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The Gilded Serpent by Helen Quinn 326 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-1568; ISBN 1-4120-1190-6; US$26.50, C$29.49, EUR22.00, £15.50 The first volume of a fantastic saga in the tradition of Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings" or Zelazny's "Amber" series.
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About the Book
Set upon the distant world of Taüma, this is a tale of many passions: the passion of an immensely powerful immortal ruler for a mortal man, the unlawful passion of one brother for another, the passion of a jealous woman for a man who is indifferent to her, and the passion of a pair of "star-crossed" lovers- and hatred, which together ultimately precipitate a bloody war culminating in the downfall of the "white city" of Lôren in the land of Karled-Dû.
Rycharst Kalmaïthis, Lord of Shadowe, an exotic immortal exiled on this remote world, has sworn revenge on the land of Karled-Dû and its overlord, the Dukrugvola, for the indignity of being driven out of his domain and having had his freedom in the destruction of the circlet Caelvorchadu which chains him in his exile and which is held in the safekeeping of the Dukrugvola; and thirdly, he desires to recover into his power the fair young man, Francys Coras, whose name has become a by-word for scandal and vice throughout Karled-Dû following his escape from the clutches of the Lord of Shadowe some three years prior to the opening of this story.
It is around the character of Francys Coras that the whole tale unfolds. He enters on the stage as a hero, having recently saved the Dukrugvola's life during a military campaign, and the story charts the course of his life over the following year or more, whilst his reactions to his experiences, and teh responses which he evokes from others conspire to build a chain of events with far-reaching effects upon the whole of the world.
This book is the first volume of a quartet (The White City Dimmed) which will take the story through to its gripping conclusion.
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About the Author
"Helen Quinn" lives in Devon, England. Although she has been writing for many years, due to illness and other commitments, it is only recently that she has been able to find the time and energy to complete the first part of The White City Dimmed quartet. As a single parent, working full time, with a home, a son and a cat to maintain, her writing time in inevitably restricted, but her enthusiasm remains undiminished.
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Sample Excerpts or Table of Contents
Prologue
To the dark, brooding ruins of the great castle of Carakhas at the heart of the vast plain Memnos, returning, came Rycharst Kalmaïthis, Lord of the Realm of Shadowe, who was also named Estrachau in the ancient tongue, which signifies the Exiled One. And at the hour of his coming sombre storm clouds gathered, heaping up their maleficent mass above the sprawling stonework of the castle upon its eminence, and the ominous deep growl of thunder rodded and echoed through the narrow, prematurely benighted streets and alleys of the city below. Rain fell, breaking over the high gables of the houses and spilling in innumerable cascades to form murky, spreading puddles in the roadway, the noisy drumming of the heavy drops affording a monotonous and subtly menacing accompaniment to the wild, wailing song of the storm.
Lightening fashioned a fleeting, fragile crown of blue-white fire about the sole surviving tower of the great ruined castle, fitfully illuminating the circular summit wherein stood Tycharst deep in thought, unmoving save for the folds of his cloak which stirred restlessly in the eddies of the storm wind, a shadow of night amid the gloom. Roused from his reverie by the lightning's insistent flickering, Rycharst lifted his head to gaze out through the storm into the West with eyes the colour of th sky at midnight beneath the moon. Some little time he stood thus, motionless, then slowly he raised one hand, the right, palm outwards, to shoulder level and, in a voice like the rushing of the storm-wind which swept the sky, he spoke, calling down a curse upon the land of Karled-Dû in the West, and upon every person dwelling therein, save one alone; and he made a solemn vow, that he would not cease his efforts against that land until the day might dawn when he should have secured a full and perfect revenge.
The final word dropped from his lips and, as if to seal the pact, a dazzling shaft of lightning rent the sky in halves, succeeded on the instant by the deafening boom of a mighty thunder-clap, which shook the ground, dislodging loose stones amongst the ruins, and leaving behind a trail of damage in the city below. Briefly the lips of Rycharst curved in a secret smile. For several minutes more he remained in that place, listening to the savage voices of the storm; until, of a sudden, he turned and strode abruptly from the chamber.
Once away from the protection of the tower, he was confronted at every turn by manifold evidence of the destruction wrought by the forces of the Dukrugvola when they had driven him out so ignominiously two years earlier. With uncompromising clarity the grim details presented themselves to his eyes: battered and broken, crumbling, smoke-blackened walls from which the vital, binding mortar slowly dribbled; the first storey of the massive central block wherein he prowled, a roofless expanse of desolation rendered perilous by partially vanished or decaying floors and strewn with heaps of rubble; here and there a few scanty charred remains of once fine furnishings and hangings lying sodden and rotting beneath the furious onslaught of the rain; frail ferns and flowering plants creeping from cracks and crevices wherein they had established precarious footholds, or sprouting sturdily up from fissures in the floor; and over all, indiscriminately, the slippery green slime which is the badge of decay. Not a single object in all that place remained unscathed, and in that room, which once had been his bedchamber, it seemed to him that the destruction had been effected with particular thoroughness.
Yet, even in the midst of that seemingly total devastation, something had managed to survive. Rycharst's keen eyes espied the tiny gleam of metal through the gloom. With cautious steps he picked his way across the uncertain surface and bent hungrily to retrieve his find. Stones and dirt nearly covered it. Delicate-fingered he lifted it clear and wiped it clean upon the corner of his cloak, and then he looked to see what it was that he had found.
In the palm of his hand there lay a fragile silver chain, much tarnished and besmirched from its long sojourn in the dirt and damp, and from the chain depended a delicate crescent shape wrought from the white metal thenome and thin as a finger-nail. It was an exquisite thing, and yet the eyes of Rycharst saw it not, for caught about the links of the chain from which it hung twisted a single strand of hair, breathtakingly fair.
Heedless all at once of the incessant drumming of the rain upon the stones around him, heedless indeed of the beating of heavy drops upon his bared head, Rycharst stopped still. Slowly he raised his eyes from contemplation of his find to look before him, though he saw nothing of his surroundings, for through the wild confusion of the storm he seemed to spy a face. Fair hair was its frame, tumbling to unseen shoulders; from beneath the arching brows a pair of hazel eyes gazed out at him with mischievous limpidity. Unconsciously he took a step towards it, lifting longing hands, but at his movement the fine=boned face began to fade and melt away; and in the final moment of its existence he seemed to see the corners of the mouth curl up deridingly.
'Francys!'
The name burst from his lips as an anguished cry.
'Francys!'
But the cold, uncaring stones of the great ruin gave back his words to him, cruelly mocking.
'Francys! Francys!'
Scarcely aware of his action, Rycharst slipped to his knees in the dirt and wet, the silver chain entwined about his long fingers stretched out in supplication. Rain soaked the long black locks, running in rivulets from the tips and streaming down the ivory face, drowning the tears which came unbidden from the midnight eyes; and Rycharst Kalmaïthis, Lord of Shadowe, bowed down his head and wept.
Catalogue Information
