Authors: Fiona McIntosh
There was no sign of Zafira. He couldn’t understand why, for she had never been away for his visits before, but as quickly as the surprise of her absence came, it left him.
Lyana had spoken to him in his mind. At first he had thought he was imagining it but the sincerity of the beautiful voice and her obvious love and gratitude were all too real. He began sobbing within moments of her musical tone welcoming him and thanking him for the gift of his life.
Pez had hazy memories of childhood. Perhaps he had blocked most of them out, but the echoes of torment and humiliation sometimes called to him across time. He had learned very young to be thick-skinned, to turn people’s taunts back on themselves and to use humour to make people enjoy him rather than detest him. He recalled joining a travelling circus. Most of the people performed acts of great daring or trickery. His job was simply to make people laugh, and it wasn’t hard, considering his stature and looks. When he
was captured by the slave traders, he had been with a small breakaway group of the circus troupe who had made a roving journey through the less travelled but fabled lands of the Faranel to seek new acts. Pez was not his true name. It was the name he had adopted for the circus and it had stuck. It suited him. He wanted no memories of what had come before the happiness and companionship of the troupe.
Life had been good ever since. He could hardly complain, but Pez had never been loved by anyone—not Joreb, and not even Boaz if he was truthful. And yet, while on his knees, crying like a baby, a goddess was telling him how much she loved him—all of him.
And now he walked as if in a trance to the top of the temple, past Zafira’s tiny living area, through another small trapdoor and out onto the roof.
Trust me, my old friend,
Lyana had beseeched.
And when he had tentatively explained that what she asked of him was very frightening, she had filled his body with the warmth of her soft tinkling laugh.
We always have this conversation, Iridor. You are always fearful and yet we never let each other down. Trust me now as I trust you.
It was a leap of faith he was going to take as he undressed on the rooftop to the sound of cooing doves. He unwrapped the linen from around his hips and laid it on the discarded jamoosh. His skin trembled slightly but he
wasn’t sure whether it was from the caress of the warm wind or the terror of what he was about to do.
Naked, Pez climbed onto the balustrade as a small flock of doves flapped away in irritation at the disturbance. He balanced there, willing himself to find the courage.
For me, Pez,
she whispered into his mind, and he knew he could not ever let her down.
Pez, court jester to the Zar of Percheron, opened his short arms as if in supplication to the Goddess who urged him to this feat, took the deepest breath of his life and then, like the doves before him, launched himself off the Sea Temple towards what felt like certain death but what he hoped would be eternal life.
He waited for the ground to meet him and imagined in a few seconds people would gather about his dying, mangled body, muttering to each other about the waste of life. But the ground never came; instead he became aware of a comforting sensation of buffeting warm air.
Pez opened his eyes and could feel nothing but elation.
He was an owl. Silver-white, majestic, beautiful. And he was flying.
Iridor had risen.
This tale is the result of browsing through a centuries-old travel writer’s account of his visit to Constantinople. He was particularly taken by the Topkapi Palace and the once-forbidden hallways of its Harem. I followed in his footsteps in 2004 with a lively, wonderful few days in Istanbul and experienced my own awe at this same palace…a setting just begging to be absorbed into a fantasy tale.
As always lots of people support my efforts and must be thanked including: Gary Havelberg, Sonya Caddy, Pip Klimentou, and Judy Downs for their early reading of the draft and giving the thumbs up when I was feeling nervous about leaving my comfort setting and heading off to more exotic climes. My thanks to Apolonia Niemirowski for her encouragement and international sleuthing skills in finding every kind of reference material this author could possibly need.
Sincere thanks to Matt Whitney, who at short notice leapt at the opportunity to create the new and fabulously detailed map of Percheron; and to Trent Hayes, who continues to keep my busy bulletin board and website running smoothly.
A nod to the booksellers around Australia and New Zealand for their boundless enthusiasm for the genre—and to all at HarperCollins—there are too many of you to list these days who are involved with my books—but you know how much I appreciate your guidance and constant encouragement.
Special thanks to Chris Lotts in New York for helping to take my work to new markets around the globe…it is wonderfully rewarding to hear from readers all over the world.
Finally my love and heartfelt thanks to Ian, Will and Jack, who keep me firmly in the real world despite my wanderings through make believe ones…and who all brew great tea. Fx
F
IONA
M
CINTOSH
was born and raised in Sussex in the UK, but spent her early childhood commuting with her family between England and West Africa where her father worked. She left a PR career in London to travel, and found herself in Australia where she fell in love with the country, its people and one person in particular. She has since roamed the world working alongside her husband in their travel publishing business. Fiona lives with her family in Adelaide.
You can find out more information about
Fiona or chat to her on her bulletin board via
her website: www-fionamcintoshxom
Email: fiona@fionamcintoshxom
For information about Fiona McIntosh and her
books, plus all the latest science fiction news, visit
‘Voyager Online’: www.voyageronline.com.au—the website for
lovers of science fiction and fantasy.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
M
YRREN’S
G
IFT
; B
LOOD AND
M
EMORY
;
B
RIDGE OF
S
OULS
‘Enchanting…McIntosh manages to sustain suspense while deftly handling a large cast of characters and an intricate plot’
Publishers Weekly
‘Fiona McIntosh is a seductress. I have not moved from the sofa for three days…’
Sydney Morning Herald
‘It’s a “just one more chapter” sort of book. Don’t start reading
Myrren’s Gift
in the evening if you have to get up early the next morning!’
Robin Hobb
‘Relentless, twisty plotting…offers full sensory immersion…compulsively readable’
Kirkus Reviews
‘Stunning…Nothing short of astonishing. McIntosh weaves a captivating web of action, escapes, and intrigue from which you cannot break free…
Myrren’s Gift
is a refreshing breath of fresh air’
Bookreporter.com
‘Reminiscent of Raymond E. Feist’s classic
Prince of the Blood
and John Marco’s
Tyrants and Kings
trilogy…Mcintosh’s utterly readable
Myrren’s Gift
is a book fantasy fans will have a hard time putting down…this fantasy has it all. Highly recommended’
Barnes & Noble Explorations
‘there’s an extremely visual, if somewhat brutal, quality to her work…a very promising start to an engaging tale’
SFX
Magazine
‘Strongly conceived, believable characters and a swift plot make this fantasy epic a good addition to most libraries’
Library Journal
Praise for Trinity
B
ETRAYAL
; R
EVENGE
; D
ESTINY
‘a rattling good adventure that fulfils all the requirements of fantasy’
Adelaide
Advertiser
‘as good as Sara Douglass’
Good Reading
‘Slick, hard and dark fantasy at its blistering best…
Destiny
ends the Trinity series…with a punch in the guts and a slap in the face. [The] story line is crisp and crackling with explosive power.’
Altair
Praise for Percheron
O
DALISQUE
‘…the scope and flow of [McIntosh’s] writing, her meticulous research and the detailed description in this taut novel set up an excellent introduction to what will be a trilogy. A truly grand vision brought to life on the page.’
Good Reading
‘Even when you manage to put this book down, you’re still thinking about the characters. A fascinating read.’
That’s Life
‘Fiona McIntosh keeps getting better and better.
Odalisque
is fantastic—exotic, even barbaric at times. The plot is fast-paced, introducing fabulous characters and sensual settings.’
Adelaide Advertiser
T
RINITY
Betrayal
(1)
Revenge
(2)
Destiny
(3)
T
HE
Q
UICKENING
Myrren’s Gift
(1)
Blood and Memory
(2)
Bridge
of Souls
(3)
P
ERCHERON
Odalisque
(1)
It was Pez’s idea but it was Zafira who had found him, had seen the potential. Still, it came as a shock to appreciate how skilled he was.
Razeen was his name. She feared for the young man but his uncannily calm manner convinced her. His reward was not money, which made it even harder for her, and when she did press him for his reason for taking on such personal risk, he had staggered her by confiding that all he wanted to do was serve the Goddess. At his tender age what could he know about Lyana? And yet he had impressed upon her that he was called to this dangerous task and that Lyana had brought them together.
She had been lost for words and now Pez seemed to echo all the same anxieties, even though it was his plan and she simply the expediting of the audacious concept. She had hoped he would ooze the usual confidence—needed him to—but it seemed he was as unnerved as she by this strapping young man.
They sat in a small room stirred gently by a soft breath of wind that had made the journey halfway up the hillside of Percheron from the sea. They could see the harbour from here. The massive statues of Beloch and Ezram stood sentinel across the Faranel, ever watchful for the long-feared raid from Percheron’s traditional enemy—the Galinseans—although it hadn’t come in four score years.
‘How does an orphanage command such a view?’ Pez wondered aloud.
‘I gather the palace gave it over to widow Percherese Guardsmen many centuries ago when our army was a lot more active, defending our empire against the Galinseans. Men were dying in battle then and widows were made daily. You shared Joreb’s reign of peace but even his father before him, who had moulded that original treaty, ensured that Percheron had known no wars in scores of years—but the fear never leaves, I suppose. Anyway, down the decades widowed families were treated with better care; housed well, given a stipend from the royal coffers, and ultimately this building became defunct until one Zar gifted it to the orphans of Percheron. It’s still known as the Widows’ Enclave but no families exist here, just needy children with no parents.’
‘An orphanage—how curious that I never knew.’
‘And I thought you knew everything,’ she said, a wicked glint in her eye.
‘Not everything, Zafira. You forget I spend most of my life roaming the palace halls. I did think I knew all the municipal buildings but you learn something each day don’t you?’ She nodded, and joined him at the window. ‘This is a wonderful place to raise children,’ he added, both of them regarding the gang of laughing children in the garden below but with their joint attention on one young man in particular.
‘Yes, although there’s talk of that magnanimous royal act being revoked now.’
‘Surely not?’ Pez frowned, unable to imagine Boaz doing such a thing.
‘So the sisters quietly claim.’
‘What would the Zar want it for?’
‘Not the Zar. I think his newly intimate advisor has designs on it.’
Pez pulled a face of disgust. ‘Tariq is certainly carving a new role for himself.’
‘Well, that is his role, of course. But according to what you’ve told me in the past it sounds as though our last Zar never chose to have his close counsel.’
‘And who could blame Joreb? The odd thing is that Boaz always despised the man as much as his father did.’
Zafira nodded. ‘I saw Vizier Tariq the other day—’
‘That’s
Grand
Vizier Tariq, Zafira,’ Pez interrupted, grimacing. ‘It’s amazing what nearly a year’s worth of constant ingratiation can achieve,’ he added bitterly.
‘What is it, Pez?’ she enquired gently. ‘Has Zar Boaz cast you aside?’
The dwarf shook his great head. ‘No, but he doesn’t look to me for all of his companionship now.’
‘He’s nearly seventeen and you’ve been his confidant for many years. He’s just spreading his wings a little,’ she reasoned. ‘He has a man’s job to do—little wonder he had to cast off childhood so fast.’
‘True.’ Pez sighed. ‘I just wish it wasn’t Tariq’s arms he’d walked into, though,’ he complained, adding with a tone of frustration, ‘The man’s undergone some sort of metamorphosis.’
‘Well, how odd that you say this,’ Zafira said, leaning forward eagerly. ‘I was telling you that I saw him the other day. We passed each other around the main fountain in the market and I hardly recognised him—not that he would know me from a goat.’
Pez didn’t appreciate her soft jest. He was still frowning, deep in thought. ‘Curious, isn’t it?’
‘Am I deceiving myself?’
Pez gave a derisive smirk but then frowned. ‘No, I’ve noticed it too. Younger, straighter, more…what is it?’ he said, searching for the right word. ‘More presence, that’s it. The old Tariq was weak-spined and self-absorbed, and his greatest fault was craving attention from the royals. This newly invented Tariq exudes absolute confidence. He needs no endorsement from anyone, it seems. I swear he all but treats the Valide Zara with disdain.’