Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler ….
She is
descended from the masters of the universe.
To hold her he challenges the gods
themselves.
Wind From the Abyss
The Silistra Quartet Book 3
by Janet Morris
Genre: Dystopian Epic SciFi Fantasy Romance
Dystopia. Fantasy. Science fiction. Allegory. Political.
Wind from the Abyss is the third volume in Janet Morris’
classic Silistra Quartet, continuing one woman’s quest for self-realization in
a distant tomorrow.
Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler …. She is
descended from the masters of the universe. To hold her he challenges the gods
themselves.
Praise for Janet Morris’ Silistra Quartet:
“The amazing and erotic adventures of the most
beautiful courtesan in tomorrow’s universe.” — Fred Pohl
“Engrossing characters in a marvelous adventure.”
— Charles N. Brown, Locus Magazine.
“The best single example of prostitution used in
fantasy is Janet Morris’ Silistra series.” — Anne K. Kahler, The
Picara: From Hera to Fantasy Heroine.
This Perseid Press Author’s Cut Edition is revised and
expanded by the author and presented in a format designed to enhance your
reading experience with larger, easy-to-read print, more generous margins, and
covers designed for these premium editions.
Wind from the Abyss starts with this . . .
“Since, at the beginning of this tale, I did not
recollect myself nor retain even the slightest glimmer of such understanding as
would have led me to an awareness of the significance of the various
occurrences that transpired at the Lake of Horns, I am adding this preface,
though it was no part of my initial conception, that the meaningfulness of the
events described by “Khys’ Estri” (as I have come to think of the
shadow-self I was while the dharen held my skills and memory in abeyance) not
be withheld from you as they were from me. I knew myself not: I was Estri
because the girl Carth supposedly found wandering in the forest stripped of
comprehension and identity chose that name. There, perhaps, lies the greatest
irony of all, that I named myself anew after Estri Hadrath diet Estrazi, who in
reality I had once been. And perhaps it is not irony at all, but an expression
of Khys’ humor, an implicit dissertation by him who structured my experiences,
my very thoughts, for nearly two years, until his audacity drove him to bring
together once more Sereth crill Tyris, past-Slayer, then the outlawed Ebvrasea,
then arrar to the dharen himself; Chayin rendi Inekte, cahndor of Nemar,
co-cahndor of the Taken Lands, chosen son of Tar-Kesa, and at that time Khys’
puppet-vassal; and myself, former Well-Keepress, tiask of Nemar, and lastly
becoming the chaldless outlaw who had come to judgment and endured ongoing
retribution at the dharen’s hands. To test his hesting, his power over owkahen,
the time-coming-to-be, did Khys put us together, all three, in his Day-Keeper’s
city — and from that moment onward, the Weathers of Life became fixed:
siphoned into a singular future; sealed tight as a dead god in his mausoleum,
whose every move brought him closer to the sum total, obliteration. So did the
dharen Khys bespeak it, himself. . .”
“Morris, so good
at giving us characters we can identify with, characters we can love and hate,
strikes at the very heart of the human condition and the duality of humanity —
both good and evil. Her prose is lean and spot-on, every word carefully chosen
to enhance the milieu of her imaginary world and advance the plot, giving us
access to the thoughts, emotions and machinations of the people whose stories
she is presenting to us. Once again, she gives us a “thinking man’s” science
fiction/fantasy that explores the nature of power and sexuality, and how they
can be used, misused and abused. This is a brilliant, mature and very adult
novel that will not only leave you thinking about your own place in the
universe, but questioning the very nature of existence.” – Goodreads reviewer
I.In Mourning for the
Unrecollected
black wedge of a head against the pane. Its yellow eyes glowed cruelly,
slit-pupiled. Its white fangs, gleaming, were each as long as my forearm.
mouth open wide, it battered at the window, roaring.
upon the locked doors with my fists, pressing myself against the wood. Sobbing,
I turned to face it.
me in half, closed. It cocked its head.
moaning, against the door frame.
a tall man, flapped decisively, and it was gone.
shaking, to collect the papers I had strewn across the mat in my terror. They
were the arrar Carth’s papers, those he had forgotten in his haste to answer
his returning master’s summons.
pages and replace them in the tas-sueded folder before Carth returned.
have gotten in. I could not get out: It could not get in. Once I had thrown a
chair at that impervious clarity. The chair had splintered. With one stout
thala leg, as thick as my arm, had I battered upon that window. All I had
accomplished was the transformation of chair into kindling. The hulion, I
chided myself, could have fared no better.
winged, fanged and clawed, are the servants of the dharen who rules Silistra. I
had had no need to fear. Yet, I thought as I gathered the arrar Carth’s
scattered papers, hulions are fearsome. Perhaps if I had been able, as others
are, to hear its mind’s intent, I would have felt differently. My fingers, numb
and trembling, fumbled for the delicate sheets.
“Preassessment Monitoring of the Arrar Sereth. Enar Fourth Second, 25,697.”
the year ’696 had I met him, that night my child had been conceived. I had read
of his exploits. He frightened me, killer of killers, enforcer for the dharen,
he who wore the arrar: chald of the messenger. Sereth, scarred and lean and
taut like some carnivore, who had loved the Keepress Estri, my namesake, and
with her brought great change to Silistra in the pass Amarsa, 25,695 — yes, I
had met him.
about, forgotten, and began to read:
and cool, our position just south of the juncture of the Karir and Thoss
rivers. I highly recommend that you look in upon the moment.
first unnecessary movement he had made in over an enth. My presence, alongside
upon a black hulion, disquieted him. The brindle, gliding at the apex of its
bound, snorted. He touched its shoulder, and the beast, obedient, angled its
wings and began its descent.
bringing my black up to pace him.
touched his hulion to a stop.
two beasts. He had served the dharen, most lately, in Dritira. And before that,
in the hide diet, and before that upon the star world M’ksakka had he dealt
death and retribution at Khys’ whim. And dealt them successfully, though those
tasks had been fraught with deadlier risk than a man might be expected to
survive. His thought was wry, recollecting.
the impenetrable shield he has constructed. My hulion rumbled at the brindle he
rode, and that one answered.
“Let us rest them.”
cloudy. M’ksakkan air stings eyes and lungs. Everything is covered with a fine
black dust. I would not go again off the planet.”
world and the work he had done there. The methods he had employed displeased
his sense of fitness. The value of the M’ksakkan’s death was to him obscure. I
saw the moment: the adjuster’s surprised eyes, wide and staring as Sereth’s
fingers closed on his throat, around his windpipe,·the M’ksakkan’s clawing hand
upon his wrist as he ripped out the man’s larynx, vocal folds dangling; then
the blood, spurting, and the sound of the adjuster’s choking death. And I saw
others he had killed, those who were anxious to try their skills against a real
live Silistran. He had been hesitant to do so, but more hesitant to face an
endless line of their ilk, so he had killed the first three. Again, his
thoughts sank below readable level. The hulions lay quiet, lashing their tails.
The clouds scudded heavy over the sun. A soft, drizzling rain commenced.
down at me. I lay perfectly still. He made no attempt to read me for his
answer. He merely waited.
get some sense of you. Your mental health is now our concern.” He ducked his
head, ripping grass from the sward. “You brought child upon that well woman in
Dritira,” I prodded.
passes since he had taken a woman. On M’ksakka there were females, but nothing
he understood to be a woman. He had not couched many of them. And in hide diet,
there were only forereaders. In Dritira, with that woman who reminded him of
the Keepress, he had spent his long-pent seed. Four times he had used her,
before she was more than a receptacle in his sight. And he had abused her, more
than was his custom.
the woman.
forereader.”
stock.”
we hold in common at the Lake. Spawn from such a union surely would be
possessed of talent. The bitterness you hold is out of proportion to the
reality. We all, at one time or another, find there is something we want that
we may not have.”
Keepress Estri as one thinks of the dead, with acceptance; and then thought of
his own life, and what compromises he has made to keep it. What he let me know,
I have no doubt, will please you. What he did not — that is what concerns me.
He allowed me nothing else for the duration of our return.
conscious than any I have encountered. Most of his processing must take place
behind it. Deep-reading him is out of the question. He visualizes barely enough
to verbalize his will. That he is functioning superbly is attested by his
works. That he feels it to his advantage to serve us at present is a certainty.
I worry over what might occur should he choose, eventually, not to serve us.
feel some attempt might be made to pacify him, in light of what he is fast
becoming. Or perhaps even to eliminate him, lest he become, like Se’keroth, the
weapon turned upon the wielder.
my knees, I twisted to see him. His dark eyes gleamed. He ran his hand through
his black curls.
crumpled in his fist. Carth was furious.
my stomach a knot. Once before, I had seen Carth this agitated, when I had
written for him a certain paper. And he had called it audacious, and destroyed
it. I finished, and rose to my full height, handing the tas envelope to him. My
head came to his shoulder. He looked down at me, stern-faced.
you. This” — he threw the crumpled sheet across the room — “will only aggravate
matters. You had best make some effort to placate him.”
had seen the dharen precisely three times since I had come to reside at the
Lake of Horns: the night he had gotten me with child, the day following, and
once while I lay near death when the unborn had driven me to seek it. He had
not been at the Lake of Horns when I bore his he-beast into the world. I had
cried out for him during that premature and extended labor. He had been
unavailable. Now, nearly eight passes later, he had returned.
I like the cover art. Sounds like an interesting story.