The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  Your books are very character-driven. Do you have a favorite among your characters? Are they based on people you know? (You’re allowed to say!)

  It does seem to be working out that way, I think—that my books are more about the characters than they are about anything else. Certainly in my own reading and drama diet I gravitate towards stories that are about people more than stuff. I think people are fascinating. What makes us tick is a never-ending source of interest. The characters in my books are a kind of patchwork quilt, made up of aspects of myself and of people I’ve met in the real world. I’ve never based a character on a totally real person, but I’ve certainly been inspired by one. There’s an upcoming character, a psychic named Ursa, who was inspired by a doctor I know.

  As for having favorites, well . . . if I admit to a sneaking affection for Hekat are you going to call for the men in white jackets? And of course I’m very fond of Asher—so brave and bloody-minded! I think he’s a doll.

  The scenario you created for Empress is more expansive than your previous series. Is it inspired by anything or did you just feel you wanted to stretch your wings a bit further? Did the greater scope of the new series bring any new challenges to your writing?

  With the Godspeaker trilogy I certainly did want to challenge myself. I wanted to shake things up a bit to make sure I didn’t let the fear of pushing the envelope keep me in the same place. The story idea had been sitting around for a long time—I had part of it written while I was still working on the Kingmaker, Kingbreaker books. When I came back to it I realized I’d made the same mistake as before—I was keeping the story too small. So I took a very deep breath, committed to a trilogy (a story in three acts, see, the theater will out!) and realized that I had to go back in time and start with Hekat’s story. So that’s what I did, with much trepidation! So I guess I’d have to say that the expansion grew naturally out of discovering the story I was trying to tell.

  As for that providing challenges—yikes! Talk about growing pains. It’s proving to be an arduous journey. I’ve discovered my story ideas are like the Tardis: they’re bigger on the inside. And they take a lot of wrangling to make them behave! It’s not only keeping the various story threads neat and untangled, it’s remembering who said what to whom and when and how many times, and not falling into the trap of repeating myself with certain words and phrases, and remembering the big picture while I’m focusing on a small, intimate scene. Sheesh! It’s like trying to juggle twenty-seven balls at once without dropping any. It’s been a huge learning curve, but a fantastic one. I am in awe of writers who do big multi-volume series. I don’t understand how they keep everything straight!

  Unlike your first series, the gods play a large part in Empress . Can you tell us a bit about the thinking behind that?

  Philosophically, I wanted to have a look at the nature of divinity. We seem to fall so short of measuring up to certain religious ideals in our own world. People who claim to be religious do terrible things, and others who say they believe in no God at all routinely perform acts of great kindness and charity in ways that seem to fit a religious framework. That’s such an odd contradiction. And the exact nature of God is so elusive. I’m intrigued by those things, and wanted to explore some thoughts and ideas. Of course there’s not necessarily a direct parallel between the divine in the books and in the real world, but hopefully it’s interesting.

  Do you have a personal theory on why Fantasy is so popular?

  Fantasy is a really romantic genre. And I don’t just mean the hearts-and-flowers true love romantic—it’s sweeping and exotic and breathtaking. It has the power to whisk you away into amazing new worlds where romantic ideals like truth and love and justice and sacrifice and redemption and courage—ideals that are so often sneered at in our modern society—are celebrated and seen as something true and wonderful to aspire to. And I like that. I really enjoy a lot of science fiction, but often it’s very bleak and cynical. Mostly I think fantasy celebrates being human, it celebrates big emotions, it wears its heart on its sleeve—and it’s not ashamed of that. And while it can be down and dirty and gritty at times, still at the core it’s about hope and the triumph of the best of human nature—which is why I think it has such a strong and broad appeal.

  Do you read mainly fantasy fiction yourself, or do you prefer a change of genre after a hard day of writing? What are you currently reading?

  Overall I read a great deal less than ever I used to—not because there aren’t brilliant books out there, but because after eight hours in front of the computer thinking up words my brain is cactus and I can’t cope with any more! When I do read, I tend to switch genres so I’m using a different part of my imagination. I love crime, mystery and some romance. I can read those without exploding my head. I do still read fantasy and science fiction—I have a massive pile now waiting for my attention. I’ll get to them when I’ve made my current deadline. I also read non-fiction stuff, books on history mainly, for research. They’re always fun and quite relaxing. And I watch a lot of drama on DVD. TV dramas give me my story fix without words coming into the picture.

  Currently I’m reading an older JD Robb thriller, the new Rachel Caine and a book about ancient imperial China.

  Do you have any particular favorite authors who have influenced your work?

  Probably the most influential writer in my life so far has been Dorothy Dunnett. Sadly she’s dead now, but she wrote historical fiction. Her most famous work is a six-book series called The Lymond Chronicles. It’s about a sixteenth-century Scots nobleman called Francis Crawford, and it follows his life for some fifteen years as he intrigues his way around most of the known world as a mercenary and a courtier trying to uncover the truth of his heritage.

  The series is sheer magic. Breathtaking prose, immaculate worldbuilding, magnificent characters. Basically I want to be Dorothy when I grow up. I suspect that’s a tall order, but it’s something to aspire to!

  What do you do when you’re not writing or reading?

  The little time left over when I’m not unconscious, I spend at my local theater as an actor, director and public relations officer, or watching DVD dramas. It’s a sad little life but someone has to live it.

  Can you tell us a little about where the story goes after Empress?

  Well, there’s a change in location, for a start, to an island kingdom called Ethrea. We don’t lose touch with Mijak entirely—and one character in particular returns with an important role to play—but in the next book we meet the people who must stand in the way of Hekat and her warhost as she seeks to conquer the world. Unfortunately these new characters are dealing with their own major crisis—and if they don’t resolve it they’ll have no hope of saving themselves from Hekat. Things are about to get very interesting . . .

  And, lastly, for those writers who have yet to see their books appearing in the shops, how did it feel to see your first novel in print?

  Totally surreal. It’s the oddest feeling, having a dream come true. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a little girl in school. Having that happen now, holding the books in my hand, it’s exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. I frequently wonder when I’m going to wake up . . . but of course you know I’m praying I don’t!

  introducing

  If you enjoyed EMPRESS,

  look out for

  THE RIVEN KINGDOM

  Book 2 of the Godspeaker Trilogy

  by Karen Miller

  The king of Ethrea was dying.

  Rhian sat by her father’s bedside, holding his frail hand in hers and breathing lightly. Her world was a glass bubble; if she breathed too deeply it would shatter, and her with it.

  This isn’t fair, this isn’t fair, this isn’t fair . . .

  Droning in the privy bedchamber corner, the Most Venerable Justin. One of Prolate Marlan’s senior clergy, sentenced to praying for her father’s soul. His shaved head was bowed over his prayer-beads, click-click-clicking through his fingers till she thought she would scr
eam.

  I wish you’d get out. I wish you’d go away. We don’t want you here. This is our time, we don’t have so much that we can share.

  She had to bite her lip, hard, to quell fresh tears. She’d wept so often lately she felt soggy, like moss. And what was the point of weeping anyway? Weeping wouldn’t save her father, he was broken, he was slipping away.

  I will be an orphan soon.

  She’d been half an orphan for ten years, now. Without the portraits on the castle walls she might not even remember Queen Ilda’s sweet face. A frightening thought, to lose her mother twice. Was she destined to lose her brothers twice as well? Ranald and Simon were dead only two months, she still heard their voices on the edge of sleep. She thought it was likely, and after them her father twice. All these double-bereavements. Where was God in this? Was he sleeping? Indifferent?

  Mama, the boys, and now dear Papa. I know I’m the youngest, nature’s law dictates I’d be the last one left . . . but not this soon! Do you hear me, God? It isn’t fair!

  As though sensing her rebellion, the venerable paused in his bead-clicking and droning and said, “Highness, the king will likely sleep for hours. Perhaps your time would be better spent in prayer.”

  She wanted to say, I think you’re praying enough for both of us, Ven’Justin. But if she said that he’d tell her chaplain, Helfred, and Helfred would tell Prolate Marlan, and Marlan would be unamused.

  It wasn’t wise, to stir Marlan to anger.

  So she said, her heart seething, “I do pray, Ven’Justin. Every breath I take is a prayer.”

  Ven’Justin nodded, not entirely convinced. “Admirable, Highness. But surely the proper place for your prayers is the castle chapel.”

  He may be a Most Venerable, but still he lacked the authority to command a king’s daughter. She looked again at her father’s cadaverous face, with its jaundiced skin pleated over fleshless bone, so he would not see her anger. Her voice she kept quiet, sweet and unobjectionable. Be a lady, be a lady, be always a lady.

  “I will go to the chapel, by and by. For now, Ven’Justin, even if he is asleep, I know His Majesty takes comfort from my presence.”

  Click-click-click went Most Venerable Justin’s prayerbeads. He picked up his droning where he’d left off.

  On his mountain of pillows, her father stirred. Beneath his paper-thin eyelids his eyes shifted, restless. The pulse in his throat beat harder. “Ranald,” he muttered. “Ranald, my boy . . . I’m coming. I’m coming.” His voice, once treacle-dark and smooth as silk, rasped in his throat like ugly rusted wire. “Ranald, my good son . . .” His exhaled breath became a groan.

  A basin of water and a soft cloth sat near at hand, on the bedside cabinet. Gently, Rhian moistened her father’s cheeks and lips. “It’s all right, Papa. Don’t fret. I’m here. Please, try to rest.”

  “Ranald!” said her father, and opened his eyes. So recently the deepest blue, clear and clean as a summer sky, now they were rheumy, their whites stained yellow with the failing of his liver. For a horrible moment they were clouded, confused. Then he remembered her, and sighed. “Rhian. I thought I heard Ranald.”

  She dropped the cloth back in the basin and took his hand again. His fingers felt so brittle. Hold him too tightly and he’d break into pieces. “I know, Papa. You were dreaming.”

  A single tear trailed through his grey stubble. “I never should have let Ranald go voyaging with Simon,” he whispered. “I was selfishly indulgent, I cared more for Ranald loving me than I did what was best, and now they are dead. My heir is dead and so is his brother. I have failed the kingdom. I am a bad king.”

  It was, by now, a familiar refrain. Rhian kissed his cold hand. “That’s nonsense, Papa. You have been the very best of kings. Every great man’s sons go abroad to see the world. Not a lord in your kingdom has once told his sons, ‘No, you must stay at home.’ Your own father didn’t forbid you the world, even though you were the heir. You could never have denied your sons that adventure. Ranald and Simon had bad luck, that’s all. It’s not your fault. You aren’t to blame.”

  In the corner, Ven’Justin’s beads clicked louder. The church frowned on superstitious beliefs like luck. She spared the man a warning, glaring glance. Venerable or not, she wouldn’t have him upsetting her father.

  “Rhian.”

  “Yes, Papa?”

  His fingers tried to squeeze hers. “My good girl. What will become of you when I’m gone?”

  She could answer that, but not in front of Most Venerable Justin. Not in front of anyone who would carry her words straight back to Helfred, and Marlan. “Hush, Papa,” she said, and smoothed her other hand over his thinning hair. “Don’t tire yourself talking.”

  But he was determined to fret. “I should have seen you betrothed, Rhian. I have failed you as I failed your brothers.”

  A single name rang like a bell in her heart. Alasdair. But there was no point considering him, returned to duchy Linfoi and his own ailing father. Besides, a husband would only complicate things.

  “Papa, Papa, do not excite yourself,” she soothed. “You need to rest. God will take care of me.” Another glance, over her shoulder. “Isn’t that so, Ven’Justin?”

  Grudgingly, the Most Venerable nodded. “God takes care of all his children, to the length and breadth of their deserving.”

  “There,” she said. “You see? Ven’Justin agrees.” Then added, even as she felt the hot tears rise, “Besides, you’re not going anywhere. Do you hear me, Papa? You’re going to get well.”

  “Throughout my life I have not been the most reverent of men,” her father said, his voice reduced to a whisper. Then he smiled, a gummy business now, with all his teeth rattled loose in their sockets. “But even I know, Rhian, that God does as God wills. I will leave when I am called and not even you, my bossy minx, can dictate I’ll stay.”

  My bossy minx. It was one of his pet phrases for her. She hadn’t heard him use it in the longest time. “Yes, Papa,” she said, and again kissed his cold fingers.

  Soon after he drifted back to sleep. Ignoring the Most Venerable Justin and his pointed sighs, she held her father’s fragile hand and, defiant in the face of God’s apparent decision, willed him to live, live, live.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Karen Miller

  Excerpt from Hammer of God copyright © 2008 by Karen Miller

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Visit our Web site at www.orbitbooks.net

  Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Orbit name and logo is a trademark of Little, Brown Book Group Ltd.

  First eBook Edition: September 2008

  ISBN: 978-0-316-039857

  Dexterity watched the princess out of sight, his own grief for the dead princes rewoken.

  Poor girl. Such a burden she carries. People watching her wherever she goes. Whispering behind her. Whispering before she arrives. Dissecting her life even as she lives it.

  Of course, things would probably turn out all right. More than likely her ailing father would rally. Physicks could do amazing things these days. The king had to rally, Ethrea wasn’t ready to lose him yet. With the untimely losses of Ranald and Simon there was no prince waiting to take the throne. There was only Princess Rhian. Not yet at her majority and a girl to boot. Ethrea had never been ruled by a woman . . . and there were those who thought it never should.

  Prolate Marlan for one. His views on women are stringent, to say the least.

  Dread chilled him. Were King Eberg to die without a male heir only misery could follow. Ethrea’s p
ast was a tapestry of betrayal and bloodshed, the desperate doings of six duchies wrestling for the right to rule the whole. In the end duchy Fyndle had emerged triumphant, was renamed Kingseat and became the traditional duchy of the king. Peace reigned sublime and for more than three hundred years the cobbled-together edges of the five lesser principalities had rubbed along tolerably well.

  But if Eberg should die what an unraveling there’ll be. All the nations with their interests invested here will swoop down on us like a murder of crows . . .

  CHAPTER ONE

  The King of Ethrea was dying.

  Rhian sat by her father’s bedside, holding his frail hand in hers and breathing lightly. Her world was a glass bubble; if she breathed too deeply it would shatter, and her with it.

  This isn’t fair, this isn’t fair, this isn’t fair …

  Droning in the privy bedchamber corner, the Most Venerable Justin—one of Prolate Marlan’s senior clergy, sentenced to praying for her father’s soul. His shaved head was bowed over his prayer beads, click-click-clicking through his fingers till she thought she would scream.

  I wish you’d get out. I wish you’d go away. We don’t want you here. This is our time, we don’t have so much that we can share.

  She had to bite her lip hard to quell fresh tears. She’d wept so often lately she felt soggy, like moss. And what was the point of weeping anyway? Weeping wouldn’t save her father. He was broken, he was slipping away.