. The steady ringing helped guide her path. Her nose also lifted to the pungent smoke and heady spices of markets, where fishes and eels were already frying under the midday sun. Even her skin noted the thickening air and growing dampness as she reached Brayk’s outskirts. Here the stone-and-plaster palacios closer to the school’s walls declined to more modest homes and storehouses with wooden walls and thatched roofs.

Still, she continued onward until a new smell filled her world. It was a heavy brume of sodden hair, sweet shite, trampled mud, and sulfurous belch. She felt her fears shedding from her shoulders as she drew nearer, enveloping herself in the rich odors.

It meant home.

Her arrival did not go unnoticed. A rumbling bellow greeted her, followed by another, and another. Splashing headed her way.

She crossed forward until her hands found the stacked stone fence that marked off the bullock pens at the swamp’s edge. A heavy shuffle aimed toward her, accompanied by a softer grunting and a few plaintive bleats, as if the great lumbering beasts thought themselves to blame for her long absence. She lifted a hand until a wet nose, covered in cold phlegm, settled into her palm. Her fingers were nosed up and gently nuzzled. From its size and the shape, she knew this snout as readily as she did the village and school.

“It’s good to see you, too, Gramblebuck.”

She freed her hand and reached up. She dug her fingers through the thick matted fur between the stubby horns until her nails found skin. She scratched him hard where he always liked it, earning a contented huff of hot air against her chest. Gramblebuck was the eldest of the herd, nearly a century old. He rarely pulled the sledges through the rushes and marshes any longer, but he remained lord of the bullocks. Most of the shaggy herd here could trace their blood to this one beast.

She reached up both arms and gripped his horns. Even with his head bowed low, she had to lift to her toes to get hold. She pulled his head to hers, his crown as wide as her chest. She inhaled his wet musk, leaned into the warm hearth of his bulk.

“I missed you, too,” she whispered.

He grunted back and tried to haul her up by arching his short neck.

She laughed and let go of his horns before she was carried aloft. “I don’t have time to go for a ride with you. Maybe on my midsummer break.”

Though Gramblebuck no longer pulled the sledges, he still loved to trek the swamps. All her life, she had spent many a long day on his wide back, traversing the marshes. His long legs and splayed hooves made easy passage through its bogs and streams, while his size and curled tusks discouraged any predators from daring to approach.

She patted his cheek. “Soon. I promise you.”

As she headed down the fencerow, running her fingertips along the posts, she hoped it was a promise she could keep. Other bullocks shuffled and sidled up, wanting attention, too. She knew most of them by touch and smell. But her time was limited. The bells would soon be summoning her back to her studies.

She hurried toward the corner of the hundred-acre bullock pen, where a homestead stood. Its foundation was anchored to the stone shore but also stretched out atop a massive dock, which extended a quarter league into the swamps. The home’s walls were stacked stones matching the fence, its roof thatched like the homes nearby. Higher up, a rock chimney pointed at the skies, where the shadows of low clouds scudded across the brightness, rolling ever eastward, carrying the freezing cold of the dark toward the searing scorch on the other side of the world.

She crossed to the stout door, lifted the iron latch, and shoved inside without a knock or a shout. As she stepped into the deeper shadows, her world shrank, but not in a disconcerting way. It was like being wrapped in a warm, familiar blanket. She was immediately struck by a mélange of odors that meant home: the smell of old wool, the oily polish of wood, the smoke of dying coals, the melting beeswax from the tiny candles in the home’s corner altar. Even the waft of composting silage from the twin stone silos that flanked the docks pervaded everything.

Her ears piqued to a shuffle of limbs and creak of wood near the ruddy glow of the hearth. A voice, wry with amusement, rose from there. “Trouble again, is it?” her dah asked. “Is there any other reason you tumble back home nowadays, lass? And without your cane?”

She hung her head, staring down at her empty hands. She wanted to dismiss his words but could not.

A gentle laugh softened his judgement. “Come sit and tell me about it.”


With her back to the fire, Nyx finished her litany of the morning’s humiliations and fears. It lightened her spirit simply to unburden them.

All the while, her dah sat silently, puffing on a pipe smoldering with snakeroot. The tincture in the smoke helped with the crick and rasp of his joints. But she suspected his silence was less about tempering any pain than it was to allow her the time to fill the quiet with her complaints.

She let out a sigh to announce the ending.

Her dah sucked on his pipe and exhaled one long bitter breath of smoke. “Let me ken it better for you. You certainly tweaked the nose of the nonne who taught you this last quarter.”

Nyx rubbed the bruise from Sister Reed’s bony fingers and nodded.

“But you also impressed yourself upon the prioress of the entire school. Not a small feat, I imagine.”

“She was being kindly at best. And I don’t think my clumsiness helped the situation. Especially breaking the school’s treasured orrery.”

“No matter. What is broken can always be set aright. On the balance of it, I’d say you fared well for one morning. You’ll finish your seventhyear in another turn of the moon. Leaving only the eighthyear to go until the final culling to the ninth and highest tier. It seems, under such circumstances, earning the good graces of the prioress herself versus irking a single nonne—a sister who you’ll soon leave behind anyway—is not a bad trade.”

His words helped further temper her misgivings. Maybe he was right. She had certainly endured far harsher obstacles to reach the seventh tier. And now I’m so close to the top. She shoved that hope down deep, fearing even wishing it might dash her chances.

As if reading her thoughts, her dah underscored her luck. “Look where you started. A babe of six moons mewling atop a floating raft of fenweed. If not for your bellyaching, we wouldn’t aheard ya. Gramblebuck would have dragged my sledge right past ya.”

She attempted to smile. The story of her being found abandoned in the bog was a point of joy to her dah. He had two strong sons—both in their third decade now, who managed the paddocks and ran the sledges—but the man’s wife had died giving birth to his only daughter, losing both at the same time. He took Nyx’s discovery in the swamps as some gift from the Mother, especially as there was no evidence of who had left the infant naked and crying in the bog. The spread of fenweed, a fragile and temperamental plant, exhibited no evidence of any treadfall around her body. Even the tender blooms that covered the floating mat’s surface showed no bruise to their petals. It was as if she had been dropped from the skies as a reward for the devout and hardworking swamper.

Still, while this oft told story was a point of pride for her dah, for her it was laced with an uncomfortable mix of shame and anger. Her mother—maybe both her parents—had abandoned her in the swamps, surely left to die, perhaps because she had been born afflicted, the surfaces of her eyes glazed to a bluish white.

“How I loved ya,” her dah said, admitting another truth. “Even if you hadn’t been picked to join the firstyears at the Cloistery. Though my heart just about burst when I heard you passed the test.”

“It was an accident,” she muttered.

He coughed out a gout of smoke. “Don’t say that. Nothing in life is simple chance. It was a sign the Mother still smiles on you.”

Nyx didn’t believe as devoutly as him, but she knew better than to contradict him.

At the time, she had been a housegirl at the school, assigned to washing and scrubbing. She had been mopping one of the testing wards when she tripped over a tumble of small blocks—some stone, others wooden—on the floor. Fearing they might be important, she gathered them up and set them atop a nearby table. But curiosity got the better of her. While neatly stacking them, she felt how different shapes fit against one another. It was how she experienced much of the world around her—then and now—through the sensitivity of her fingers. With no one around, she began fiddling with the blocks and lost track of the time, but eventually the ninescore of shapes built themselves into an intricate structure with crenellated towers and jagged walls that formed a six-pointed star around the castle in the center.

Lost in her labors and concentrating fully on her work, she had failed to notice the gathering around her. Only when done did she straighten, earning gasps from her hidden audience.

She remembered one nonne asking another, “How long has she been in here?”

The answer: “I left when she came in with the mop and pail. That was less than one ring ago.”

“She built the Highmount of Azantiia in such a short time. We give the aspirants an entire day to do the same. And most fail.”

“I swear.”

Someone had then grabbed her chin and turned her face. “And look at the blue cast to her eyes. She’s all but blind.”

Afterward, she had been granted a spot among the firstyears, entering the Cloistery a year younger than anyone else. Only a handful of children from the village of Brayk had ever been granted entrance to the school, and none had climbed higher than the third tier. She secretly took pride in this accomplishment, but it was hard to maintain that satisfaction. As she climbed the tiers with the same shrinking class, the others never let her forget her lowly beginnings. They shamed her for the stink of the silage about her. They teased her for her lack of fine clothes and manners. And then there was her clouded vision, a wall of shadows that continually separated her from the others.

Still, she found solace in her dah’s joy. To stoke that happiness, she kept steadfast in her studies. She also found pleasure in learning more about the world. It was like climbing out of the darkness of a root cellar and into a bright summer day. Shadows remained, mysteries yet to be revealed, but each year more of the darkness about the world lifted. The same curiosity with which she handled those blocks in the testing ward remained and grew with each tier gained.

“You will make it to your ninthyear,” her dah said. “I know it in my bones.”

She gathered his confidence into her heart and held it there. She would devote everything to make that happen.

If nothing else, for him.

Off in the distance, a ringing echoed from the heights of the Cloistery. It was the Summoning Bell. She had to be in her latterday studies before they rang again. She did not have much time.

Her dah heard it, too. “Best you get going, lass.”

She gained her feet by the hearth and reached to his hand, feeling the wiry muscles under thin skin, all wrapped around strong bones. She leaned and kissed him, finding his whiskered cheek as surely as a bee to a honeyclott.

“I’ll see you again when I can,” she promised him, remembering she had sworn the same earlier to Gramblebuck. She intended to keep that promise to both.

“Be good,” her dah said. “And remember the Mother is always looking out for you.”

As she headed toward the door, she smiled at her dah’s undying faith in both her and the Mother Below. She prayed it was not misplaced—not with either of them.

Copyright © 2022 by James Rollins

Order opens in a new windowThe Starless Crown Here:

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Order opens in a new windowThe Cradle of Ice Here:

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The Future is Fantasy: 5 Great Fantasies Set in the Future

opens in a new windowThe Cradle of Ice by James RollinsImagine a fantasy world set in the distant future, where wizards sail the stars in magically engineered spaceships, or the ruler of an ancient empire waking up from a thousand year slumber to a world run by A.I and nanotechnology? Last year, we dug into five SFF titles that skillfully blend the futurist and the fantastical, and now we’re bringing that list back in celebration of  opens in a new windowThe Cradle of Ice by James Rollins, the continuation of his epic Moonfall series. 

A fellowship was formed to defend the world from lunar apocalypse. Armies wage brutal war around them as they run hunted from hostile forces that would disband them bloodily to prevent what their quest might unleash…

By Kaleb Russell


opens in a new windowThe Starless Crown opens in a new windowPlaceholder of  -10 by James Rollins

It’s the start of the Moonfall series, now in paperback! A departure from his thriller works, James Rollins treats fantasy readers to an adventure of epic proportions as a band of four outcasts embark on a journey to uncover an ancient secret that can save the world from a prophesied apocalypse. With flying ships and prophetic gods, The Starless Crown makes for a valued addition to the futuristic fantasy subgenre.

opens in a new windowImage Place holder  of - 64Shadow & Claw: The First Half of  ‘Book of the New Sun’ by Gene Wolfe

Gene Wolfe is a Herculean figure in the world of SFF—his Book of the New Sun series a staple of the genre. Set in a distant future composed of aliens the size of mountains and strange sorceries, we follow the life of Severian, the apprentice torturer, as he wanders through the strange corners of one of SFF’s most iconic worlds.

opens in a new windowImage Placeholder of - 3Black Sun Rising by C. S. Friedman

Originally published in 1991, Black Sun Rising tells the story of sorcerers from Earth who travel to the planet Erna to settle their new colony. Upon their arrival, they come into contact with the fae who have inhabited the planet for generations. Friedman transports us into a world of darkness that will surely have readers chomping at the bits for more books of its ilk. 

opens in a new windowPoster Placeholder of - 26Harrow the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir

This book needs no introduction. In the follow up to the earth-shattering Gideon the Ninth, Muir delivers another mad cap science-fantasy epic including, but not limited to, woefully depressed necromancers, the malignant ghost of a murdered planet, and a labyrinthine narrative that will leave your head spinning.

opens in a new windowPlace holder  of - 60The Gurkha and the Lord of Tuesday by Saad Z. Hossain

In this raunchy and wildly inventive novella, we meet djinn King Melek Ahmar awakened after a millennia long slumber hungry for conquest. With his unshakeable hubris, he sets out to conquer the city state of Kathmandu, ruled by a tyrannical AI known as Karma. Melek Ahmar finds an unlikely ally in the old knife wielding Gurkha soldier, Gurung.  Together, the two vagabonds uncover a deeply hidden secret that, if brought to light, can reshape the city as we know it. This is an absurdly entertaining novella set in a post climate change future made inhabitable by nanotechnology. Despite the dystopian setting, there is ample levity, cheer, and inventiveness to keep any reader engaged.

What is your favorite futuristic fantasy? Let us know in the comments! 

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Do You Have What it Takes to Fight the Moon?

Since the dawn of humanity, we have borne witness to mysteries and wonders in the night sky. We have all celebrated, slept, wept, and raged under the same pale moon.

But right now, we’re thinking about the moon because #1 New York Times bestselling author James Rollins epicly fantastic  opens in a new windowThe Starless Crown is out now in paperback!

Take THIS quiz to see if YOU have what it takes to join Rollins’ band of misfits who must come together and fight the moon to save their world!

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Buy The Starless Crown Here:

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Excerpt Reveal: The Cradle of Ice by James Rollins

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opens in a new windowThe Cradle of Ice by James RollinsThe second book in the New York Times bestselling Moon Fall series from thriller-master James Rollins,  opens in a new windowThe Cradle of Ice is a page-turning tale of action, adventure, betrayal, ambition, and the struggle for survival in a harsh world that hangs by a thread.

To stop the coming apocalypse, a fellowship was formed.

A soldier, a thief, a lost prince, and a young girl bonded by fate and looming disaster.

Each step along this path has changed the party, forging deep alliances and greater
enmities. All the while, hostile forces have hunted them, fearing what they might
unleash. Armies wage war around them.

For each step has come with a cost—in blood, in loss, in heartbreak.

Now, they must split, traveling into a vast region of ice and to a sprawling capital of the world they’ve only known in stories. Time is running out and only the truth will save us all.

Please enjoy this free excerpt of  opens in a new windowThe Cradle of Ice by James Rollins, on sale 2/7/23.


4

The second-born prince of Hálendii struggled with his chains as he crossed toward the rail of the pleasure barge. The silver links ran from Kanthe ry Massif’s ankles up to the collars of the two chaaen-bound escorts who trailed behind him. Even after spending a full season in Kysalimri, the Eternal City of the Southern Klashe, he had not acquired the skill necessary to fluidly match his stride to those bound to him.

His left leg tried to reach out, only to be brought up short by his chained ankle. He flailed his arms in an entirely unprincely manner, attempting to catch his balance, but recognized it was a lost cause. He fell headlong toward the deck—then a firm hand gripped his shoulder and caught him. His rescuer chuckled as he drew Kanthe upright and helped him over to the rail.

“Thanks, Rami,” Kanthe said. “You just saved me from breaking this handsome nose of mine.”

“We certainly cannot have that, my friend, especially with your nuptials only a moon’s turn away.” Rami turned to a raised dais in the center of the wide boat. “Of course, my sister, Aalia, would not tolerate her beloved to be so marred on her most perfect of days.”

Kanthe glanced across the deck to the velvet divan. Sheltered under the barge’s sails, Aalia im Haeshan rested atop a nest of pillows, seated on one hip. She was a shadowed rose, adorned in silk robes woven with golden threads. Her oiled braids, as dark as polished ebony, draped her shoulders. An embroidered bonnet bedecked in rubies and sapphires crowned her head. Her black eyes stared askance, coldly, not even once glancing toward her betrothed.

Kanthe studied her. It was only the fourth time he had laid eyes upon her since arriving on these shores. My future bride, he lamented silently. While only a year older than Kanthe’s seventeen winters, she looked far more mature, certainly more than a prince who had fled to these shores, a prince considered to be a traitor to his own people.

Contrarily, Aalia was held in the highest esteem. It was evident by those who kept her company. Twelve chaaen-bound knelt around her, six to a side. The dozen, like Kanthe’s two escorts, were cloaked under robes, their heads capped in leather, their faces hidden behind veils tucked into their neck collars. Such Klashean byor-ga garb was required of the baseborn when outside their homes. Only those of the single ruling class, known as the imri, which meant godly in their tongue, were allowed to show their faces. The hundreds of other castes had to remain covered from crown to toe, apparently deemed too unworthy for the Father Above to gaze upon them. This applied also to the Chaaen, who were schooled at the Bad’i Chaa, the House of Wisdom, the sole school of the city, an establishment notorious both for its rigorousness and cruelty. The higher you were among the imri, the more Chaaen were bound to you, serving as aides, advisers, counselors, teachers, and sometimes objects of pleasure.

Resigned to his fate, Kanthe turned to stare across the Bay of the Blessed.

Rami kept to Kanthe’s side. Aalia’s brother was accompanied by six Chaaen of his own, three to a side, chained one after the other. Rami im Haeshan was the fourth son of the Imri-Ka, the god-emperor of the Klashe. He was considered of lesser rank among his siblings—unlike his younger sister, Aalia, the emperor’s sole daughter, who was held forth as the empire’s greatest treasure.

And I’m to marry her on the night of the winter’s solstice.

He wiped sweat from his forehead with the edge of his gilded sleeve. Unlike the Chaaen, who were required to wear the byor-ga garb, he had been decked in a gerygoud habiliment, which consisted of tight breeches shoved into snakeskin boots and a sleeveless tunic, all covered in a white robe that reached his knees with long-splayed sleeves. A cap of gold finished the outfit. It was the clothing of royalty. The Imri-Ka had granted Kanthe honorary imri status shortly after he had arrived here.

A better welcome than being thrown naked into a dank cell, I suppose.

Though with each passing day, he wondered if such a fate might not have been better. He heard the shuffle of Aalia’s entourage as the emperor’s daughter rose from her divan. She crossed toward the ship’s opposite rail, plainly avoiding him.

The royal assemblage had spent the sweltering morning gliding across the Bay of the Blessed, winding among the Stone Gods, the thirty-three isles and outcroppings that had been carved into representations of the Klashean pantheon, all thirty-three of them. Rami had tried to instruct Kanthe on the deities’ names and their respective domains within the holy hierarchy, but they all blurred together.

Rami remained determined and pointed ahead, toward a stone sculpture of a naked man with a rather prominent appendage between his legs, who carried a pudgy baby under one arm. Flowers and baskets of offerings lay festooned about his stone feet.

“Here comes the Har’ll, in all his majesty and prominence.” Rami lifted a brow toward Kanthe. “He is our god of fertility.”

“It’s certainly plain why he gained that reputation.” Kanthe waved past the statue. “Mayhap it’s best for now if we give him a wide berth.”

Rami laughed. “I’m sure you will sire many children. I’ve seen you in the baths. While you may not be as blessed as Har’ll, you will make my sister very happy.”

Kanthe coughed at such frankness. His face flushed hot. He tried to stammer away his discomfort. He still flustered at the ease with which the Klashean discussed such matters openly, with nary a bit of shame.

Unfortunately, Rami wasn’t done. “Of course, that applies to anyone you’d share your bed with.”

The man’s fingers slid down the rail to touch Kanthe’s hand, the invitation plain. It wasn’t the first hint that Rami would like to explore their relationship beyond their already warm friendship. Rami was a couple of years older, but Kanthe sensed nothing predatory or manipulative. It was simply an open invitation.

Kanthe had already known about the changeableness of Klashean relationships, both inside and outside of wedlock. Hálendiians ridiculed such behavior and considered it further proof that the Klasheans were immoral. Kanthe had always found such an aspersion to be hypocritical, especially considering the abundance of whorehouses throughout Hálendii, not to mention all the men and women indentured into sexual servitude. Even his father kept a palacio of pleasure serfs at Highmount.

If anything, Kanthe found the openness here to be more honest. He had talked to Frell about it in their rooms. The alchymist had theorized that the fluidity found here might have something to do with the Klasheans’ strict caste system, one that was rigid and overly complex.

When one screw tightens, another often loosens, Frell had offered.

Kanthe patted Rami’s hand and turned to lean against the rail. While Kanthe had been in these lands for a season, he still hadn’t found his way to becoming that loose.

Rami grinned and took a matching position against the portside rail. He clearly took no offense at Kanthe’s rejection. Aalia’s brother likely had no trouble filling his bed. He was tall, straight-backed, with the same handsomely dark eyes as his sister and a complexion like steeped bitterroot with honey. But more importantly, Rami had proven to be a good friend, acting as guide and teacher on all matters Klashean. And if Kanthe was honest with himself, Rami’s attention was flattering, a boost to his own esteem.

Especially considering Aalia’s abundant disregard.

Kanthe glanced across the barge. Aalia stood on the starboard side, shading a hand over her eyes to stare up at the next god gliding past their boat.

The purpose of the morning voyage had been for Kanthe and Aalia to spend time together, to converse politely under the gaze of a trio of chaperones, to perhaps get to know one another before the solstice. Aalia had only spoken one word to Kanthe: mashen’dray, which meant step aside. He had been blocking her view of one of the Stone Gods. He also noted that she used the word dray, an appellation when one addressed someone of a baseborn caste. It seemed not everyone was willing to accept Kanthe’s honorary imri status.

Kanthe couldn’t blame her.

No one who truly knows me would consider me “godly,” certainly not the Illuminated Rose of the Imri-Ka.

He gave a shake of his head. Even as a prince of Hálendii, he was held with little regard in his homeland. For all his life, Kanthe had lived in the shadow of his twin brother, Mikaen, who had shouldered out of their mother’s womb first, earning his birthright, destined from that moment for the throne. As such, Mikaen had been doted upon and cherished, readying him for his fate as future king of Hálendii.

Kanthe had a far less illustrious upbringing. He was delegated to being the Prince in the Cupboard, whose only use in life was to be a spare in case his older twin should die. His lot was to sit on a shelf in case he was ever needed. Still, to be of some usefulness to the kingdom, he had been trained at the school of Kepenhill, to prepare him to serve as future adviser to his brother.

Not that such a fate will ever come about now.

As he stood at the ship’s rail, Kanthe flashed to Mikaen lunging at him with a sword. Despair weighed heavily at this memory. Worse, it hadn’t been the first time that Mikaen had tried to kill him.

Kanthe sighed, still finding it all hard to fathom. As children, the two had been boon companions, as close as only twins could be—until their destinies inevitably pulled them apart. Mikaen was sent to the castle’s Legionary to be trained in all manner of strategy and weaponry. Kanthe was expelled beyond the castle walls to Kepenhill, forbidden to even wield a sword.

A gulf eventually opened between them. How could it not? They became as different as their faces. Though a twin to Kanthe, Mikaen looked as if he had been sculpted out of pale chalkstone, sharing their father’s countenance, including his curled blond locks and sea-blue eyes. Kanthe took after their dead mother. His skin was burnished ebonwood, his hair as black as coal, his eyes a stormy gray. He was forever a shadow to his brother’s brightness.

And now here I am, exiled among the kingdom’s enemies.

Kanthe had thrown his lot in with Nyx and the others, intent on stopping the doom to come. He searched the skies and spotted the full moon sitting near the horizon. It shone within the smoky haze of the Breath of the Urth, which marked the boundary between Hálendii and the Southern Klashe. The haze—made up of ash and fumes—rose from Shaar Ga, a massive volcanic peak that had been erupting for untold centuries, creating a natural smoky barrier between kingdom and empire.

Kanthe tried to imagine what was happening back in Azantiia. He suspected word of him reaching these shores had made it to Highmount and his father, King Toranth. Such a landfall would be taken as a betrayal, one to be stacked upon the others. They would assume Kanthe was siding with the Southern Klashe as war drums grew louder across the northern Crown. But again, that was not why he had come here.

He scowled at the smoke-shrouded moon.

It’s all your fault.

As if scolding him for this thought, a blast of thunder boomed in the distance and echoed across the forested shores. It was so loud the waters of the bay trembled.

Kanthe straightened, shaken out of his dreary reveries. He stared up at the clear blue skies, then down to the northern horizon. A patch of the Breath’s haze had darkened, blackened by fresh smoke—but the new pall hadn’t been belched out by Shaar Ga.

Kanthe’s hands tightened on the rail. He took a deep breath, trying to catch a whiff of what he suspected, but the distance was far too great. Still, he knew the source of that thunder. He had heard its telltale blast before.

The captain of the barge hurried over, closing upon Rami, who stood as stiff-backed as Kanthe. The hulking man carried a farscope in hand and held it forth.

Rami took it and extended it to its full length. “What is it, Ghees?”

“Looks to be coming from Ekau Watch,” the captain said.

Kanthe recognized the name of the large outpost on the northernmost coast of the Southern Klashe. He stepped closer to the others, drawing their attention.

“I fear someone must’ve dropped a Hadyss Cauldron over there,” Kanthe warned, picturing the barn-sized iron bomb named after the god of the fiery underworld.

“Are you certain?” Rami lifted the scope to one eye.

Kanthe shrugged. “Not long ago I had one nearly dropped on my head.” He then added a more worrisome note. “If I’m right, it takes a vessel the size of a warship to carry such a fearsome weapon.”

Rami leaned over the rail with his scope. “I don’t spot any wyndships. But that pall is dense. And flames are already spreading into the neighboring woods, churning up more smoke.”

Rami lowered the farscope and turned to Ghees. “Get us back to Kysalimri.”

The captain bowed brusquely, then hurried away. Rami gave Kanthe’s shoulder a last squeeze, then rushed after the man.

Alone now, Kanthe stared toward the horizon. He rubbed his shoulder where Rami had gripped him, plainly offering Kanthe reassurance.

I don’t deserve it.

He remembered his earlier reverie, wondering what had been transpiring in Hálendii. He was now certain: word had indeed reached his father of his son’s betrayal. While the tremble in the bay subsided, Kanthe’s breath grew heavier as he feared the worst.

Did my coming here push my father over the edge? Is this the result?

He couldn’t know for sure—but one certainty settled like a stone in his gut. He stared at the smoke, at the distant spark of spreading fires.

This act means war.

Copyright © 2022 from James Rollins

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