A darkness rises.
The halcyon days of Essegena are over, and it hasnât even been a year. Deathâs heavy hand has already fallen upon the Eia Valley. As winter draws near, so the shadows begin to deepen. And within those shadows are unspeakable things.
Governor Ballard is losing allies. His wife is dead. His oldest friend has abandoned his cause, en route to the Hiveâthe beating heart of the Unity. David Clifford, newly-made Lord Constable, is the Governorâs closest remaining friend. But he has other concerns. A series of grisly murders rocks the already-fragile colony.
To the north of the valley, Macel Donea travels north, hoping to find the missing Bessily Edwards. Bess, meanwhile, learns secrets about the power inside her and the people who were living on Essegena before the Eia and its passengers ever took to space.
And through it all, the storms begin to build. When the thunder cracks, nothing about life on Essegena is going to be the same again.
A darkness rises.
The halcyon days of Essegena are over, and it hasnât even been a year. Deathâs heavy hand has already fallen upon the Eia Valley. As winter draws near, so the shadows begin to deepen. And within those shadows are unspeakable things.
Governor Ballard is losing allies. His wife is dead. His oldest friend has abandoned his cause, en route to the Hiveâthe beating heart of the Unity. David Clifford, newly-made Lord Constable, is the Governorâs closest remaining friend. But he has other concerns. A series of grisly murders rocks the already-fragile colony.
To the north of the valley, Macel Donea travels north, hoping to find the missing Bessily Edwards. Bess, meanwhile, learns secrets about the power inside her and the people who were living on Essegena before the Eia and its passengers ever took to space.
And through it all, the storms begin to build. When the thunder cracks, nothing about life on Essegena is going to be the same again.
The shallows of the water danced amid a shimmering haze in the autumn daylight, gentle waves caressing the sands as they washed onto the shore. A few hours ago, when theyâd still been up at the top of the high hill, they could see the old ruined boathouse still cresting the horizon, a mournful monument to the lost village around it. Old Medger said the ghosts of all the dead souls still lived in these villages. The Shadow might have taken their bodies, purged their worldly forms of all the good, but it would never take their essences. And Old Medger was right, Rhiannon reflected. You could feel those ghosts, at every forsaken hovel on the long road from Canad. They weighed heavy on the ground.
Theyâd since descended the hill, making their camp at the top of a narrow isthmus. From her perch on the soft grass, Rhiannon could hear the gentle whisper of each lightly lapping heartbeat from the indolent water. This was a tidal lake. It was connected, somehow, to the Grey Sea, which had been the southern border of Belchet at its greatest extent and which had never been conquered by even the boldest wayfarers.
It was Captain Kentonâs idea to set up camp so close to the shore. Tobit preferred the crest of the hill, where they could nestle in the folds of an old coppice to keep out of the wind. Thereâd be a ready supply of kindling, too, for fires, and dead trees burned the best. Dall liked the hill, too. You could see much further from up high. If the darkness got too thick, theyâd know to run. As it was, they were taking a huge chance. They might not see the encroaching shadow until it was almost upon them, and if it crept up the isthmus unnoticed and cut off the old Ayre completely theyâd have to swim for it. Nobody could outswim the Shadow.
For Rhiannon, the biggest advantage the top of the hill had over their lowly camp was the view. Down here, the horizon line was in the middle of the water. There was nothing to look at. The only option was to talk. Not that the others were pleasant conversation. Sheâd shown enough fight the day sheâd buried a knife in Whettonâs chest to scare anybody else away from trying to get too familiar with her, but it didnât stop them making jokes.
How else were they to get their release? Behind the walls of the Firth, or any of the other cities, women were like gods. Men like Captain Kenton would never dare crack a joke like that in the Firth. The Queen and her enforcers would see him dead for that, every bone brokenâbut first theyâd strip him of his position, so his children would receive no pension. One queen had died birthing the child her rapist had left inside her. There was no place for tolerance now.
But life amongst the Rovers was a manâs life. Only three of them had been women, of the fifteen whoâd set out with Captain Kenton. Wandering Mary had wandered right into a grimalkinâs den, half a day from the South Gate. Birgit was married to Ludlow, the thick-skulled brute who always skulked around behind Kenton, so despite her slight build she was protected. Which left Rhiannon. Strong enough to keep the lechers at bay, so long as they didnât jump her, but not strong enough to ward off their jokes.
She spent her time with Medger. Heâd lived through the days of the Squabbling Sisters and bathed in the blood they wrought, and always liked to joke that their wars had taught him to fear a woman angered. In his younger days heâd been married first to a man from Frevissey, then a woman from the docks, then a person from the Royal Guard, and having tasted the breadth of the gender spectrum had come to the conclusion that he didnât really like people all that much. Now, he was old and poor. His eyesight had begun to fail, and his joints often plagued with gout, but he could not afford to retire. A man his age would be begging in the backstreets even fully sighted. Blind, he might as well jump from the Minaret. Rhiannon kept his secret, and helped him when he needed it, and in return he made sure she always felt comfortable.
Old Medger was in many ways the grandfather she wished sheâd had. Her actual grandfathers were of a baser form of man. One was a drunkard whoâd been defeated by the alcohol when Rhiannon was four. The other was a wife-beater whoâd been defeated by Rhiannon, when she was seven. Well, it was the knife that had done most of the work. Sheâd just pushed it into his gut until the carpet was coated in his blood.
There were six of them sat on the shores of the sea as the afternoon meandered along into twilight, and dusk gave in to night. Three more were lying in fresh graves beneath the soil of Alfredâs Port, in the shade of the crumbling market hall, where sickness had claimed them. The others had gone off with Captain Kenton, in pursuit of a lead the Captain had claimed to see. A spire of smoke, far south. Ludlow was the only other to see the smoke, and heâd swear he saw the Queen shitting upwards if that was what Captain Kenton claimed to have seen.
Ludlow was cooling his blistering feet in the water, smoking from a long pipe with his jaw set to warn away anybody who might dare to try to talk to him. No doubt he was worried about his wife. Birgit and Ludlow never did anything apart from one another. But an overextended knee as he disembarked from the rowboat that morning had left Ludlow hobbling, and heâd stayed behind to rest it up. Birgit had shoved a proverbial finger up his arse when he asked her to stay with him. Sheâd been away for a good few hours now. In her absence, he seemed bereft.
The group they were following was a known rabble. Sixleaf, their leader, had open disdain for the Queen and the authorities. Heâd apparently become a Rover because it put him at less risk of being sought out by the Royal Guard than if he were a poacher. Sixleafâs gang never found a thing that hadnât already been found. They were hated across the breadth of the Firth, and the Queen would probably have left them to their fate were it not for the intervention of Frey Renton. He had a young nephew out with Sixleaf. It was unacceptable, in his eyes, for any effort to be spared in tracking them down. So Kenton and his gang had turned right back around, not even two days after returning to the Firth, and gone south.
Like, a long way south.
Most of the time, even the hardiest Rovers stayed north of the mountains, in the protection of the Beacons. On the rare occasion somebody crossed Manonâs Pass, it was to the fields immediately south, where some crops still bore fruit and some foolhardy farmers still hoped to settle their claim. Even the blackened ruins of the ghost fort known now only as Shadow Hold were well beyond the normal reach of the Queenâs men. The crones spun stories of Shadow Hold as though it was the edge of the world. Following Captain Kentonâs lead, theyâd gone about fifty miles south of the edge of the world.
It was only earlier this morning, paddling his weathered oar in the murky waters around Alfredâs Port, that Heath had first given voice to the question theyâd all been thinking: âwhat in name of Matheld is Sixleaf doing this far from home?â
Rhiannon liked Heath, as men went in Kentonâs gang. When he laughed along with the othersâ jokes, it was with a whisper of discomfort, an uncertain look Rhiannonâs way, and he was never the one to make the jokes. He had ruddy cheeks, not dulled as the youthful roundness of his face took on a mature edge. Sometimes when he laughed, his eyes would close and the tip of his nose would twitch just a bit. That only happened when Rhiannon was the one who made him laugh.
She liked Heath, but she couldnât talk to him, not for very long. They had nothing in common.
Nothing except the man in the fog.
Sheâd sworn not to talk about him, not to even think about him. She didnât like to think about him anyway. It was better to pretend the whole incident had never happened. That way she could pretend she wasnât completely crazy.
Captain Kenton returned just as Tobit put some sausages on the fire. They were yesterdayâs leftovers, already well-cooked. If they charred them enough, the burnt taste was strong enough to pretend they werenât thoroughly stale.
âCaptain.â Tobit was the first to rise in respect to Kenton. The rest all did the same, standing wherever they were. Even Ludlow rose unsteadily to his feet, quaking as he did so. He was going to need a cane or something, or heâd never make it back to the Firth. His foot was too bad. If it had been somehow infected, even a cane wouldnât be enough.
The first thing Rhiannon noticed was the fact that Captain Kenton was on his own. He shouldnât have been. Four of their hardiest had set out with him earlier. Birgit, Small Jack, Joscelin and Danvers. There was nothing all four together couldnât handle, and certainly not without a fight. If theyâd run into a band of grimalkins, or even a bilidou, then perhaps one of them would have been hurt. But the others would be here, bloodied perhaps, carrying the wounded man between them. Kenton didnât seem to have a scratch on him. Whatever had separated him from the others, it had ignored him completely.
The second thing Rhiannon noticed was the fact that Captain Kentonâs eyes were wide, the pupils completely black. He walked like a drunk man, stumbling slightly on each step. His ankle rolled horribly as he trod awkwardly on a loose pebble, between the two tall conifers at the edge of their camp, but he walked on without reacting.
Tobit looked put out that Kenton had ignored him, but went back to his cooking. The others gathered around, no doubt ready for dinner. Rhiannon went across to Medger.
âThe Captain looks drunk,â she said. âYou reckon he found a cache?â
Medger shook his old head. âKenton has one of them iron constitutions. This whole lake could be hard liquor and it wouldnât get him drunk. Believe me, lass, Iâve seen himââ
âOutdrink a whole division without batting an eye,â Rhiannon finished. âYouâve told that story a hundred times, old man.â
âItâs worth telling a hundred times then,â said Medger.
Captain Kenton skirted around the edge of the camp, hugging close to the shoreline. Ludlow, still on his feet, began to hobble towards the Captain. He was going to ask about his wife, no doubt. Kenton was lucky that Ludlow had that injured foot. Fully fighting fit, heâd have had the Captain by the throat for leaving Birgit out alone.
Rhiannon turned her attention to Ludlow, keeping a keen eye on his reactions. She hoped heâd get angry. If he was angry, it was good. It meant Kenton had just abandoned the others. If Ludlow didnât get angry, it meant there was a reason Kenton had come back alone. The others probably wouldnât be coming back any time soon.
As he got within armâs reach, Ludlow opened his mouth to speak. Kenton met him with a raised arm, shoved him with full force. Ludlow landed in the water with a splash.
âWhatâs Kenton playing at?â murmured Medger.
Ludlow pulled himself up, drenched. The water flowed off him like a waterfall. He tried to turn around, but he didnât get very far along. Kenton was on him again, shoving him to the ground, and this time he stayed there. His hand was kept firmly on Ludlowâs head. Ludlow writhed and wriggled and tried to cry out, but it only created bubbles. He lashed his arms out wildly. Beat them against Kentonâs legs. Nothing made any difference. Rhiannon was frozen in place watching, and Medger too beside her. It wasnât until Ludlow fell still that she regained her sense of where she was.
Medger was the first forward. Good old Medger, he took the lead and Rhiannon followed. Kenton, apparently oblivious to their approach, started walking towards the centre of the camp. Medger went off after him, as fast as he could go. Rhiannon wanted to go too, but she couldnât ignore Ludlow. Heâd need help, medicine. She ran to him, fished in the water until she could pull his head above the surface. He wasnât breathing. His hands were clammy, his body cold. One eye had filled with blood, turning red. The poor man had popped a blood vessel fighting back.
And he was dead. Kenton had killed him.
Rhiannon rose in anger. It was a good job Medger had gone on ahead. If sheâd been the first one to get to Kenton, sheâd have killed him. She didnât hold with murderers. Not ever.
When theyâd made the camp, Joscelin and Dall had put up a little armoury. It was a specialty of theirs; Dall had an aptitude for whittling, and somehow he could always find a few pieces of wood going spare. Joscelin was organised almost to a fault. Between them theyâd gathered the partyâs weapons in one place, and there were some lethal ones there. Rhiannon had her eye on a dirk with a bloodstone blade that had changed hands several times already. It had left the Firth in a pouch around Wandering Maryâs waist, and Two-Tom had laid claim to it when Mary met the grimalkin. When Two-Tom died, Tobit took the dagger. Now, it had found its way into Kentonâs hands. It was just there for the taking, right where Dall had put it, and beside it was a fearsome steel spear. Kenton took that, too.
All eyes were on Kenton now. Tobitâs sausages were well and truly forgotten. Old Medger was only a few paces behind Kenton, striding with purpose. âCaptain, you need toââ
The spear was dripping with blood when it came out the back of Medgerâs head. He stood still and lifeless for a second, held in a deathly inertia, and then he fell. The blood pooled on the grass around him and began to snake towards Rhiannon.
She screamed.
That was a mistake. Kenton had forgotten her, but he turned straight away.
Shit.
Behind him, Rhiannon could see the rest of them making a silent flight. None of them would care to rescue her. She was a woman, and unclaimed. Better that they left her to die. If she was lucky, Kenton would kill her quickly, and thereâd be none of her around to feel it come the morning when Tobit came back to get the fuck heâd always talked about getting.
She backed off a step, but the water seeping into her shoe told her there was nowhere to run. Theyâd told Kenton not to camp here. No doubt Dall was expecting it to be the Shadow that would creep up on them, trap them at the tip of the Ayre. He certainly wouldnât have expected Kenton to be their death.
She stood rooted in fear for a minute. Kenton seemed to regard her for a second, then drew his arm back and threw. In the darkness she didnât see what heâd thrown until too late. The bloodstone dagger embedded itself in her shoulder blade, right in there, and it was all she could do not to cry out in pain. Sheâd never been stabbed before. She was always too good; nobody could get a hit in. Why had nobody told her it hurt so much?
Kenton busied himself over Medgerâs body, retrieving the spear from the old man and sliding his brains off the blade with a finger. With a trembling hand, Rhiannon reached for the dagger in her shoulder. Just touching it made it quiver slightly, and that shot a jolt of fresh agony all through her. Had she somehow offended the Gods, that they saw fit to prick her with so many invisible needles? Still, the dagger was her only weapon. She gritted her teeth, screwed her eyes tightly shut, and yanked on the hilt. One firm tug, and it would be out. She screamed afresh when she pulled at it, and as soon as it was free she threw up from the pain.
And then Kenton was upon her, and she had no time to worry about her shoulder any more.
She backed off another step, and her leg gave way. The water was frigid, and its salty sting battered at her shoulder and brought the fury afresh. She swam, as best she could. In childhood, sheâd spent time in the Canad with the other kids. Theyâd race down the river, from the Queenâs Beacon down to the Broken Beacon, a full four miles. Rhiannon never finished. Sheâd get a hundred metres or so, then sheâd start to tire, and so sheâd splash pitifully until a passing guard took pity on her and dove in to pull her to the shallows.
Thereâd be no passing guard to help her now, but she couldnât give up. She had to get to the Broken Beacon, even if it killed her.
She trod water for a time, just to keep her shoulder dry. She wasnât sure she could handle the pain again.
Fortunately for her, Kenton had apparently lost interest. He followed her as far as the waterline, and stood there for a time. She expected him to follow. Heâd outswim her easily, and sheâd be dead before she got out of sight of the shore. But he never came.
Slowly, Rhiannon began to meander further out into the water, tentatively feeling for the bottom with her feet. One of her shoes had come off at some point, and the other was loose. She kicked it away. It would only get waterlogged, and weigh her down. Fur was great for cold weather, less so for water. And in any case the sand writhing between her toes took her back to a younger time, to a happier time. She could almost pretend she was back home, if she closed her eyes.
Kenton had disappeared at some point. She didnât remember him leaving. One second he was there watching her, and the next there was no sign of him.
Rhiannon breathed a sigh of relief. If she could just tread water for a few minutes longerâuntil she was sure it was safeâshe could get back to dry land. There, maybe, she could rest.
And in the morning, if Kenton didnât come back for her while she slept, she could start to figure out what to do next.
Her shoulder still ached badly. Whether it got infected or not was out of her hands, at the moment. Better to take a chance on that than be certain of death. That would be another problem for the morning.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and started to wade back to shore. Each time her feet touched the sand, she counted another step. A hundred and Iâll be there, she told herself. A hundred and fifty, tops. And now the count was at thirty. Forty. Fifty.
At fifty-six, she didnât touch sand. Her toes curled around something cold, clammy, staid. Whatever it was, it withdrew quickly. Her heart raced. Some sort of fish, maybe? There were said to be some pure horrors in the seas. Old Governor Balkett had been brought beneath the waves by forces unknown, those centuries ago, along with most of the men of the colonyâand that was in the waters of the Firth, far friendlier than the southern seas. Toothless old grandmothers warned away from the high mountain lagoons even as they sucked on their own gums, because something lived in the water there. And Alfredâs Port had once been a respectable settlement, its harbour on the same waters Rhiannon now swam in. The people who lived here hadnât just decided to abandon their home for no good reason.
But it wasnât a fish, of any form. She knew that when her feet brushed against the same thing again. Those were fingers, the knuckles all hairy. Those fingers were attached to a hand. And that hand grabbed.
Everything happened before Rhiannonâs brain could process the last thing. By the time she made the connection, Ludlow was looming up out of the water in front of her. His eyes, open, were dead and glassy, and they belied no flicker of recognition. If they even saw her, they had forgotten her. A hand clasped around her ankle, and she kicked and cried and wriggled until she thought Ludlow would have to let go. His wrist would be broken if he didnât.
Then again, did dead men fear broken wrists?
There was a name for creatures like this, the dead come back to life. Shadowburnt. Ordinary people corrupted entirely by the Shadow, condemned to serve on even in death. Shadowburnt were worse than any grimalkins or bilidous or monsters of the sea. If she werenât careful, Rhiannon might even find herself becoming one of them.
The more she struggled, the tighter Ludlowâs grip got, and suddenly it was Rhiannonâs turn to fear for the structural integrity of her skeleton. Her ankle felt like it might pop off in Ludlowâs hand.
And then she was free, and she kicked to get further free. Her head went below the water, and the pain from the salt seeping into her shoulder made her dizzy, and when at last, frantic, she kicked back to the surface, she couldnât see any trace of the shore.
There was only black darkness on all sides, ready to swallow her up if she wavered. And she would waver, sooner or later. Her tired muscles would give up and long for sleep, and sheâd drift beneath. But that was only if Ludlow didnât catch her first.
The night was suddenly frigid.
The Burgeoning Storm is the second installment of Alexandrina Wilsonâs The Books of Lightness series. Continuing with the epic tale started in the first book, the second volume opens with Essegena reeling from the wave of death that swept through the Eia Valley less than one year ago. Winter is now coming, and darkness still lurks on the horizon. Governor Ballard is doing his best to persevere following not only losing valuable friends and allies, but his beloved wife, as well. When a new crop of gruesome murders threatens to upend things further, he must rely on his new friendship with Lord Constable David Clifford to thwart a new evil. Meanwhile, Macel Donea is trying to locate Bessily Edwards, who has gone missing and also harnesses a special power within her. As a new storm threatens Essegena, the answers may lie not only within Bessilyâs powers, but in the people who populated their world long ago. One thing is certain, Essegena will never be the same.
The Burgeoning Storm is quite complexly built. The plot is quite intricate, with a myriad of intersecting storylines and diverse characters. The world built by Wilson contains elements of both fantasy and reality. The futuristic elements give readers a taste of what life might look like hundreds of years in the future, after humanity has capitalized on space travel and exploration to expand to other locations within the universe. It also emphasizes complex themes such as evil, death, grief and overcoming personal prejudices that will hit home for many audience members as they try and relate it back to their own lives. The plotline is fast-paced, and it is easy to picture the world being described within the setting.Â
I did find it a little hard to get into the book at first, because there are so many different characters in The Burgeoning Storm. Having such a large cast of characters itself is not necessarily a negative factor, but there were a lot of different plot threads dropped within the first hundred pages or so that made it a little tedious to keep straight. For instance, Bessilyâs first appearance in the book is on page 10. She is then featured in a flashback of Macelâs in the next chapter. We do not see or hear of her again, however, until page 91. In a way, it does build some suspense, because readers want to know what is happening with her and will want to keep reading to get to that point, but it can also feel frustrating when the next several chapters such a characterâs first appearance investigate multiple other storylines.Â
Other than keeping all the characters and various plotlines in The Burgeoning Storm straight with what I wished was more ease, the book is a great new fit within the Fantasy genre. The series in general is kind of like a blend between epic fantasy like Eragon or Shannara with futuristic, science fiction-based fantasy such as Across the Universe or The Androma Saga. The series should have no trouble finding a happy home on the bookshelves of a vast range of readers.Â