Those who dreamed the most ancient pantheon of the heavens before the stars were named are gone and forgotten from all the Earth’s eight corners. But for one land. A chronicle of alternative history begins as from all quarters of Gaone Muru, the Middle Coast, come a dozen seekers and more---seasoned and green, wealthy and poor, woman and man, from society’s apex and its dregs also---to Great Tyrri on its seaside bay, the teeming, scheming, clan-ruled metropolis of the vibrant sea trader Ketts amidst their Eastlander clients and foes. Ambitions intertwine at the pinnacle of an ancient city-state society as complex as the Indus civilization, in its richest hour on the cusp of crisis and change.
While the slums roil with discontent and the warrior Wuroq stir in their serf-worked lowland over the coast crests, some of enterprise cross paths and seek their fortune in the City of Flowers, Tyrri: Timuras the youth, sworn as a militiaman bondservant, leaving his healer ‘sister’ Zorya in the countryside perhaps to follow; Marreike of the fens, a rambler and a gambler away north with the Passion Company; Bveron-Rim the messenger who well masks his cruel secret; cheery Dhurunna, come a courtesan to the Pleasure Station of Tyrri-Mah; Tabhitda the fisherman’s daughter, ill-content with small prospects; Tarqun, a wealthy and ambitious Eastlander striving for the heights of power; devious Uhlaicsa Wrau, richest clan Senior in all Gaone Muru, and her client-lover, the haunted poet-admiral Xupai Tdauetzi; and more besides. The Wheel of the heavenly pantheon turns; whose destiny does it favor?
About the Author
Richard Wyndbourne is a resident of the Northleft Coast of the US of A since first he earned his own bread and vino; now here, now there. Seattle is where he presently hangs his hat. A sometime scholar of history and society, historical theory is his chiefest design. A graduate of The Evergreen State College, he is a Greener in all senses; wiser thereby, if unfit for a drone’s life therefore. To speak of callings, he’d best put ‘gym rat,’ ‘wordsmith,’ or ‘trekker in the Mountains of Imagination’ on the shingle. What most do with life, family, and career have sifted through his fingers like colorless talc: You too would find them hard to grasp if you reached for the stars. He whistles while he walks, and he walks on.
Through the generation just preceding Richard Wyndbourne has read---and written---more poetry than fiction by far, while even so the seventh art has come first with the use of his stray time. He has your acquaintance, and you his, since he is now an accidental novelist. Yes, a figment of words waylaid him in a weak moment, and though he fled from that iridescent specter he was pursued and overcome, and a keyboard thrust into his smiling fingers to tell of Great Tyrri. Apart from that series now begun, the six best books you’ve never read are each one-third done on his laptop. To find the freedom to finish any amongst them, he’s written the one which you now have; a bit-work ladder from out of the Pit, he’ll climb till he gains the sun. Having advanced the proposition that he can live by his wits, he is presently in the discovery phase regarding whether he has any to speak of.