Praise for Secrets of the Sands and Guardians of the Desert
“The final product put me in awe of where the world-building skills of Wisoker are at this early stage of her career...reminiscent of something out of an Ursula K. LeGuin novel in detail and complexity. Wisoker, like the best uathors of this genre, has created a completely original society upon which to tell her story.”
—SF Site
“intriguing...engaging.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An absorbing story, a unique world, and fascinating characters. Leona Wisoker is definitely a writer to watch!”
—Tamora Pierce
“...a lushly visual and highly detailed world of desert tribes, a language of beads, and a unique way of viewing the world.”
—Library Journal
“Leona Wisoker is a gifted storyteller and in Secrets of the Sands she has succeeded in crafting a refreshingly unporedictable tale set in a stunningly rich and detailed world.”
—Michael J. Sullivan, author of the Riyria Revelations series
“For its complexity, intriguing story, and (as in the first volume) for its characters I find totally fascinating, I heartily recommend Guardians of the Desert.”
—SF Revu
“A storyteller with a good deal of promise. Give this one a try.”
— CJ Cherryh
“Sturdy, engaging, confidently-written—Guardians of the Desert is all any fan could have hoped for in a sequel. The delightful Ms. Wisoker is now two for two.”
—C.J. Henderson
“With a flair for evoking exotic locales and an eye for detail, Leona Wisoker has crafted a first novel peopled by characters who are more than they first seem. From the orphaned street-thief who possesses an uncanny ability to read situations and people, to the impetuous noblewoman thrust into a world of political intrigue, Wisoker weaves a colourful tapestry of desert tribes, honour, revenge, and an ancient, supernatural race.”
—Janine Cross, author of the Dragon Temple Saga
“Wisoker makes a praiseworthy work when it comes to world building, creating with care and without haste a strong world, one piece at a time...another unique element of the story which...certainly will be developed more in the series’ next novels.”
—Dark Wolf’s Fantasy Reviews
BELLS OF THE KINGDOM
by
LEONA WISOKER
Published by ReAnimus Press
Other books by Leona Wisoker:
Secrets of the Sands
Guardians of the Desert
Fires of the Desert
© 2014 by Leona Wisoker. All rights reserved.
http://ReAnimus.com/authors/leonawisoker
Interior illustrations by Ari Warner Copyright © 2009
Cover illustration Copyright © 2012 by Aaron Miller
Used by permission.
Cover design by Rachael Murasaki Ish
Licence Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
~~~
This book is dedicated to all the “silent” survivors out there: of childhood abuse, of drug and alcohol addiction, of PTSD, of bipolar disorder, of chronic depression.... The list seems endless at times, and is always heartbreaking. I could not have written this book without the incredible generosity and trust of so many survivors who have shared their stories with me; I thank you, one and all, and bow before the incredible strength that most of you don’t even understand you possess.
May you find healing and peace; may your families and loved ones find healing and peace; may your neighbors and countryfolk find healing and peace; may the world, in the end, find healing and peace.
Namaste.
~~~
Table of Contents
Children of the Desert series
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Glossary and Pronunciation Guide
About the Author
Children of the Desert series
by Leona Wisoker
Book One: Secrets of the Sands
Book Two: Guardians of the Desert
Book Three: Bells of the Kingdom
Book Four: Fires of the Desert
Book Five: Servants of the Sands (forthcoming)
Acknowledgments
I’m very grateful for the support and encouragement of so many people, most of whom have been named already in the Acknowledgements of my previous books. I am especially grateful, this time around, for the wonderful patience of all the people who waited an extra year for this book; I truly hope it proves worth the wait!
One of the most moment
ous events for me, during the final round of revisions and editing of this particular book, was the rapid decline and passing of my father in 2012. Dealing with his death shook me far more than I could ever have foreseen, and while there is absolutely no direct parallel between my relationship with my father and the child-parent storyline featured in this particular book, the experience definitely affected the clarity with which I wrote about certain emotional moments.
This has been, by far, the hardest book I have ever written; in part because I did have to travel to some very emotionally dark places in order to understand why the various characters acted as they did.
There were many, many people who held me up, encouraged me, and kept me going over the past few months, who served as my light in the darkness, and who deserve a mention here, even if they have been pointed out in former books: my husband Earl, my mother Renate, my siblings Steve, Tanya, and Sue; my friends Patrick, Todd, Russell, and Rick; the incredible trio of Chris, Amy, and Ame; and of course my publisher and editor, Barbara Friend Ish, and her wonderful family. Aaron Miller also deserves an extra round of applause for the fabulous cover, as does Ari Warner for the continuing excellence of the maps.
I thank you all, and bow to you all, and can never repay any of you adequately for the support. All I can do is offer my best effort to the next book, and the next, and the next, to repay in some small measure your faith in me... and because I believe that would have made my father prouder than anything else I could possibly do in this life.
Prologue
Start with the bells. There were always the bells.
Late summer air, heat-hazed, thick, and sticky, clung to Kolan’s skin. Through the wide, arched window the Arason Church gardens spread out in shades of green, white, and gold: there a row of midseason peas; over further, lines of summerbeans; another, taller section was corn tasselling into a frayed, delicious mess.
His mouth watered as he looked out at that last item.
The resonant braummm of the Arason Church bells, marking two hours before noon, jarred him out of his drowsy survey of the gardens. It was hard to keep a contented contemplation of anything going for long, with those things sounding off seemingly every time one relaxed. It hadn’t been so bad out on the edges of town, where Kolan had grown up; but here, especially in this room, the bells always made his teeth vibrate fit to fall out of his mouth. Not relaxing at all.
But then, as sio Dernhain would have said, Kolan wasn’t supposed to be relaxing. He was supposed to be working at learning to write clean copy. Reluctantly, he brought his attention back to the parchment in front of him. An Accounting of the Life of Tenedal, it read. Head Priest of the Arason Branch of the Northern Church, d.1090-1111. He studied the graceful writing without enthusiasm, then reached for the quill.
With delicate care, he copied the line, his writing stark and clumsy compared to the sample above it. A large blot marked every other letter. He sighed, set the quill aside again, and looked out at the pale blue sky. A large horsefly rattled by, circling, searching for a place to settle; Kolan sent it spinning back out the window with a well-aimed slap and a silent apology to the Four.
Harm no living creature, from beetle to boy: one of the Holy Creeds that Kolan recited, alongside a dozen other novices, every morning. All have their places and purposes in the eyes of the gods.
What purpose a horsefly or tick had, Kolan couldn’t begin to guess. Even sio Ense, the gentlest of the Arason Church siopes, had admitted to difficulty with that one.
“Perhaps,” he’d said thoughtfully, “it’s enough to merely understand that one is doing wrong, and be as gentle as possible in removing the offending creature from one’s person. It’s very difficult not to slap a stinging insect away from one, and it’s very difficult to avoid harm to the insect when removing a tick or mosquito.”
Solian, on the other hand, laughed at Kolan for being concerned over insects.
“They’re bugs,” he always said, usually as he was squashing a beetle underfoot. “There are hundreds and hundreds of them, Kolan! They give birth to dozens more every few days. We’ll be overrun if all we do is shoo them gently outside. The gods don’t care about bugs. They care about us. Otherwise the bugs would be running the world, not humans.”
Even though Solian was only a novice, like Kolan himself, and sio Ense a full senior priest, Kolan couldn’t quite decide who was more right.
The heavy tramp of many booted feet on stone echoed through the window to Kolan’s left, the one that looked out over the main courtyard. Kolan wavered, biting his lip, but stayed stubbornly put. Curiosity wasn’t any part of his duties at the moment. Sio Dernhain had been specific: Not for anything less than a fire do you leave that seat and stop your practicing, he’d said. When you can write a line without a blot, you can get up. Until then, you sleep at that desk!
Sio Dernhain wasn’t particularly noted for his kindness, compassion, or patience.
Kolan looked at the blotchy copy line and grimaced. This was going to be a long day.
A thin, wavering shriek floated up from the courtyard. People began shouting. Kolan stood, then sat, then stood again. He made two steps toward the courtyard window, then retreated to the stool, clenching his hands in frustration.
Another of the Creeds came to mind: Obedience to the gods requires a clean heart and a dedication to one’s given tasks. Seek not the chaos of the world outside, but be content with the inner truth and strength the gods will always give to those who truly seek it.
Kolan sighed deeply and picked up the quill. His next attempt only had four blotches, which counted in his mind as encouraging progress.
Outside, people shouted and bellowed. He resolutely shut his ears to everything and bent over his work. Seek not the chaos of the world outside.
Two blotches. Maybe he could produce a clean line before the commotion died down, and sneak a look out the window as a reward.
The next line had so many blotches as to be nearly illegible. Dedication to one’s given tasks. He scowled at the paper and forced himself to slow down. Pay attention. Focus. Dedication.
Each slight curve seemed to take forever, each loop an eternity of care.
Nothing existed except the quill, the paper, the ink, the motion.
He put the final stop at the end and sat back, blinking: perfect. He’d done it. Not a single smear or blot. He put the quill aside and looked toward the courtyard window, but didn’t climb from the stool. The air hung heavy and silent; whatever had happened, it had finished already. There wouldn’t be anything to see.
Seek not the chaos of the world outside. He studied his copy line, compared it to the original; his version was distinctly clumsier. He reached for the quill, cleaned it carefully, then dipped it back into the ink and began again.
Some time later, Dernhain said, from a scant step behind him, “Not bad, sannio.”
Kolan jerked, startled from a near-trance. He barely managed to avoid knocking the ink pot over, but the quill flew from his hand and clattered onto the floor.
Dernhain covered his broad face with one hand and sighed heavily as Kolan scrambled to retrieve the quill.
“Never mind,” he said in answer to Kolan’s stammered apologies. “Sionno Hagair wants to see you. Now.”
“Now?” Kolan looked down at his inkstained fingers.
“Now,” Dernhain said. “Hurry up. There’s someone in his office that wants to talk to you.”
Kolan stared, bewildered. Dernhain’s glare left no room for questions.
“Go!”
He ran.
Sionno Hagair’s office always seemed, to Kolan, far too small to accommodate not only the man himself, but the massive piles of stuff that accumulated on the black oak desk. Bound books and piles of precious paper formed one thick tower; bags of mysterious powders and granular substances another tall, sloppy heap. One handwoven mesh bag held what had to be over a hundred glass balls, variously colored and sized.
Kolan tried to avoid looking at
that bag. They had been his marbles, the only thing from home he’d been allowed to retain when he entered the novitiate. Sio Dernhain had objected that the small glass toys were far too valuable and constituted a novice holding unacceptable wealth; sionno Hagair, after some thought, and to Kolan’s everlasting gratitude, had firmly overridden Dernhain.
Seeing his marbles here still sent a dull, embarrassed ache through his chest. What had happened to sionno Arenin hadn’t been his fault—but he carried the guilt all the same. Harm no living creature, from beetle to boy.
The tall man standing beside Hagair’s desk coughed and said, impatiently, “Well, boy?”
Kolan darted a quick, nervous glance at the Head Priest’s stern, unsmiling face. Hagair dipped his head in a barely visible nod, granting permission to speak. Kolan gulped and looked back at the tall stranger, who cut an imposing figure even in travel-stained clothing.
The man had introduced himself without waiting for sionno Hagair to do so. “Captain Kullag of Bright Bay,” he’d said curtly. “Here to investigate word of witches in Arason. Do you know any, boy?”
Kolan had opened his mouth, shut it again, and stared at Hagair’s desk to give himself time to think. At the captain’s impatient prompt, he gathered his wits and said, “No, Captain, I don’t.”
A quick glance at Hagair showed the man’s expression held the faintest hint of a frown, but the Head Priest made no open protest.
“I’m told you do,” Kullag said heavily. “I’m assured you do. By a friend of yours. Solian.”
Kolan shot the head priest another, more startled look. Hagair now looked thunderously grim.
“S-Solian?” Kolan stammered. “But he’s in Jion!”