Rebellion is always right.
Oyza yearns for revolutionâan impossible dream with her lifetime prison sentence. Fueled by the destruction of her home and years of servitude, she reads the smuggled texts of the Ungoverned and dreams of a future that can never be. But the arrival of a new prisoner, Yars, reignites Oyzaâs courage. She finds herself capable of more than she ever imagined.
To fight their way to their own freedom, they must fight for something bigger: freedom for their homeland. Between an invasion by godless gunwielders, a heartless commander whoâs determined to kill Oyza, and webs of secrets and lies woven through their world, it will take all their strength and wits to survive. When blood is spilled, how much will be their own?
Rebellion is always right.
Oyza yearns for revolutionâan impossible dream with her lifetime prison sentence. Fueled by the destruction of her home and years of servitude, she reads the smuggled texts of the Ungoverned and dreams of a future that can never be. But the arrival of a new prisoner, Yars, reignites Oyzaâs courage. She finds herself capable of more than she ever imagined.
To fight their way to their own freedom, they must fight for something bigger: freedom for their homeland. Between an invasion by godless gunwielders, a heartless commander whoâs determined to kill Oyza, and webs of secrets and lies woven through their world, it will take all their strength and wits to survive. When blood is spilled, how much will be their own?
About to turn another page, Oyza started when a shout rang from the hallway. She rushed to tuck the book back in its hole in the wall, enclosed the crack with a loose brick, and zipped to the heap of straw in the middle of her cell. Plumes of dust hovered in pale rays of light. She glimpsed down at her hands. Their sandy tone, their intricate rivers weaving and whirling about, their scrapes and scarsâall of it was there, as it always had been. Someday these hands will set me free.
She gave her fingers a stretch, thinking for a moment about all they used to do for herâwriting scrolls, pouring wine, even wielding swords. That was long before she was thrown in the jails at the heart of the Parthassian Empire.
The groan of swollen wood forced from the door jamb stopped Oyzaâs thoughts. She wriggled to the edge of her chamber and pressed her face between rows of cool rusty bars. Sunlight shot through the darkness, obscuring her view of whoever strode down the corridor. Probably the guards.
âMapa,â she whispered across the hallway to another cell.
It was closed off by an iron door, but a window let air and whispers pass through. No response. Oyza shrank back, unsurprised. Mapa never spoke much after heâd been tortured.
âQuit crying and move,â a tall guard with missing teeth snapped. He and a shorter guard with a grizzled beard led a man in chains behind them.
The short one thrust the blunt end of a dagger into the prisonerâs belly. The man fell and let out a choked cry.
âUp!â the tall one fumed.
Oyza eyed the man. He canât be more than twenty years old, she thought. Looks younger than me, and Iâm always the youngest here.
A torn cloth was wrapped around the prisonerâs waist, and a bloodstained bandage covered his eyes. His bare feet were black from the dungeonâs filthy floors.
And heâs so thin, Oyza thought.
âI donât know why we donât just kill him now.â The short guard placed his hand on his daggerâs hilt.
âWatch it. Weâre to make an example out of this one laterâgotta keep âim alive. Orders from Emperor Edras,â said the taller guard. âLooks like he âasnât eaten in weeks. Fetch some food, whatever we got left down âere. If there isnât no food left, get some from the kennels.â
Oyza yearned to do something for the new prisoner, but she had learned to keep her mouth shut when the guards were near.
The prisoner tripped and knocked over a barrel. A liquid spilledârum, maybe? Glass jars shattered on the stone floor. The taller man cursed and turned to the other. âGo get that food. And fetch a couple oâ Moths to come fix up this mess while youâre at it.â
The short guard pouted and turned down the hall.
âIn you go.â
The man fell to his knees, curly hair flopping over his eyes.
The tall guard growled as he passed the liquid on the floor. He slammed the door and locked it behind him.
Oyza stared through the bars at the prisoner and wondered who he was. She saw his Starmark tattooed on the back of his neckâthe sign of the Hound. Everyone in Vaaz had a Starmark tattooed on their neck, indicating which of the fourteen Origin constellations they had been born under. Perhaps he was a squire? Or a herald? Or maybe a watchman? Whoever he was,he mustâve done something bad to end up here.
The Moths, both young children, arrived with buckets and mops some time later to wipe up the spill and bring meals to the prisoners.
Oyza plopped down on her pile of straw. The servants left her a bowl of crusted white bread and a vine of half-rotted berries. They gave a small plate to the new prisoner, but he still didnât move, not even for the food.
The ocean pounded on rocks below as soft red light poured through the window. Falling asleep, Oyza looked again at her hands. Someday, she
thought. SomedayâŚ
#
The next morning, Oyza rose and inspected the new prisoner as sunlight splashed onto his hair. Birds chirped, and the scent of sea salt wafted through the window.
The man coughed and lifted his head, rubbing his eyes with scarred hands. âWhere am I?â he muttered.
âYouâre in Goldfall. The dungeons,â Oyza said.
The prisoner sat up on a mound of straw. A swarm of flies droned. He coughed again and clutched his stomach, looking as if he might vomit. âI feel terrible.â His voice shook.
Oyza flinched. âThe guards were pretty rough with you.â
âItâs not that⌠Itâs nothing.â He ran his fingers through his hair.
Oyza twisted her lips at the sight of his sunken eyes, pale skin, and
thin arms. He must be a witchdust addict. She raised her chin. âThereâs some
water. And a little food.â
The man rested his back against the stone wall. He stared at Oyza. âIâm fine. Iâll be all right. Iâm just a little foggy-headedâŚâ He groaned.
Oyza took a slow breath. An addictâŚand a liar. âWhatâs your name? Whatâre you here for?â
The man scanned her body cautiously. âNameâs Yars. Yars Gadea. You?â He picked up the plate of wilted berries and flicked at them.
âOyza Serazar.â
âNice to meet you, Oyza Serazar.â He bit into a berry. His face contorted.
âThose guards last night, they said they wanted to make an example of
you. What for? And do you have any news from out there? Whatâs going
on?â Oyza asked.
Yars swallowed some water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He raised an eyebrow at Oyza and sighed. âWhat do you care?â
âIâm just asking.â Oyza crossed her arms.
Yars looked away. âI stole. Was working in the mines at Judgeâs Pass, but I ran. Me and my crew ran for the Emerald Isles, just out there.â He gestured toward the cracks of blue sky. âBut we stayed in Goldfall when we heard about the fishermen disappearing off the coast, getting taken by the Men without Gods. We stole a bunchâeasy work until they catch you. And then, well, I got caught up inâŚsome things.â He finished the last of the berries and reached for his stomach again.
He means witchdust, Oyza figured. âMinister Valador told me another ship disappeared three weeks ago.â
A rat scurried into a crack. Yars wiped sweat from his brow. âAnd what about you? Whatâre you here for?â He eyed the bread in her bowl.
Oyza dropped her eyes. âItâs a long story. But I shouldnât be here.â
Yars shrugged. âYeah, what were you doing before you got here?
Whatâs your Starmark? Youâre aâŚâ he squinted at her.
Oyza felt his eyes trace the strands of hair dangling over her shoulders, her thin arms, the small bump in her nose, and the coarse pieces of cloth covering her body. She saw him examine her handsâsoft, but with a few scarsâthen inspect her bronze skin. They locked eyes. She saw his eyes were brown like hers, though darker, almost like the chocolate treats her master had sometimes given to her.
âSerpent?â
Oyza shook her head. âWrong.â She turned around, lifted her hair, and showed to Yars the Starmark tattooed on the back of her neck: a starfish, painted in black ink.
âStarfish. Ah, shoulda known.â
âAnd whyâs that?â
âYour handsâtoo soft for real work.â
Real work? âI was a servant for years, actually. Thatâs real work. And I
used to train as a scribe too. My father wanted me to work at the library of
Oyvassa.â Home, she thought.
âOyvassa? Nothing there anymore,â Yars said.
âI know. But that was beforeââ
Oyza and Yars stopped abruptly as the door down the hall scraped against the bumpy floor. Two guards wearing ripped leather jerkins and carrying daggers walked in and made their way to Mapaâs cell. They opened the creaky door. âCome on, letâs go.â
Oyza and Yars watched as one guard entered and reached for Mapa inside. The old manâs skin was pale, and his arms were skinny. A raggedy beard hung from his chin. Dull, hollow eyes stared bleakly into the distance, not even registering the guard.
Yarsâs eyes grew wide as the guard lifted the man. âHeâŚhas no legs.â
The guards unchained Mapa and dragged him away, moving with a mechanical precision that always fascinated Oyza. She and Mapa locked eyes for a brief moment before the guards disappeared and slammed the door.
I hate it when they take him. Every time. It never gets easier.
âWho was that?â Yars asked. âAnd where are they taking him? What happened to his legs?â His face turned white.
Oyza wrinkled her nose. âThatâs Mapa. Every few months or so, the guards take him away. He used to talk much moreâbefore the guards started torturing him more frequently. Theyâve taken a lot out of him.â She closed her eyes and slumped her shoulders. Itâs horrible.
âButâŚheâs got no legs. What happened?â Yars gestured with his hands as if to pry answers from Oyza.
âMapa told me he tried to assassinate Emperor Edras years ago,â she said with some hesitation. âBut instead of executing him, they keep him around to torture him.â
Yars ran his fingers through his hair before burying his face in his hands. He peeked at Oyza from between his fingers. âAnd theyâve been doing this forâŚfor years?â
Oyza nodded. âYes.â
âGods, Iâll kill myself before I let them do that to me,â Yars said.
The morning sunâs rays warmed the dungeon. A wave splashed against the rocks below.
Yars picked up a piece of straw and began tearing it. âSoâŚyou didnât tell me yet. What are you here for then?â
Oyza took a slow breath, not sure if she even wanted to tell the story she had repeated so many times to so many prisoners over the past few years. She stared into space. âI wasâwell, I amâa servant of Minister Valador.â She scratched a flea on her ankle.
Yars sat up and tossed the straw.
âI was a servantâa scribe, mostly, in his libraryâandâŚlater, his mistress. Thatâs been almost my whole life. Heâs an advisor, you know, to Emperor Edras himself.â Her voice was flat, like a river drifting without purpose. She tucked a long lock of hair behind her ear.
Yars pondered the story. âHow did you end up there?â
Oyza took another deep breath. She fidgeted her arms and wiped away dust from her amber skin.
âIf you donât want to talk about it, I get it.â Yars leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head, his eyes tracing the zig-zagged cracks between the bricks in the ceiling. âSo what do you do to pass the time here?â
âMinister Valador brings me things to read sometimes, but not as much recently. When I was his scribe in his library, I read all sorts of things. I got a little lucky, at least. Most Starfish never have a chance to work in libraries.â
Yarsâs eyes kept following the lines in the ceiling. He looked at Oyza again. âDoesnât look like the worst place, at least. Clean. You read a lot?â
âI keep it as neat as I can. I guess when youâve been a servant so long, you never lose the habit.â
Yars laughed. He looked up again.
âBesides reading, thereâs not much to do. Mapa and I talk sometimes, but heâs been quiet lately. The torturingâŚhe gets worse every day.â I hope heâs okay this time.
Yars gulped. âSoâŚMapa. You guys are close?â
Oyza shrank bank, wrapping her arms around her knees. âHeâs the only one whoâs been down here as long as I have.â
âThe torturers, what do they do?â Yars asked.
She looked at Yars, taking a moment to survey his strong jaw, his friendly eyes, and the way his black curls dangled over his forehead. âIâm sorry,â she said. âMapaâs never told me. I just know he comes back in a lot of pain.â
Yars grimaced.
âI didnât mean to scare you,â Oyza said. Poor guy, he doesnât know what heâs in for.
âDo they ever torture you?â
Oyza raised her eyebrows. No oneâs ever asked me that before. âI guess not.â This oneâs different.
âYou guess not? Either they do or they donât,â Yars blurted.
âYou wouldnât call this torture?â Ozya asked, raising her arms.
Yars shrugged. âMust be boring to be locked up all day.â He flung a piece of shredded straw. âSafer than the streets, I guess.â
Oyzaâs eyes widened. âAt least you are free out there.â She nodded at
the window, her black hair bouncing slightly. âWhat did you steal anyway?â
âFree?â Yars asked. âFree to do what? Get roughed up all day? Chased by guards? Steal every meal just to survive?â He rubbed a bruised spot on his calf. âDoesnât look like you have it too bad in here.â
Is he serious? Oyza squinted at him. âYouâve only been here one day, Yars Gadea. Give it time. Imagine eating it for years.â She aimed a finger at a plate of old berries. âAnd you didnât say. What did you swipe to end up in a place like this?â
Yars frowned. âIâll tell you what, Oyza Serazar. You tell me what you
did, and Iâll tell you what I did. Only fair.â
Oyza leaned back, avoiding Yarsâs eyes. âI didnât do anything.â
Yars rolled his eyes. âSure, sure.â
Oyza felt the muscles in her neck tighten and turned away. I donât have to tell him anything.
A long moment passed, birds chirping outside the window and the late-morning sun illuminating specks of dust. Oyza reclined on the pile of straw, then turned to her hidden bookshelf. I guess I should be nice, though. âYou can borrow a book if youâd like,â she offered. She pulled a withered one from the hiding place and leafed through its worn pages. It was The Edible and Medicinal Plants of the Kingdom and Dominion of Oyvassa, Fourth Edition, one she had read four or five timesâor was it six now?
âCanât read, but thanks.â Yars shrugged. âWhatâs your favorite one?â he asked before letting out a nasty cough. He gripped at his waist with mangled fingers. His withdrawal symptoms are bad, Oyza surmised, and worse than heâs letting on. She thought about his question for a moment, crawled to the wall, then peeked at the door to make sure there were no guards. She pulled out the loose brick and removed the hidden book. âThis one. But you canât tell anyone I have it.â She held it, title up, to Yars. He tucked a curl of hair behind his ear, eyes narrowing. âI told you, I canât read.â
Oyza smiled as she opened the tomeâs withered pages. âThis is On the Frailty ofKings and the Illusions ofPower, Notes of a Concerned Soul.â
Yars shrugged flippantly, refusing to look at the book. âNever heard of it.â
Oyzaâs mouth hung open. âNever? This book is illegal in every kingdom in Vaaz. The Celesterium outlawed it too. I found this old copy in Minister Valadorâs room. He doesnât know I have it.â She pressed the book closer to Yars.
âIf itâs banned, then how would I know about it?â Yars still didnât look.
Oyza squinted, annoyed, and put the book back down. âItâs famous. Everyone knows about this book.â
âSo whyâs it banned?â
âThe book says we donât need rulers. It says that kings only have power because we say they do, not because the gods give it to them. And it says the people can rule themselves and should take control of everythingâthe fields, the harbors, the workshopsâeverything.â She closed the book and stashed it away. âAnd it wonât be easyâitâll take a revolution, a violent one, to get it. Itâs written in the laws of history.â
Yars scratched his chin. âAnd then what?â
âWhat do you mean?â
âWhoâs going to, you know, be in charge of everything?â
âWell, we would.â
Yars let out a low sigh then looked up at the window. A seagull sat against a cloudy sky on the ledge.
âI think this is what the Ungoverned have done,â Oyza added.
Yars sneered. âThose demons-worshippers in the swamp?â
Oyza creased her brow. âI donât believe that. Theyâre from Oyvassa,
like my people. Theyâre not demon-worshippers.â
âI dunno, sounds like itâll never happen anyway. Theyâre going to
overthrow the empire? Give me a break.â
âYou donât think itâs worth a try?â Oyza asked.
Yars scratched his chin. âStealing a necklace is worth a try. So is nabbing a gold coin or two. âCause I know I can do these things. But I canât change the world, Oyza. I survive, every day and night, because I have to.â
He looked around for a moment, inspecting his plate for crumbs. âSo, a scribe to Minister Valador? Whatâs it like being around highborns? Got any good stories?â
Oyzaâs head tilted a little to one side. He changed the subject quickly. I wonder what he really believes? She played with the ends of her hair. âWell, Minister Valadorâs Starmark is a Moth. He never worked as a servant or worked the sewers. Nothing like that. A real highborn. His father trained him to be a lawyer for a Parthassian minister, but he was so good at administration that heâs been an advisor to Emperor Edras for decades. He says this is right, though, with the gods becauseâget thisâhis duty is to âclean upâ the Empire, like a Moth.â
Yars snorted. âThe men back in the mines told me about lords born as Mammoths working as scribes, Hawks leaving the army, Frostpetals as sailorsâŚno one cares anymore, do they? Whole worldâs gone to shit.â
Oyza shook her head. âThe Celesterium still cares. The priests say the Men without Gods, the Haf, are a curse brought here because we betray our Starmarks.â
Yars coughed and grasped his gut, hiding a moan. âYou think itâs true? People from Hafrir really have no gods? How could there be no gods?"
Oyza shivered, trying to forget about the firstâand lastâtime she had seen the strange invaders from across the sea, from somewhere called Hafrir, some fifteen years ago, and the terrifying sounds their weapons made.
âI donât know, but thatâs what they say. The man Emperor Edras captured didnât speak our language at all and refused his last rites before death. Said there were no godsâŚspit on a Celesterium priest too,â she replied.
âI know the story,â Yars snapped. âBut I wonder if itâs true.â
The door opened. An older man approached. He was draped in a long black and violet tunic made of smooth silk. Oyza grimaced at the bald head, the short beard, and the leather sash bearing the Hawk-and-Tower sigil of the Parthassian Empire. It was Minister Valador.
He walked to Oyza, ignoring Yars. Oyza slouched and dropped her eyes. The muscles in her chest tightened.
âItâs been such a long time, my sweet jewelâfar too long.â His voice was raspy like an old door scraping across a stone floor. He pulled a key off his belt and unlocked the door. âThis smellâŚâ he covered his face with a handkerchief. âIâll be sure to have some Moths sent down to tidy up a bit. Have the guards not been treating you well? These new recruits, they really are worthless. Idiot country bumpkins.â
Oyza looked at Yars, who sat wide-eyed on his lump of straw, then stared up at her master with weary eyes.
âCome now, sweet jewel,â Minister Valador extended his arm to her.
Oyza gulped and stood up, grabbed his hand, and let him lead her away.
âTroubled times, these areâthe Men without Gods have been spottedoff our coasts again. But you donât need to worry, Oyza. I will keep you safe. But first, letâs get you a warm bath.â
Oyzaâs stomach twisted. She threw Yars a last glance as she left. Someday. Someday, Iâll be free.
The Spirit of a Rising Sun, by K. R. Galindez, is a Game of Thronesâstyle fantasy adventure maintaining a brisk pacing of action and intrigue within a well-built story world full of rich detail.
The (s)hero of the story is Oyza, daughter of a minister and main foil for the villainess, Liviana, an ambitious warrior-ruler known as Blacklance. At the opening of the story, Oyza is in a dungeon and Liviana is the reason.
In the dungeon, Oyza meets Yars, a thief and witchdust addict with a taste for rum (think Disneyâs Aladdin for adults). Yars is the charming, reluctant hero archetype, the drunken rogue whom the heroine with high ideals slowly molds into shape in time for the big battle.
The world of the book is rich and complex, with its own book titles, oaths, different ages and epochs, and snippets of languages and songs. The countries are all at war with one another or uneasy allies, and their ministers and priests are each making political power moves within the countries themselves. There is a priestly class called the Celesterium on one end of the spectrum and on the other a mead-drinking Viking-like group called the Men without Gods. The locales have familiar, evocative names like Goldfall, the Emerald Isles, and the Shimmering Woods. The âShimwood,â as its fifty thousand inhabitants call it, recalls Robin Hoodâs Sherwood Forest. Called The Ungoverned, these rebels are a main target of those who prefer everyone to be under their yoke.
It would not be fantasy without knights and other warriors, and Galindez provides them aplenty, with knights like Sir Yirig, Livianaâs chief bodyguard who reminds me of the Mountain and Hound from Game of Thrones. Another interesting character is Captain Seralus, commander of the ship Chandelier Lover, who reminds me of Captain Shakespeare in the film adaptation of Stardust.
As you would also expect from fantasy, we follow multiple storylines that steadily converge for the Act Three climax, which leaves things nicely open-ended for a sequel.
One of my favorite aspects of The Spirit of a Rising Sun is that it revolves around family lineages, some of which remain secret through most of the book. Members of families reunite, forsake and betray one another, and otherwise provide micro storylines that undergird and personalize the fantasy-trope macro ones.
If you love fantasy, this book should be on your reading list.