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September 16, 2021
Preview—THE WORLD BREAKER REQUIEM
I’m pleased to announce THE WORLD BREAKER REQUIEM, the sequel to THE WORLD MAKER PARABLE.
Please enjoy this special preview of the first two chapters.
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ADD ON GOODREADS
Prince of Woe…
Avaria Norrith is the adopted heir to the Ariathan throne. But that means little to a man who, for the better part of fifteen years, has sought and failed to earn his mother’s love. Fueled by pride and envy, Avaria seeks the means to prove himself and cast away his mental chains. When he’s tasked with the recreation of The Raven’s Rage he sees his chance, for with the infamous blade he can rewrite history and start anew.
Daughter of the Mountain…
Erath has not felt sunlight for a century. Not since Ariath condemned her people to a life of darkness with their misuse of The Raven’s Rage. But when an old friend comes seeking the remnants of the ancient sword, Erath cannot contain her curiosity and resolves to lend her aid. Is it true—can history be revised? Can her people be reclaimed?
Toll the Hounds…
They are hungry—and they are here.
CHAPTER ONE—HOUNDSAvaria Norrith was dead. Or dreaming. For how else could he have come here to this meadow with its silver trees and ocean-colored grass? He looked down at Geph, his faithful longhound, and the creature simply shrugged.
“Have you considered that you might be stoned beyond all comprehension?” Geph inquired. He did that a lot. Talking. Most longhounds retained some manner of silence even after they had learned to speak but Geph was the chatty exception. “Avaria?”
“You know I don’t partake,” Avaria said, starting slowly through the grass.
“Then why the hell am I talking?” the longhound asked.
“It’s what you do.”
“Well if you’re dead,” Geph said, “then why am I here? Am I dead too?”
“Maybe?”
The longhound heaved a sigh that fell into a yawn. “Fuck it all, Avaria, what have you gotten us into this time?”
Avaria glared at the dog.
“I’m just saying.”
“If you’re talking about the time we were interned for defacing Virtuoso Khora’s effigy,” Avaria said, “let me please remind you it was you who climbed atop and took a massive, runny—”
“I was drunk,” the longhound grumbled. “And the statue called my mother a bitch. What would you have done?”
Avaria rolled his eyes. “The effigies are incapable of speech, Geph. And your mother is a bitch. It’s the proper term for a female dog.”
“You keep saying that,” Geph said, “and every time I believe you less.”
Avaria shrugged. “Not my concern.”
“It should be.” Geph let out a hacking cough. “Where do you suppose we are?”
“If I were to venture a guess? The In Between,” Avaria said.
“Then where hell is Balance?” Geph asked. “I have a question.”
“I can guarantee you, Geph, that Balance remains incapable of manifesting you a jar of peanutbutter,” said Avaria, much to the longhound’s dismay. “Though I’m sure he’ll oblige you with an ear scratch.”
Geph gave a houndly grin.
They walked.
“It all feels the same,” said Geph. “Have we actually gotten anywhere?”
“Not yet,” said Avaria. He had come to this place enough to know the straightforward path was never as apparent as it seemed. “But we will.”
You won’t.
Avaria started at the words.
Geph cocked an eyebrow. “Are you all right?”
“You didn’t hear that?” Avaria asked.
Geph tilted his head. “Because I’m a dog I’m supposed to have spectacular hearing, is that it? Well—”
How long have you been on this path, Avaria? How many years now? Days, weeks, and months spent trying to win the affections of a woman who could give two shits about you, hmm? And she had the gall to call herself your mother!
Avaria whipped around but there was no one there.
Search, but you’ll not find me in the grass, hissed the voice. I’m where I’ve always been—here, inside your head. Comfy, cozy in this prison that you’ve built. No—that your mother built. If she had loved you where would you be now?
A howl erupted from Avaria. The meadow fell to ash, and from its ruin rose a silhouette of smoke and flame.
“I told you all those years ago,” the figure said, “that she would set me free.” It beckoned with an upturned palm and Geph obeyed, each step leaving gossamer threads of smoke. “Faithful as always.“
Geph grinned at Avaria, eyes glowing white, teeth like needles dripping blood.
Avaria retreated several steps. The figure and the hound advanced.
“You’ll not escape, Avaria,” the figure said.
Avaria turned.
“For I am legion here inside your head.“
Sputtered, looking at the blade protruding from his chest.
“And there is nowhere you can hide that I can’t find.“
Crying now. He tasted blood and tears.
“For then what kind of vulture would I be?“
Darkness.
It was cold this night as Avaria walked the streets of Helveden, Geph beside him as he always was. His brow was slick with sweat and his head stung something fierce. He’d had the dream again, stoked by vultures of his own design.
“Was it Wrath or Envy in the grass this time?” inquired Geph.
“Some amalgamation of the two,” Avaria said, fingering his chest. It was tender to the touch; he winced.
“Theories?”
“An answer,” said Avaria. “The Virtuosos passed on me again the other night.”
Geph nudged Avaria with his nose.
“Honestly…why’d she put me here if I’m never going to leave?”
“Your mother wants what’s best for you, Avaria,” said Geph.
“She’s got a strange way of showing it,” Avaria snapped. “Shoving me off to apprentice while while Avaness and Maryn took up arms and went to war for Ariath. I’ve been here half my life, a slave to erudition and abused by my own mind while they found glory in the heat of war. While they made mother proud.”
“And you think swinging arms is all that draws your mother’s praise?” Geph asked. “You think to her that mastering a blade is the be-all and end-all to life?”
Avaria scoffed. “In Ariath? Yes.”
“I think you focus too much on the glory of war,” said Geph. “Look around, Avaria. War destroys physically and mentally. Helveden stands half-erect, awaiting its resurrection by the Lightweavers who have drunk themselves into uselessness. The thought of facing vultures breeds fear, and that fear instills the urge to drink. It festers even now, an indomitable infection that has all but smothered Helveden’s glow. Is that what you really want of yourself? To go off and come back like…that?”
“If it would make her proud…”
Geph sighed. “Oh, Avaria…”
They walked the rest of the way to the Bastion in silence, Geph stopping to sniff the occasional tree and Avaria brooding all the while. He fingered the summons in his coat pocket as they crossed the courtyard. What could the queen possibly need of him this late?
A frowning stewardess awaited their arrival. “You’re an hour late.”
Avaria shrugged. “I got lost along the way.”
Geph nudged him firmly in the leg with his nose.
“Fine,” Avaria sighed. “I was drunk in bed and dreaming of the end.”
The stewardess rolled her eyes disgustedly. “Follow me.”
She led them through the Bastion, glorious in its whites and reds and various depictions of the raven god to whom they all implored. It was paradise where the Hall of Lightweavers was eternal hell.
Further and further they went. The walls, ceiling, and floor to a deep red. Avaria had never been to this part of the Bastion before, which was saying a lot. As a child he’d wandered where his legs and the Bastion staff would allow.
They came to a circular stark white door inlaid with various glyphs and grooves. The stewardess extended a glowing index finger and traced the innermost glyph. Illumination swam through the grooves and into the outlying glyphs. The door dilated, revealing the chamber beyond. The stewardess dragged him inside. Geph stayed put.
Avaria eyed three women sitting at the far end of the room. Shit.
“Ah. We were wondering if and when you might arrive,” said Virtuoso Khal.
“I was not so confident as Virtuoso Khal and Queen Ahnil,” said the Norema Sel, the shortest of the three. She dismissed the stewardess with a nod, leaving Avaria to the wolves.
Wolf, really.
He eyed the queen. “Hello, mother.”
Avaria stared at the queen. He hadn’t seen her in at least a half dozen years. She looked older in the eyes though no less hawkish and intimidating. Reluctantly, if not slightly mockingly, he touched his right hand to his left shoulder in the formal salute.
“How may I be of service?”
Norema Sel gestured to an open chair at the table. “Sit.”
Avaria gave her a prolonged stare before accomodating her request. He hadn’t seen her in a while either. His heart fluttered momentarily. They’d been a pair at one time. A secret kept in shadows, for what would people think if they knew General Sel had shared her bed with him, the Norrith family castoff?
“Virtuoso Khal says you’re developing well,” Norema said.
“Have developed,” his mother said. “You’re able to wield mirkúr as I understand it.”
“Have been for ages,” Avaria said, picking at a loose fingernail.
The queen drew her lips to a thin line.
“You say that with such nonchalance, Avaria, that it suggests ignorance on your part,” Norema said. “There are very few left who can do what you do, let alone as an apprentice.”
Avaria considered her words. “It isn’t ignorance Nor—General. I’m simply indifferent. What does it matter if I’m able to wield The Raven’s Wings? Mastering illum and mirkúr has gotten me nowhere. I’m almost thirty years of age and the Hall sees fit to keep me there until I die.”
An exageration, but it often times felt like he would never leave.
“I can understand you feeling that way,” said Virtuoso Khal. She offered a sympathetic nod. “Apprenticeships at the Hall are nortoriously demanding, but they can ill afford to be otherwise.” She passed him a slip of parchment. “We have need of you, Avaria.”
“It’s time for you to spread your wings, so to speak,” Norema said.
Avaria scanned the parchment. His eyes went wide.
“A simple yes will do,” his mother said.
Avaria looked at the women. “I—”
“Unless you aren’t up to it,” Norema said. There was a glint in her red eyes.
Avaria slipped the parchment into his pocket. “Of course I am.”
“Excellent.” Norema gestured toward the door. “We’ll be in touch.”
Avaria stood and gave the formal salute. Then he withdrew.
“You haven’t said a word since we left the Bastion,” Geph said.
Avaria nodded. He was prone to withdrawing into himself in times of stress.
“Avaria?” Geph poked him in the leg with his nose. “What is it?”
“Have you heard of The Raven’s Rage?” Avaria asked.
“In passing,” Geph said. “What of it?”
“They, um…” Avaria swallowed. “They want me to forge it.”
Geph yelped. “A weapon? That weapon? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to?” Geph asked.
A light snow fell, dusting Avaria’s hair and shoulders as he walked. “Maybe.”
Geph whined. “You told them you would. I know you did, Avaria. I can smell the truth on you a mile away.” He snapped at a snowflake. “It’s personal, isn’t it? Fuck all, but of course it is. Avaria, your mother—”
“She needs to see!” Avaria snapped. “I need her to see what she saw in Avaness and Maryn. I want to do something she’ll be proud of, Geph. I just…” Avaria heaved a sigh into the frosty night. “I want her to want me like she did them.”
Geph licked Avaria’s hand.
“You head on back to the Hall,” Avaria said. “I need some time to think.”
Avaria had always found solace in the woods, in the trees beneath the sway of night. Unlike Helveden they enfolded him in silence and allowed him peace enough to think. To brood as he was wont to do. To waltz with the monsters of his mind as they made manifest at his side.
“Envy, Pride, and Wrath,” Avaria greeted. They followed him as hounds, threads of mirkúr trailing their wake. He made no move to banish them, but held his arms out wide. “What do you think? Should I oblige them, forge this weapon they so desperately desire?”
Wrath snarled.
“It would make them see,” Avaria agreed.
Pride snapped its teeth.
“True. I am the utmost of apprentices.”
Envy whined.
“Swallow your fear,” Avaria hissed. If he were to fail… “I need to be worthy. She needs to see me as more than just a thing she and father found in the woods.”
A child, covered in snow.
Blood from his eyes.
Smoke from his mouth.
“If I were to perish would she care?” he asked the hounds. “Would—”
Pride growled. Wrath and Envy bore their teeth-like-knives as a distant-growing-nearer shriek destroyed the forest calm. Avaria formed a thread of mirkúr to a blade; he advanced behind the hounds.
At length the trees fell to ruin, and they entered a glade. At the center stood a shrine; before the shrine there knelt a girl. Avaria and the hounds approached with heed. His mirkúr pulsed with every step; the hounds dripped ichor from their mouths.
“Who are you?” Avaria asked.
The girl turned. Her eyes were dead moons and her flesh was burnt paper; her hair hung in silver strands. She cocked her head.
Avaria held his blade between them. “I asked—”
“We in this moment depart,” the girl rasped, “replacing all that we are.”
She stood and took a step toward Avaria, dark energy enfolding her from head to toe. Where once her face had been now hung a snow-white shroud; and from her back, six wings of black.
The hounds dissolved in her presence.
Avaria fell to his knees beneath her sway, cold in his bones. What was she?
“Are you going to kill me?”
She approached and pulled him up into a cold embrace, whispering, “Listen to your dreams, for things are never as they seem. We in this moment depart, replacing all that we are…” She was gone, and Avaria was holding mist.
CHAPTER TWO—SHEThe meadow.
Avaria was alone save a bird in a tree. A raven. It blinked its beady eyes and squawked.
“Am I supposed to understand any of that?” Avaria asked.
The raven clucked. It abandoned its perch in favor of Avaria’s shoulder, digging its talons into his flesh. Avaria cursed and the bird snapped its beak. He shooed the stupid thing but that only served to tighten its grip. Avaria hissed.
“Ease up, all right? What do you want of me?”
The raven gestured with its wing.
“A tree,” Avaria said. “What about it?”
More talons. An authoritative squawk.
“Okay, okay!” Avaria approached the tree in all its silver majesty. He felt a sense of peace beneath its branches. Peace, with undertones of…something. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
The raven offered a soft cluck.
“Did something happen here?” Avaria asked.
“More than you know,” the raven said, and Avaria jumped. “Compose yourself.“
Avaria massaged the spot between his eyes. Talking birds. Had he gotten drunk before bed? Stoned beyond belief as Geph was wont to say?
“We in this moment depart,” the raven said, “replacing all that we are. It would do you well to remember that. Lest she lead you through a forest dark.“
“Lest who?” Avaria asked. “The girl from the woods? That…thing?”
“Stay vigilant, Avaria Norrith, for things aren’t always what they seem.“
The raven gave a great flap, ascending as The In Between was cloaked in flames.
Midmorning.
Avaria sipped of his flask. He’d gotten fuck all for sleep. Had sat awake in bed pondering the girl-thing in the woods and the raven in his dream—his new dream. Word for word, they had said the exact same thing.
“We in this moment depart,” he muttered, “replacing all that we are.”
“Cryptic,” offered Geph as they strolled the western grounds. The Hall was the city’s pride and joy, though its occupants were often times devoid of both. Fifty weeks of intellectual abuse quelled even the strongest of wills.
“Hmm.”
“Are you sure you weren’t—”
“Stoned beyond belief? No, Geph, I’m quite sure I wasn’t,” Avaria said.
Geph yawned. “What do you think it—er, she was? Demon of some sort?”
“Doubt it,” Avaria said. “Haven’t seen vultures in these parts for years.”
War and extinction had a very intimate relationship.
“Spirit?” Geph asked.
“Maybe.” Avaria stroked his chin. “Though its been at least a dozen years since I encountered one, and it looked nothing like the girl I saw last night. And the way she…” He trailed off. He’d neglected telling Geph about his hounds.
The longhound cocked an eyebrow.
Avaria sighed. “The way she dispersed my hounds with her sheer presence”—Geph barked objectionably—”put fear in me like I’ve never felt before. Have you ever been cold in your bones?”
“I can’t say that I have,” said Geph, “but more importantly—”
“I was a mix of things last night,” Avaria said. “I didn’t mean to let them come—”
“But you made no try to hold them back,” said Geph. “I know you better than you know yourself sometimes, Avaria. I’m one-hundred and fifty years old—I can literally smell bullshit a mile away.”
“Does it help if I tell you they were leashed?”
Geph narrowed his eyes. “How the fuck does one leash a sinhound?”
Avaria tapped his head. “In all the time you’ve known me, Geph, have I ever—ever—let them run amok? Have I ever hurt anyone beneath their sway?”
“No,” the longhound muttered. “But you have let them influence the way you live your life. Holding onto all that rage, all that pent up frustration and jealousy—you’re only making them stronger, Avaria, and that’s the part that frightens me the most. One day you’ll lose control and the hounds will sow slaughter unlike anything you’ve seen before.”
“And how—”
“I’ve seen unbounded sinhounds in my time,” said Geph. “Long before I came to be your friend. Long before your mother came to be.” He sighed, a faraway look manifesting in his eyes. “She was a good girl. But she couldn’t quell them in the end.”
“Geph—”
“I’ve a thing or two to take care of,” Geph said, breaking from Avaria.
Avaria stopped and watched the longhound trot the opposite direction.
Rain fell.
It was going to be a long day.
Geph was a local at The Saucy Seahawk. There was something about watching humans dressed as birds that spoke to him. Probably the whiskey. If a human chicken sauntered toward you with a glass of amber yum-yum, pelvis-thrusting like the world depended on it, it was rude to tell them no.
He sat in his favorite window seat, paws on the table, having sipped his second whiskey of the day. One might say such early drinking was boorish, but Geph was one-hundred fifty years old and there were certain things about which he gave very little fucks, as was the favored colloquialism of Helveden’s many youth.
Geph was also a dog.
He perked his ears at the familiar odor of another who partook in young-sun drink. A sand-haired man with scars aplenty dropped into the seat across from him.
“Cailean Catil. What a wonderful scent you tote.”
“Been a while, mutt. See that tongue of yours has aged like wine.”
They eyed each other fiercly.
Then the laughter came and Geph presented Cailean his paw.
“Not seen you since my sojourn in the Peaks of Dren,” said Cailean, smoothing back his hair. He gave Geph’s paw a shake then signaled for a drink. “How’s city life treating you? Still trailing what’s his name?”
“Avaria Norrith, sole surviving Prince of Ariath?” said Geph. “Religiously.”
Cailean nodded. “Good of you to do. The Hall is brutal. Dark joke amongst its graduates—easiest course is Suicidal Tendencies, an Introduction.”
Geph wrinkled his face in disgust. “Is that really a—”
“Course not,” Cailean said. His expression softened. “It’s still an issue though.”
They sat in silence a moment, Cailean sipping his whiskey as it came.
“So. You asked me here for more than just a drink,” said Geph.
Cailean nodded mid sip and slipped a folded piece of parchment to Geph. The longhound pushed it open with his nose, scanned its conents with a furrowed brow.
“Avaria received a similar request,” said Geph.
“I know,” said Cailean. “I was briefed this morning. General’s words? They want me to accompany him ‘in case he fucks it up.'” He rolled his eyes. “Talk about good faith.”
“I assume you’ll not reveal that last part should Avaria acquiese to their request,” said Geph.
“Course not,” Cailean said. “I know enough about Avaria to know what makes him tick. Not a chance in hell I’d play to break his confidence.” He took another sip. “Think he’ll do it?”
“I’ve little doubt,” said Geph. “Like you said, I know what makes him tick. Although…”
Cailean cocked an eyebrow.
“Cold as she may seem I think Ahnil adores him in her way, as subtle as it seems,” said Geph. “I was in the woods that night when she found him as a babe. I can say with all the certainty in my bones that never have I seen a mother more in love.”
“Trouble must’ve started when she sent him to the Hall,” said Cailean.
Geph nodded. “Hopefully this business with The Raven’s Rage will abolish this masochistic desire of his.” He leaned closer to Cailean. “What do you suppose they want with it?”
“Nothing savory, I can tell you that much,” Cailean said. “If history’s shown us anything there’s a reason weapons like The Raven’s Rage are destroyed. Last time it was used the drenarians were eaten by the sun.”
“‘Thus the Peaks of Dren do dwell in night etern’,” recited Geph. Many a tragedy chronicled the drenarian’s cruel demise. “There’s surely something more than meets the eye.”
“Always is,” said Cailean. He rose from his seat. “I’ll see you ’round, old mutt.”
Geph gave a wave and Cailean withdrew.
He laid his head on the table and huffed.
Something is amiss.
“I’ll do it,” said Avaria. “On the condition that you tell me what it’s for.”
“Temporal alteration,” said Norema. “The chance to rewrite history and prevent the vultures’ wrath.” She leaned across the table so their noses nearly touched. “To bring back those we’ve lost.”
Avaria blinked. He hadn’t expected such a forthcoming, if not ludicrous response. “Is…is that even possible?”
“Anything is possible,” said Virtuoso Khal, “when one possesses possibility itself.”
Maybe they were stoned.
“The Raven’s Rage is more than just a weapon,” said the queen. “It is a key.”
“The key,” Norema said.
“How does it work?” Avaria asked. “How do you intend to rewrite time?”
“With enough energy it will open a way to the Temporal Sea,” said Virtuoso Khal. “And through the Sea we’ll sail to where it all went wrong and the darkness roused from sleep. We’ll slay the beast before it wakes.”
Now they really sounded stoned—but Avaria was intrigued. Avaness. Maryn. Could he bring them back? So many years alone. So many years reliving the news of their demise. Confined to the darkness of the Hall. Not even his mother had come.
“Your life could be different,” said Wrath.
“You could be with your blood,“Envy hissed.
“You could be free,” suggested Pride.
Free. Of these chains. Of this loneliness. Of this loveless life to which he’d been condemned. Better to have to died in the snow that fateful night than to have wound up here.
“I’ll do it,” Avaria reaffirmed. “Just point me on my way.”
Avaria walked the Bastion courtyard at a measured pace, burdened with purpose for the first time in his life. In the depths and darkness of the Peaks of Dren he would find the fragments of that old and ill-used sword, and with them forge a life worth living.
“Even when your steps are slow you’re faster than most.”
Avaria turned to the voice, waited as the queen approached.
“Quick when silent,” said Avaria. “Lest the Virtuosos beat you.”
His mother winced.
“You seem surprised,” Avaria said. “Or is that guilt?”
She said nothing. Avaria walked and she attended him.
“What we ask of you…it will be arduous.”
“I know,” Avaria said. “And I can handle it. I’ve trained and studied far too long to fail. But you only know that secondhand. Because you ordered Virtuoso Khal to keep you up to speed. Do I embarrass you? Does it make you ill to pay me mind? It seems to me we only speak when it’s convenient.”
The queen frowned. “You know you don’t, Avaria. You could never—”
“Then why the distance all these years?” Avaria hissed. “Fifteen years, mother. Fifteen years of torment in the form of erudition while Avaness and Maryn reaped glory and affection here at home!”
Avaria yelped; his cheek stung. His mother held her left hand firm and ready for another go. “How dare you… How dare you speak ill of the dead. Of your broth—”
“You struck me…” The words felt strange as they left his tongue. In all his years she had never hit him once. He touched his cheek and turned away, left his mother standing in the courtyard as the shock withered and the pain bloomed.
Walked.
Walked until he reached the Hall.
Until he reached his favorite tree at the northmost end of the grounds.
He cried.
An old city.
A grand city.
A dead city.
Avaria blinked. He was dreaming, but he had never dreamt this place before. A necropolis beneath a sky that threatened rain, the skeletons of spires rising up as if the ruin were the maw of something monstrous. Instinct drew him inward, and he walked with measured steps, the stillness sending shivers up his spine.
At the center of the city stood the greatest spire of them all. Despite the ruination it was more or less intact. Avaria touched the wall; whispers kissed his ears and a feeling of dread entombed his heart. There was sorrow here inside the stones; fear and fury warred for rule.
“This place was beautiful once.”
Avaria turned to the voice and met a man with midnight-feathered wings. There was a gentle melancholy to his face; his eyes were two gray pools of woe.
“They call me Ruin King. They call me Alerésh the Dread.” He held his arms out wide. “I have done horrible things.”
Avaria frowned. “I—”
“What do you mean?” a second softer voice inquired. “Why are we here?”
Avaria started as a figure passed through him; he realized he was little more than a ghost.
“We were rotten, she and I.” Alerésh closed his eyes. “We envisioned life, yet from our hubris we birthed only ash. Ash—and annihilation like this world has never known.” He opened his eyes. “You quelled the malediction once, but you will not do so again. The hounds hunger—and they are near.
“She is near.”
Scream.
Like an infant kissed by flames.
Scream.
Scream.
SCREAM.
She left him by the tree beneath which he had slept.
Her wings trailed behind her like the train of a tattered gown.
“So much ruin.” Her voice was ash in the wind; it ached to speak.
She walked—through the darkness, kissed by shadows she had mothered for millennia.
She dwelled—in thoughts of geneses and ends; of hounds and fowl.
She died—
and was reborn.
No sleep.
The post Preview—THE WORLD BREAKER REQUIEM appeared first on Luke Tarzian.
March 11, 2021
An Interview—Krystle Matar, author of LEGACY OF THE BRIGHTWASH
Welcome to the fourth day of the LEGACY OF THE BRIGHTWASH book tour presented by Storytellers On Tour! I am super thrilled to have had the opportunity to interview author Krystle Matar about all things related to her stunning debut. I was lucky enough to read LEGACY OF THE BRIGHTWASH prior to its release and I fell in love with it immediately. In fact, I consider it one of my favorite books of all time. Krystle has a way with words; not only has she written a truly immersive world, she’s written some of the most sympathetic characters I have ever come across. LEGACY OF THE BRIGHTWASH is a dark story that touches on romantic love, familial love, and much more. Here’s the official blurb:
Follow the law and you’ll stay safe. But what if the law is wrong?
Tashue’s faith in the law is beginning to crack.
Three years ago, he stood by when the Authority condemned Jason to the brutality of the Rift for non-compliance. When Tashue’s son refused to register as tainted, the laws had to be upheld. He’d never doubted his job as a Regulation Officer before, but three years of watching your son wither away can break down even the strongest of convictions.
Then a dead girl washed up on the bank of the Brightwash, tattooed and mutilated. Where had she come from? Who would tattoo a child? Was it the same person who killed her?
Why was he the only one who cared?
Will Tashue be able to stand against everything he thought he believed in to get the answers he’s looking for?
Before we proceed to the interview portion of this, uh…interview, I would like to note that Storytellers On Tour are running a tour-long contest. One lucky winner will walk away with a hardcover edition of LEGACY OF THE BRIGHTWASH. You can enter by clicking HERE—and trust me, you want to enter.
Without further ado—the interview.
Who is Tashué Blackwood?Tashué Blackwood is a whisky-drinking, cigarillo-smoking hot mess. He loves his son and he did his best, but he lives in a hard world and his choices weren’t easy. He’s a veteran, now an Officer of the Authority, trying to keep his shit together but failing a little. But, in spite of all that hardship, he’s a romantic at heart.
2. There is something cathartic about writing about guilt, grief, and loss. The characters in LEGACY OF THE BRIGHTWASH are broken but at times find threads of hope. How easy or difficult was it to balance opposite ends of that spectrum when writing about these characters?
I think the threads of hope and romance came naturally because of who I am as a person. I can build a dark world, and dark concepts, but ultimately I have to believe in people’s capacity to love. It’s a tough world out there, but I have been incredibly blessed to make amazing connections with genuinely good people, and those connections have healed my own jagged pieces. I needed the same for Tashué. The darker his world got, the more he and I needed the threads of love and hope to help carry him through to the end.
3. One of the most important themes in your book is the relationship between parents and their children. How did your own experiences as a parent influence this?
I mean, parenting is complicated. We do want our best for our children, but we’re human and we’re messy, too. My experiences as someone’s child also play in it. My perception of my own parents has changed a lot after I became a parent myself. I can still feel the pain of feeling let down, but also see where they were just trying their best, but they carried their flaws into their existence as parents themselves. It’s worth saying, though, that Tashué became a parent before I did. I’m not sure why I made that choice for him, or maybe he made that decision for himself, but he had Jason before I had my own kids. He was almost meant to be a father, I guess!
4. Yaelsmuir is a bleak place but one that feels instantly familiar. What inspired it?
I definitely reached for a familiar place when I was worldbuilding, and most of the flora and fauna I included (they don’t show much in Brightwash, but they’ll feature more in Brick & Bone) I got from research and inspiration for an ecosystem that felt like my area of Ontario. By extension, I think Yaelmsuir ended up with an Old Montreal vibe. The river traffic, the old bones, the ecosystem spreading around it. But of course, I put my own spin on it!
5. The cast of characters in LEGACY OF THE BRIGHTWASH present with varying sexual orientations which go unremarked upon by society as a whole; they are fluid, natural, and not written as such in order simply to meet a quota. Why was this important for you to convey?
I make no secret of the fact that my first crush as a writer was fanfiction. My earliest projects were fun, raunchy smut (shocking, right?) and it was a way to kind of process my own identity and sexuality when I didn’t have any other way to talk about it.
I carried this along with me as I moved into my own characters. Eventually it was suggested to me that, if I wanted to be “taken seriously” by a publisher, and have a career one day, I had to leave my queer characters behind, because “no one wants to read about that”. Unfortunately, I took that to heart, way back then, and my writing split. There was “for fun” writing—smutty, raunchy, larger than life, queer—and there was “for serious” writing which was more formulaic and sterilized of the things that I might have brought to my own stories.
I carried that with me for too long. A sharp, jagged stone, that pierced my heart and bled my own creativity. Earlier novels were empty and hollow because I was trying to recreate things I didn’t really believe in. Things that I had internalized, based on what people said to me, and said around me.
To look at the revision process of Brightwash is to watch me break through those limitations, those shackles. Bit by bit, characters talked about their sexualities more and more. Jason & Lorne have always been Jason & Lorne—there’s no separating them. But everyone else… They shed their sterilized shells and became more and more themselves as I looked into the self-published community and saw other authors being brave and defiant and rejecting those concepts that I had internalized. I saw that, if I chose to exist in the self-published community, I could write my book the way I wanted, and there would be an audience waiting for me.
So, fuck it. I’m writing a hard story, and a heavy story, but I’m writing it my way. Love need not be constrained by hetero-normative ideas. With the grim, ugly world these people are navigating, I didn’t want them to struggle with homophobia on top of everything else. Love, as I revised, became soimportant to the balance of the tone, and I didn’t want to put limits on the quality of that love. I was also tired of telling myself that “people don’t want to read about this”. I was tired of accepting that. The book is hard and heavy to write and I had to read it a million times as I revised—so I neededthis potential of having delight mixed in as I was working through. When I was doing a revision pass, I saw this opportunity for an amazing sex scene, so I wrote it on the side because I hadn’t made Tashué’s bisexuality “canon” yet. I was writing fanfiction for my own book! And with that, there came a point of clarity for me, as I was trying to decide just how much I would include (I’m thinking of Tashué and Ishmael specifically) and I could see myself building the foundation of my whole writing career with this book. Book One in a series, Book One in a new world. If I flinched, and left things out, I would have come to regret it, going forward. I decided I wanted to lay that foundation properly. I wanted the space to write stories how I wanted them to be. I didn’t want to be stuck in a cycle of writing a sanitized version, and then writing fanfiction because I hadn’t been brave enough to write sexuality the way I thought it should be. And I’m so, so glad that friends around me have been brave enough to do the same, and friends around me saw me struggling and pushed me. I’m still worried—but I think I made the right choice.
(PS—the extra sex scene didn’t make it into the book, because it didn’t fit at all with the plot I had built, but there is an extra smooch now)
6. Adoption and found families play a part in your novel. As someone who is adopted I connected immediately with this. How important was it for you to illustrate that family goes beyond blood? Was it something you considered when drafting the story it did it happen naturally?
I can’t say that was an intentional thing, it was just natural. Family is a messy concept. The people we are related to can install a lot of damage in us. The family we find can be so massively healing.
7. Who is Krystle Matar?
She is a whisky-drinking hot mess, without the cigarillos. She loves her children and she’s trying her best to protect them from a hard world, and prepare them to stand on their own feet one day. She’s trying to keep her shit together, and her husband is massively supportive and helpful. She’s had kind of a hard life, but she’s romantic at heart.
8. Why whiskey?
Tashué drank whisky before I did! Don’t ask me why. It’s one of those decisions he made for himself, I dunno. So, I followed him into it so that I could write about it most accurately, and he taught me how to love it. It’s deep and smoky and complex, with a hint of sweetness, just like him.
9. You find yourself in Yaelsmuir—why are you there?
I’m a chronicler, come to study the history. A lot has happened in Yaelsmuir. It’s the nexus of a massive political shift, and I’d love to know what happened. Oh, and the food. I’m going to eat all the food.
10. You find yourself somewhere in a book by your favorite author or the author by whom you were most inspired—where are you?
I’m either in the shadow of the Caer Druagh, the highland home of the Rigante clansmen, or I’m in Boston. Either way, things are probably going to be a little rough, but absolutely beautiful in its unfolding.
11. What was the motivation for self-publishing as opposed to going the traditional route?
The best summation of self-publishing vs traditional publishing houses is this: it’s like the difference between being an entrepreneur and an employee. There are pros and cons to both sides, and it’s good to be aware of the freedoms and the limitations of each one, and hopefully choose the one that suits you best. I like ability to seize control of my own career. I loved finding an artist—Brad, I love you—and choosing my own editors, and finding sensitivity readers to help me craft my vision. I adore being so involved in the community, among such brilliant and talented writers. I love that we’re hustling to move ourselves, and to move each other. It’s a beautiful community to be a part of. Y’all make me brave.
12. What can readers expect next?
I’m working hard on Legacy of Brick & Bone, Book Two in the Tainted Dominion series. Ishmael, the brat, demands his own novels. I have two ideas so far, told in his 1st person POV in the years before Brightwash; The Watchmaker’s Son and The Diplomat. Some day, I want the opportunity to explore other cities in the Dominion. I look at the West Coast, Gladwydd and the Ghost Mines and the Breaking Stone. That place is begging me for some gritty, windy, hurricane stories.
13. What do you think of lemons and turkeys?
Citrus and poultry go really well together! Stick halved lemons into your bird’s cavity before you roast it, with onions and garlic. That way, you know for SURE they aren’t Harrowers, and there’s no room for anything else in there!
Thus concludes my stop on the LEGACY OF THE BRIGHTWASH book tour presented by Storytellers On Tour. A huge thanks to Krystle and Storytellers for having me on board, and be sure to check out the other posts by some people much better at this book blogging thing than I am.
You can connect with Krystle Matar online via her Website, Twitter, Instagram, and Goodreads.
You can purchase LEGACY OF THE BRIGHTWASH on Amazon by clicking HERE.
The post An Interview—Krystle Matar, author of LEGACY OF THE BRIGHTWASH appeared first on Luke Tarzian.
July 8, 2020
A SYMPHONY OF BROKEN DREAMS—Excerpt
Please enjoy this excerpt of the forthcoming dark fantasy novel A SYMPHONY OF BROKEN DREAMS, releasing November 3, 2020. You can pre-order it TODAY as well as add it on Goodreads.
BLURB:
Avaria Norrith is the adopted heir to the Ariathan throne. But that means little to a man who, for the better part of fifteen years, has sought and failed to earn his mother’s love. Fueled by pride and envy, Avaria seeks the means to prove himself and cast away his mental chains. When he’s tasked with the recreation of The Raven’s Rage he sees his chance, for with the infamous blade he can rewrite history and start anew.
Erath has not felt sunlight for a century. Not since Ariath condemned her people to a life of darkness with their misuse of The Raven’s Rage. But when the Ariathan prince comes seeking the remnants of the ancient sword, Erath cannot contain her curiosity and resolves to lend him aid. Is there any truth to what he says—can history be revised? Can her people be reclaimed?
Toll the Hounds.
They are hungry—and they are here.
PROLOGUE—LEGACY
Reshaper Year 1895
Ouran’an, once great city of the Reshapers, was a ruin. A necropolis of hoarfrost spires like the jagged teeth of dragons. A sick, black essence webbed its way along the streets; it crept up buildings like vines. Its gossamer threads extended from the rotted corpses strewn about. It had left none untouched.
Varésh Lúm-talé stood beneath the archway of the city gate and wept, consumed by déja-vu. This was not the first metropolis or people he had failed.He crept inward despairingly—just one more look. A moment in another monument to his failure, this stain of a legacy.
He wrapped his midnight, feathered wings around himself, though it did little to ward away the early morning chill. There was something angry to the cold, something…old. Familiar. Varésh closed his eyes and held his nose to the sky. Being the creature, the abomination that he was, he could discern the various energies in the air—arcane or otherwise—with but a sniff. They were more or less of him, after all.
“Mirkúr.” But different than the black essence tattooed to the city and the dead. Less a plague. He opened his eyes and trained them on the tallest spire. Even here, perhaps a mile or two away, he could feel the mirkúr’s urgency. He unfurled his wings and, with a great flap, took flight.
Mirkúr choked the interior of the spire. Every now and then the energy seemed to hiss, its discontent provoked by the illumination streaming from Varésh’s wings. He descended from the topmost balcony, heart thumping, skin like gooseflesh underneath his garb.
There were bodies here, what remained of them at least. The gore had left no ceilng, wall, nor floor untouched. This was where the slaughter had begun, in the halls and chambers of the Reshaperate Spire. Or, at the very least, where the savagery had reached its peak. Varésh pressed on, through the catacombs, and into the depths below.
He touched down in the anteroom; his equilibrium faltered instantly. The world spun in and out of focus momentarily before Varésh was able to steady himself. He took a deep, ragged breath and pressed ahead, crossing overtop the inlay of a black and white raven. Trickster, most believed. Wisdom bringer, Varésh sought to make them see.
Had sought.
The Reshaperate Vaults stood in a hallway wide enough for six to stand abreast. There were nine doors total, the first eight of which stood parallel to one another; the last was further on. Each bore a labyrinth of grooves extendiong outward from a unique symbol carved in the center of the door. The crests of the eight Reshaperate families. Though they bloomed with light as Varésh passed them by, they remained sealed.
He reached the final door, engraved with the symbol of a raven, wings outstretched. He mimicked the depiction, wispy tendrils of brilliant light—illum—extending from the tips of his wings. The illumination permeated the engraving and the grooves. The door dilated with a groan.
Varésh furled his wings around him like a cloak, light streaming from his feathers to erect a barrier that pushed against the wall of darkness that’d erupted from the vault. Smoke shrieked and crashed against the barricade, forcing Varésh to expend more illum than he would have liked. The onslaught faltered after a minute or two, leaving silence and a white-eyed silhouette.
Varésh approached at a measured pace. He sensed whatever this creature before him was, it would not hurt him. This was just as well because he’d used up an entire wing’s worth of illum.
The silhouette hissed bits and pieces of the old Reshaper tongue, though the words were too distorted to discern.
Varésh shook his head. “I do not understand. I am sorry.”
The silhouette swirled and, in a rush of smoke, retreated to the back end of the vault. Varésh followed. The silhouette moaned, and he realized its tether to this plane was growing weak; its form was collapsing. He knelt before it, staring into those white eyes, searching for something, someone—a sign, anything. It mewed again, and gestured with a wispy thread of a hand to a grimy leather book.
Varésh picked it up. His heart stopped.
A journal. The journal of a friend, of one whom he’d considered true son.
The silhouette wailed and, in a burst of mirkúr, ceased to be.
Varésh clutched the leather keepsake to his chest, trembling. He opened the journal and read by the light of his wing. Read, until he was numb and the prospect of death seemed to entice him more than did life. His creations, his children, were dead. Some worse than dead, puppets dancing to the tune this tainted mirkúr sang.
He looked at the journal. Where ink related fear and the fall of Ouran’an, it also offered hope, desperate as it was, to quell the plague that entropy had wrought. But for this minuscule chance at reclamation, at redemption, to help see the hope in this journal come to fruition, Varésh was going to have to the eighteenth most moronic thing he had ever done.
But do I have the strength? Two civilizations, two terrible ends.
A dead voice, a familiar voice, whispered from the shadow of his mind.
Varésh acknowledged the voice with a tiny nod. As always, it was right.
Journal tucked away, he withdrew from the vaults and the city he had failed.
It was time to swim the Temporal Sea.
CHAPTER ONE—HOUNDS
Avaria Norrith was dead. Or dreaming. For how else could he have come here to this meadow with its silver trees and ocean-colored grass? He looked down at Geph, his faithful longhound, and the creature simply shrugged.
“Have you considered that you might be stoned beyond all comprehension?” Geph inquired. He did that a lot. Talking. Most longhounds retained some manner of silence even after they had learned to speak but Geph was the chatty exception. “Avaria?”
“You know I don’t partake,” Avaria said, starting slowly through the grass.
“Then why the hell am I talking?” the longhound asked.
“It’s what you do.”
“Well if you’re dead,” Geph said, “then why am I here? Am I dead too?”
“Maybe?”
The longhound heaved a sigh that fell into a yawn. “Fuck it all, Avaria, what have you gotten us into this time?”
Avaria glared at the dog.
“I’m just saying.”
“If you’re talking about the time we were interned for defacing Virtuoso Khora’s effigy,” Avaria said, “let me please remind you it was you who climbed atop and took a massive, runny—”
“I was drunk,” the longhound grumbled. “And the statue called my mother a bitch. What would you have done?”
Avaria rolled his eyes. “The effigies are incapable of speech, Geph. And your mother is a bitch. It’s the proper term for a female dog.”
“You keep saying that,” Geph said, “and every time I believe you less.”
Avaria shrugged. “Not my concern.”
“It should be.” Geph let out a hacking cough. “Where do you suppose we are?”
“If I were to venture a guess? The In Between,” Avaria said.
“Then where hell is Balance?” Geph asked. “I have a question.”
“I can guarantee you, Geph, that Balance remains incapable of manifesting you a jar of peanutbutter,” said Avaria, much to the longhound’s dismay. “Though I’m sure he’ll oblige you with an ear scratch.”
Geph gave a houndly grin.
They walked.
“It all feels the same,” said Geph. “Have we actually gotten anywhere?”
“Not yet,” said Avaria. He had come to this place enough to know the straightforward path was never as apparent as it seemed. “But we will.”
You won’t.
Avaria started at the words.
Geph cocked an eyebrow. “Are you all right?”
“You didn’t hear that?” Avaria asked.
Geph tilted his head. “Because I’m a dog I’m supposed to have spectacular hearing, is that it? Well—”
How long have you been on this path, Avaria? How many years now? Days, weeks, and months spent trying to win the affections of a woman who could give two shits about you, hmm? And she had the gall to call herself your mother!
Avaria whipped around but there was no one there.
Search, but you’ll not find me in the grass, hissed the voice. I’m where I’ve always been—here, inside your head. Comfy, cozy in this prison that you’ve built. No—that your mother built. If she had loved you where would you be now?
A howl erupted from Avaria. The meadow fell to ash, and from its ruin rose a silhouette of smoke and flame.
“I told you all those years ago,” the figure said, “that she would set me free.” It beckoned with an upturned palm and Geph obeyed, each step leaving gossamer threads of smoke. “Faithful as always.“
Geph grinned at Avaria, eyes glowing white, teeth like needles dripping blood.
Avaria retreated several steps. The figure and the hound advanced.
“You’ll not escape, Avaria,” the figure said.
Avaria turned.
“For I am legion here inside your head.“
Sputtered, looking at the blade protruding from his chest.
“And there is nowhere you can hide that I can’t find.“
Crying now. He tasted blood and tears.
“For then what kind of vulture would I be?“
Darkness.
It was cold this night as Avaria walked the streets of Helveden, Geph beside him as he always was. His brow was slick with sweat and his head stung something fierce. He’d had the dream again, stoked by vultures of his own design.
“Was it Wrath or Envy in the grass this time?” inquired Geph.
“Some amalgamation of the two,” Avaria said, fingering his chest. It was tender to the touch; he winced.
“Theories?”
“An answer,” said Avaria. “The Virtuosos passed on me again the other night.”
Geph nudged Avaria with his nose.
“Honestly…why’d she put me here if I’m never going to leave?”
“Your mother wants what’s best for you, Avaria,” said Geph.
“She’s got a strange way of showing it,” Avaria snapped. “Shoving me off to apprentice while while Avaness and Maryn took up arms and went to war for Ariath. I’ve been here half my life, a slave to erudition and abused by my own mind while they found glory in the heat of war. While they made mother proud.”
“And you think swinging arms is all that draws your mother’s praise?” Geph asked. “You think to her that mastering a blade is the be-all and end-all to life?”
Avaria scoffed. “In Ariath? Yes.”
“I think you focus too much on the glory of war,” said Geph. “Look around, Avaria. War destroys physically and mentally. Helveden stands half-erect, awaiting its resurrection by the Lightweavers who have drunk themselves into uselessness. The thought of facing vultures breeds fear, and that fear instills the urge to drink. It festers even now, an indomitable infection that has all but smothered Helveden’s glow. Is that what you really want of yourself? To go off and come back like…that?”
“If it would make her proud…”
Geph sighed. “Oh, Avaria…”
They walked the rest of the way to the Bastion in silence, Geph stopping to sniff the occasional tree and Avaria brooding all the while. He fingered the summons in his coat pocket as they crossed the courtyard. What could the queen possibly need of him this late?
A frowning stewardess awaited their arrival. “You’re an hour late.”
Avaria shrugged. “I got lost along the way.”
Geph nudged him firmly in the leg with his nose.
“Fine,” Avaria sighed. “I was drunk in bed and dreaming of the end.”
The stewardess rolled her eyes disgustedly. “Follow me.”
She led them through the Bastion, glorious in its whites and reds and various depictions of the raven god to whom they all implored. It was paradise where the Hall of Lightweavers was eternal hell.
Further and further they went. The walls, ceiling, and floor to a deep red. Avaria had never been to this part of the Bastion before, which was saying a lot. As a child he’d wandered where his legs and the Bastion staff would allow.
They came to a circular stark white door inlaid with various glyphs and grooves. The stewardess extended a glowing index finger and traced the innermost glyph. Illumination swam through the grooves and into the outlying glyphs. The door dilated, revealing the chamber beyond. The stewardess dragged him inside. Geph stayed put.
Avaria eyed three women sitting at the far end of the room. Shit.
“Ah. We were wondering if and when you might arrive,” said Virtuoso Khal.
“I was not so confident as Virtuoso Khal and Queen Ahnil,” said the Norema Sel, the shortest of the three. She dismissed the stewardess with a nod, leaving Avaria to the wolves.
Wolf, really.
He eyed the queen. “Hello, mother.”
Avaria stared at the queen. He hadn’t seen her in at least a half dozen years. She looked older in the eyes though no less hawkish and intimidating. Reluctantly, if not slightly mockingly, he touched his right hand to his left shoulder in the formal salute.
“How may I be of service?”
Norema Sel gestured to an open chair at the table. “Sit.”
Avaria gave her a prolonged stare before accomodating her request. He hadn’t seen her in a while either. His heart fluttered momentarily. They’d been a pair at one time. A secret kept in shadows, for what would people think if they knew General Sel had shared her bed with him, the Norrith family castoff?
“Virtuoso Khal says you’re developing well,” Norema said.
“Have developed,” his mother said. “You’re able to wield mirkúr as I understand it.”
“Have been for ages,” Avaria said, picking at a loose fingernail.
The queen drew her lips to a thin line.
“You say that with such nonchalance, Avaria, that it suggests ignorance on your part,” Norema said. “There are very few left who can do what you do, let alone as an apprentice.”
Avaria considered her words. “It isn’t ignorance Nor—General. I’m simply indifferent. What does it matter if I’m able to wield The Raven’s Wings? Mastering illum and mirkúr has gotten me nowhere. I’m almost thirty years of age and the Hall sees fit to keep me there until I die.”
An exageration, but it often times felt like he would never leave.
“I can understand you feeling that way,” said Virtuoso Khal. She offered a sympathetic nod. “Apprenticeships at the Hall are nortoriously demanding, but they can ill afford to be otherwise.” She passed him a slip of parchment. “We have need of you, Avaria.”
“It’s time for you to spread your wings, so to speak,” Norema said.
Avaria scanned the parchment. His eyes went wide.
“A simple yes will do,” his mother said.
Avaria looked at the women. “I—”
“Unless you aren’t up to it,” Norema said. There was a glint in her red eyes.
Avaria slipped the parchment into his pocket. “Of course I am.”
“Excellent.” Norema gestured toward the door. “We’ll be in touch.”
Avaria stood and gave the formal salute. Then he withdrew.
“You haven’t said a word since we left the Bastion,” Geph said.
Avaria nodded. He was prone to withdrawing into himself in times of stress.
“Avaria?” Geph poked him in the leg with his nose. “What is it?”
“Have you heard of The Raven’s Rage?” Avaria asked.
“In passing,” Geph said. “What of it?”
“They, um…” Avaria swallowed. “They want me to forge it.”
Geph yelped. “A weapon? That weapon? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to?” Geph asked.
A light snow fell, dusting Avaria’s hair and shoulders as he walked. “Maybe.”
Geph whined. “You told them you would. I know you did, Avaria. I can smell the truth on you a mile away.” He snapped at a snowflake. “It’s personal, isn’t it? Fuck all, but of course it is. Avaria, your mother—”
“She needs to see!” Avaria snapped. “I need her to see what she saw in Avaness and Maryn. I want to do something she’ll be proud of, Geph. I just…” Avaria heaved a sigh into the frosty night. “I want her to want me like she did them.”
Geph licked Avaria’s hand.
“You head on back to the Hall,” Avaria said. “I need some time to think.”
Avaria had always found solace in the woods, in the trees beneath the sway of night. Unlike Helveden they enfolded him in silence and allowed him peace enough to think. To brood as he was wont to do. To waltz with the monsters of his mind as they made manifest at his side.
“Envy, Pride, and Wrath,” Avaria greeted. They followed him as hounds, threads of mirkúr trailing their wake. He made no move to banish them, but held his arms out wide. “What do you think? Should I oblige them, forge this weapon they so desperately desire?”
Wrath snarled.
“It would make them see,” Avaria agreed.
Pride snapped its teeth.
“True. I am the utmost of apprentices.”
Envy whined.
“Swallow your fear,” Avaria hissed. If he were to fail… “I need to be worthy. She needs to see me as more than just a thing she and father found in the woods.”
A child, covered in snow.
Blood from his eyes.
Smoke from his mouth.
“If I were to perish would she care?” he asked the hounds. “Would—”
Pride growled. Wrath and Envy bore their teeth-like-knives as a distant-growing-nearer shriek destroyed the forest calm. Avaria formed a thread of mirkúr to a blade; he advanced behind the hounds.
At length the trees fell to ruin, and they entered a glade. At the center stood a shrine; before the shrine there knelt a girl. Avaria and the hounds approached with heed. His mirkúr pulsed with every step; the hounds dripped ichor from their mouths.
“Who are you?” Avaria asked.
The girl turned. Her eyes were dead moons and her flesh was burnt paper; her hair hung in silver strands. She cocked her head.
Avaria held his blade between them. “I asked—”
“We in this moment depart,” the girl rasped, “replacing all that we are.”
She stood and took a step toward Avaria, dark energy enfolding her from head to toe. Where once her face had been now hung a snow-white shroud; and from her back, six wings of black.
The hounds dissolved in her presence.
Avaria fell to his knees beneath her sway, cold in his bones. What was she?
“Are you going to kill me?”
She approached and pulled him up into a cold embrace, whispering, “Listen to your dreams, for things are never as they seem. We in this moment depart, replacing all that we are…” She was gone, and Avaria was holding mist.
Again, A SYMPHONY OF BROKEN DREAMS releases November 3, 2020. You can pre-order it TODAY as well as add it on Goodreads.
The post A SYMPHONY OF BROKEN DREAMS—Excerpt appeared first on Luke Tarzian.
February 12, 2020
The World Maker Parable—Chapter 1
THE WORLD MAKER PARABLE releases April 14, 2020 and is available for PRE-ORDER.
Please enjoy this preview.
CHAPTER 1: PENDULUM DANCE
Hang-Dead Forest north of Banerowos was aptly named. Rhona had lost count of the corpses half a mile back. She towed her prisoner on a length of cord. Thus far she had ignored Djen’s every word, half because she was tired of listening to the woman spit hatred, and half because Rhona wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. Leading the woman you loved to the tree from which she was sentenced to hang had that effect on people.
“I do as the Raven wills,” Rhona said.
Djen spat. “Fuck Alerion. Fuck you and your reflexive bullshit.”
They ducked beneath a trio of low-hanging corpses. The dark bones were long picked dry. Only tatters of clothing remained.
“It’s the truth,” said Rhona. “Alerion’s will is our command. Those who ignore him are a threat to the continued unification of home,”
“You really are full of shit,” Djen hissed. “Alerion’s words are so ingrained into your skull they may as well be his hand shoved up your ass and moving your mouth.” She heaved a sigh. “Never in all my years would I have thought you’d be the one to dance on strings. I suppose I never really knew you at all, Rhona.”
Rhona halted. She had tried these last hours, these last days, even, to ignore the bitterness Djen spat her way. Some of it was rightly earned—Rhona didn’t deny that. She just wished Djen could understand why she had done what she had done.
“I suppose if I had,” Djen continued, “I would have foreseen you betraying me to Alerion.”
“How could I not?” Rhona asked. “You and Sonja unleashed the Vulture from her cage.”
“We had to, you idiot,” Djen snarled. “You and Alerion all but doomed Jémoon when you imprisoned Luminíl. What Sonja and I did was for the future of our home. For the survival of Jémoon and all its people. If you would open your eyes—if you would all open your eyes—you would see how absolutely wrong you were to have kept such power in chains.”
Rhona yanked the cord and they continued on the way. She focused on the forest; she had always found peace here among the dead. For that, some called her mad, but what did Rhona care? She inhaled deeply. The trees smelled of death and fear, if fear could be said to smell like anything at all. It varied from person to person. To Rhona, fear smelled like a foul breath clouding in the night, and that too was a very particular scent. In Hang-Dead Forest a foul breath was defined as an odor of iron and rain—magic. More specifically, mirkúr.
They marched on through gnarled and twisted trees. Guilt nipped at Rhona’s heels like a hungry dog and her heart stung. It wasn’t supposed to have come to this. She loved Djen for all her flaws, for the gravity of her sin—could she really string her up to rot amongst the dead? Could she really watch Djen join the countless corpses in their pendulum dance?
“You’ll have to whether you like it or not,” her conscience said. It called itself Te Luminíl. “Country over person—it is the Raven’s way. Alerion’s will is our command.” It sighed. “How could we have ever loved such a thing as Djen Shy’eth?“
Rhona frowned. Ever the formal voice of woe, she thought. Te Luminíl—the vocal trauma to her silent grief. Loving Djen had come easily to Rhona. In fact, it had been the easiest thing she had ever done, which made it all the more worse how quickly she had turned Djen over to Alerion. Had Rhona always been so fickle?
“No,” Te Luminíl said. “You are doing what you know is right. Country over person. If minds like those of Djen Shy’eth and Sonja Lúm-talé can be so easily swayed by the darkness of the Vulture Luminíl then what reason do you have to believe a word they say? The Vulture is the personification of entropy—Luminíl had to be contained.“
They came to a small clearing in the depths of the forest. At the center was a tree unique from all the others: white of bark and black of leaves. For that Rhona called it the Lost Tree; it seemed so out of place in a wooded world of death and fog.
Yet by branches have so many lives been claimed, she thought. From the branches of the Lost Tree she would hang her beloved Djen; to its roots she would give her blood in reverence. Blood paid was a debt owed and it was best to curry favor where you could, especially in times like this where uncertainty was king.
“If you would stop taking sips from the wine Alerion serves,” Djen said, “you would know how absolutely wrong he was, how wrong you are. You would understand the severity of what you did to Luminíl.” She sighed as they stopped at the base of the Lost Tree. “You will…”
Rhona turned to look at Djen. It was the first time she had done so since leaving Banerowos. For a moment she allowed herself to get lost in Djen’s full-moon eyes, to imagine the taste of her lips and the gentle warmth of her breath.
“Keep your tongue,” said Djen. “You have that look, but your words mean nothing.”
Rhona flinched and it pulled her from her dream. She dropped Djen to her knees and drew a dagger from her cloak. “I wish things could be different.”
Djen smirked. “No you don’t—but you will. Get on with it.”
“Alf elo nor,” Rhona chanted. “Nor elo alf!“
She punched the blade into Djen.
Then she did the same to herself.
* * *
“Once more you return.”
Rhona opened her eyes to the ethereal voice she had heard so many times before. Before her towered a lithe figure of smoke and wings. It called itself Equilibrium. It offered a hand and pulled her to her feet.
“It has been a while since last we spoke,” said Equilibrium.
“It has,” Rhona said. She gazed into the vast whiteness that encompassed them, feeling peace where others had undoubtedly felt dread. The Silent Place was many things to many different souls. She heaved a sigh.
“You have questions,” Equilibrium said. “As you always do.” The spirit brushed a hand against her cheek and she felt a modicum of weightlessness. “What brings you to the Silent Place this night?”
Rhona did her best to breathe evenly, composing her thoughts as best she could. She wanted everything to be presented as clearly as it could be. With her left index finger she traced the air, leaving gossamer symbols in her wake. Equilibrium reached out with its right index finger and traced them in reverse.
“So much conflict,” the spirit murmured. “So much heartache.”
The whiteness of the Silent Place disolved in rivulets. In its place a meadow manifested. A sea of silver grass beneath a moon like none that Rhona had ever seen. Several yards away stood a tree. The tree. The Lost Tree. Equilibrium led her at an even pace, its great wings trailing into the ether.
“This is new,” Rhona remarked. The Silent Place had never before been more than a brilliant void of nothingness. “Have my memories done something?”
“You are the first to whom the truest nature of the Silent Place has manifested,” Equilibrium said. “This is a realm of memory and thought, a means for introspection, for retrospection, however they may be achieved. It is a place for the dreaming and the dead; it is a haven for the dreaming dead.”
Rhona brushed the trunk of the Lost Tree. She felt a tingle in her chest—but of what?
“Was I wrong?” she asked. “Has my life these many years but nothing but a lie?”
“You present your question broadly but you focus solely on the woman Djen Shy’eth,” Equilibrium said. “What do you think, Rhona? What does your mind tell you that your heart does not, that it refuses to?”
“Only that I am conflicted,” Rhona said. She felt stupid for her answer, for the ignorance and simplicity of her words. “I loved Djen, but I love Jémoon—I love my home. Our home. What Djen did threatened the livelihood of all I hold dear…”
“But?” Equilibrium asked.
“But…but…” Rhona wrinkled her nose. “I pushed her to recklessness. I pushed her to unleash the Vulture Luminíl—but why? Why would she do something like that? And what did I do to push her away?” She looked up at Equilibrium. The spirit gazed back from the darkness of its cowl. “I’m confused by it all.”
“Condemning loved ones to their ends has that effect on everyone who swings the sword,” said Equilibrium. “The guilt and retrospection manifest far quicker in some than in others. In you, long before Djen’s end. The heart often acts on impulse; it is fueled by desire strong enough to suppress logic either temporarily or permanently. What did you desire most, Rhona? What did your heart scream for?”
She opened her mouth to speak but the meadow had already begun to fade. Like the whiteness before it, the meadow dripped away in rivulets until the Silent Place was an endless void as black as the abyss.
Then, she saw a light.
* * *
The gray of Hang-Dead Forest was soothing to Rhona’s eyes. The smell of rain and death upon the breeze eased her mind as she strung Djen’s corpse to the lowest branch of the Lost Tree. As Rhona worked the memory of her time in the Silent Place returned and she found herself asking repeatedly the question Equilibrium had posed:
“What did my heart scream for?”
“A great many things,” Te Luminíl remarked. “A great many things, amongst them Djen Shy’eth.“
Something more than Djen, Rhona thought. Something strong enough to push her away.
“Power has the tendency to do that,” said Te Luminíl.
Rhona frowned, turning away from the tree. What are you saying?
“What, for the longest time, you sought yet at the same time denied you did,” Te Luminíl said. “Control. Authority.“
That’s madness, Rhona thought.
“Is it?“
Rhona was silent. Her body ached, her mind howled with the pain of uncertainty. She turned to Djen and brushed her cold cheek. She looked her in the eyes and in them saw a thousand possibilities evanesce. The future was forever fickle. Did that mean Rhona was as well?
She pressed her lips to Djen’s one final time.
Then she walked away, waiting for the words that Djen would never say.
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December 31, 2019
Year-End Retrospective, 2019
2019 has been an interesting year. It consisted of far more highs than it did lows; for that, I am thankful. I am thankful for a great many things and people this year, so let’s get into it, hmm?
Accomplishments, or A List of Creative Firsts
Self-published my first novel, VULTURESHad my first book signingGarnered a fair amount of positive reviews from big blogs and authorsCompeted in the SPFBO (Self-Published Fantasy Blog Off)Received a Reddit Stabby Nomination for best debutLaunched a fledgling book design business
Milestones, or A List of Personal Firsts & Joys
Had my first wedding anniversaryFound out we were having a babyFound out we were actually having TWO babiesIDENTICAL TWIN GIRLS
Friends & Family, or a List of People Who Put Up With My S**T
My wife Jenny and our almost-here baby girlsMy dad, my sister, and my mom (RIP, we miss you)My in-lawsMy doggoMy dudes Nelson, Josh, Mike, Eric, and HarryMy Twitter/Discord family, in no particular order: Clayton Snyder, Krystle Matar, Angela Boord, Bjorn Larson, Queen Timy the Terrible, Dave Wooliscroft, Nick Borrelli, and Travis Peck.
On the Horizon, or What I’m Currently Writing
PARABLE, a short novel set in the VULTURES universe. Could be a standalone, though it has the potential to spearhead a short prequel trilogy.SILENCE, the highly-anticipated sequel to VULTURES.
2020 Releases
PARABLE–Summer 2020DARK ENDS Anthology–February 2020
Parting Words
2019 was a definitely a year. I learned a lot personally and professionally, the latter of which I’d like to impart. Spend less time worrying about writing to market and simply write what you want to write. You’ll be a lot happier for it. Don’t worry about making lists and don’t go searching for reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. Those are for readers, not authors. Constantly refreshing those pages will only drive you nuts. Above all else, be kind, courteous, and welcoming to those in the community, whichever you find yourself in. Don’t be so quick to attack people for what you perceive to be a slight–we all make mistakes.
Thank you for a great year, everyone. Happy Holidays; see you in 2020!
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July 12, 2019
Free Ebook Copy of Vultures—Limited Time Offer
Do you want a free ebook? Great! From now until Saturday, July 13th at 11:59 pm you can get the VULTURES ebook FOR FREE. Just click the link below to take advantage of this promotion.
TRUTH FROM MADNESS
In Ariath, this is more than a simple adage. For Theailys An, they are words to live by, especially in the city of Helveden, where he and his demon brethren, the dissident, are looked upon with scorn. Viewed as cohorts of the dead progenitor of Ariathan suffering, they are outcasts.
Still, Theailys has a job to do: destroy the Heart of Mirkúr and end the war for good. Though Te Mirkvahíl is dead, its progeny leak endlessly from the Heart, sowing death with their passage. With The Keepers’ Wrath, a power focus of his own design, Theailys believes there is hope to restore peace to Ariath once again.
But ending a war is easier said than done, especially for a man still haunted by past tragedies and occasionally possessed by a murderous presence keen to take his body for its own. As Theailys works to forge The Keepers’ Wrath, amid a creeping shadow over Helveden, one thing becomes increasingly and horrifyingly clear:
These events have played out many times before.
“Highly imaginative and powerfully original.” –C.W. Snyder, author of RIVER OF THIEVES
“One of the most stunning debuts I’ve ever read.” –Justine Bergman, FANTASY BOOK CRITIC
“Vivid characters and evocative magic woven together in a deep, intricate setting. A fantastic debut!” –Christopher Husberg, author of DUSKFALL
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