“I beg your forgiveness. I only came because I thought you would want to hear the news immediately. I will withdraw at once.”
“Vida?”
“Yes, my liege.”
“Brother, why did you not say it was you? Please. Come in. You will excuse my shortness of temper. It has been a difficult morning.”
The visitor came a few paces into the bedchamber then stood, waiting patiently. That was just like Vida. A half brother, biologically speaking, and his most trusted advisor and confidant, yet he behaved as if he were nothing more than a clerk.
“Why were you not announced? I will have to dismiss whoever is assigned to my door. They are supposed to announce every single visitor.”
“I . . . I requested them to let me enter unannounced.”
“Vida, please, come in. Sit with me. You are my brother in blood, a Krushan in all but name. It is an injustice that you are not recognized as an heir in your own right. These obsolete traditions and customs are so unfair. If we lived in a just society, you would have undergone the test of fire at the same time as Shvate and myself. But enough of my blathering. You said you had news for me. It must be urgent for you to come to me unannounced. Pray, tell me. What is the news?”
“My lord, it concerns Sauvali.”
Adri was dumbstruck. He felt for a moment as if his heart stopped beating.
He rose from his bed and went toward the source of the voice. He found his half brother seated on the same stool where Grandmother Jilana had sat not long before. He put his arms on Vida’s shoulders, almost as thin and underdeveloped as his own, and pressed them tightly.
“Where is she? Have you found her? Take me to her at once!”
“My lord, please calm yourself.”
“Enough of this ‘my lord’ nonsense. Talk to me, Vida! What have you found out? I’ve sent spies in all directions of the empire, searching for months. But I know that you are the master of analysis and intellect. If you learned something new, it must be important. What have you found?”
Vida sighed deeply. “Adri . . . brother. Brace yourself. The news is not good.”
Adri felt the darkness behind his eyes grow heavier, denser. “Is she . . .”
“Yes,” Vida said softly, with genuine concern. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes. The person who told me had no reason to lie. He had no idea who I was. He was present when they . . . when they killed her.”
Adri released Vida’s shoulders and turned away, trying to find something to hold on to in his anchorless world. The past months had been terrible, unbearable, but through it all, there had still been the tiny seed of hope. The possibility, however remote, that she was still alive. Somewhere. Somehow.
After a long silence, Adri regained control of his voice and asked, “What were you about to say, brother?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“They . . . tortured her. Before they killed her. She suffered for a very long time. They did . . . terrible, unspeakable things to her.”
For the past months, Adri thought he had endured the worst grief imaginable. Now, he felt as if he had been struck by a wave of such intense misery that it seemed as if he had never felt pain before now.
“What about the child?” he asked in a voice that surprised him with its coherence. In his mind, there were only the echoes of screams. “Did they spare the child?”
“No, my brother. The child was the reason they took her from you. He would have been Krushan, a potential heir. He died with his mother, still unborn.”
Adri shook his head. But there could be no denying what was true. Had anyone else brought this news to him, he would have ranted and railed. But this was Vida. He trusted Vida to tell him the truth and nothing but.
Finally, he turned back to his half brother.
“Who?”
He could feel Vida hesitate, even though there was no sound from the man.
“Tell me,” he pleaded.
Still, Vida said nothing. That was so typically Vida, to think through every angle, examine every aspect of a piece of information and the possible consequences before sharing it. This also told him how genuine the information had to be. It was not some carelessly gathered and hastily shared bit of gossip. It was real.
“Tell me!”
“Brother,” Vida said, “I am so sorry. It was your own wife, Geldry, and her brother, Kune. They conspired with your sister-in-law Karni in order to deprive you of your inheritance and depose you from the throne. I have yet to unravel the entire web of the conspiracy, but as far as I can tell, Shvate’s wife and Geldry came up with this evil design. Shvate himself knew nothing.”
Adri probed toward Vida with every nerve in his body. He felt as if his mind and blood were all ablaze, as if he were seated on the Burning Throne at this very instant.
“Karni I can understand. She would resent Shvate for walking away from the throne. I have heard the news of her and Mayla’s offspring. If she was already pregnant at the time, she would have resented her unborn children losing their inheritance. But I don’t understand about Geldry. Why would she conspire against me? Her children are already in line for succession.”
“Which wife would accept her husband’s bastard or his mistress?” Vida said. “Her reason was simply jealousy and revenge. To her mind, she probably didn’t see it as conspiring against you at all. She probably thought she was asserting her right as a wife and a queen, by eliminating her husband’s lover and bastard child, and avenging the dishonor of her cuckoldry. The alliance with Karni was only to keep her own hands clean. By letting Karni organize the attack at the picnic, Geldry would not arouse your suspicions, while still getting what she desired. Perhaps she led Karni into believing, incorrectly of course, that she would let their children share the empire.”
Something about that did not ring true. Geldry was not the kind of woman who would share anything with anyone. But that hardly mattered right now. The conspiracy itself was painfully plausible. Geldry had known and resented Sauvali’s very existence. She would have wanted her dead. As for Karni, she had probably been desperate to have done this behind Shvate’s back. And he recalled the many occasions when he had scented or sensed Kune in Geldry’s bedchamber at inappropriate times, a fact that Geldry herself seemed determined to conceal from him. No wonder. Mere incest would have been sickening, but it was infinitely less sickening than their conspiracy to kidnap, torture, and murder the woman the future emperor of Hastinaga loved.
Adri knew there must be more details and logistics to the treachery, such as how, in the middle of a jungle, Karni had managed to hire so many sellswords to attack the picnic without Shvate finding out. Or had Shvate known as well? But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was that Sauvali was dead. His own unborn son—a son—was dead too.
And Karni and Geldry were the ones responsible.
He felt the heat rising within him, the banked fire of his bloodline, the raging volcanic inferno of the throne hissing in his veins.
“They will pay for this,” Adri said. “They will pay dearly.”
He felt stonefire, several floors below him, respond to his rage and reply with an answering surge of its own power. Burn, it said to him in its own secret song.
Burn.
Acknowledgments
After a lifetime (half a century) of knocking, someone finally opened the door to American science fiction and fantasy publishing and let me in.
His name is John Joseph Adams.
He’s far from the first good editor I’ve worked with; over my long career, I’ve had the pleasure of working with over a hundred editors, if I include commissioning editors, editors, and copyeditors, on over sixty books in multiple editions.
But he is the best by far.
After over a hundred editors and over sixty books, I say that with great conviction.
I’ve known no editor as quick, friendly, kind, ge
nerous, sensitive, incisive, precise, exacting, rigorous, diligent, in touch with the zeitgeist, able to see the big picture as well as home in on the finest detail. As if all that wasn’t enough, he’s also a nice person, and a really great guy.
Many US editors and publishers these days talk about welcoming diversity, #OwnVoices, multicultural perspectives, secondary-world settings, marginalized perspectives. Very few actually mean it. John does because he doesn’t talk or think about “diversity” as something to add to a publishing list; he simply accepts other cultures, other ways of seeing, no matter how foreign or individualistic, as equally valid. He doesn’t “other” the stories, the characters, or the author.
As you probably know already, not only is this not the norm in SFF in the US; it’s an extremely rare exception.
I’m lucky to have been discovered by him, inasmuch as it’s possible to be discovered after almost forty years of publishing over sixty books, selling over 3.2 million copies, translated into twenty-one languages and sold in sixty-one countries. All that wasn’t worth a damn to the several dozen editors and over three hundred agents in the US and UK. They didn’t even look at the pages I sent them; I know this, because not one rejected me for cause: none of them even replied!
John did both; he read the pages, and he replied.
Then he bought the book you now hold in your hands.
John is the only reason I’m an American author of SFF today.
This book exists because of him.
My US publishing career exists because of him.
John, you made it all possible.
You opened the door. And then you held it open and welcomed me in.
I owe you everything.
Thank you.
I’d also like to give a big, warm shout-out to Bruce Nichols, who backed up John, signed on an unagented debut author and a 250,000-word book for a generous advance, and has been nothing less than awesome ever since: please stay awesome. The rest of the team at HMH has been equally awesome as well. It takes a publishing village to raise a book as beautiful as this one, and I can’t thank them enough for their support and enthusiasm.
Ana Deboo made copyediting a 234,000-word manuscript seem like a walk in a short story park! This was the most amazing job of copy editing I’ve seen in my career. Whether you’re an editor, publisher, author, or even an aspiring author, I urge you to walk, run, leapfrog, or fly to get her to copyedit your book. She wrangled this massive book using real as well as fictional words, a made-up language resembling Sanskrit as well as some real Sanskrit, Indian as well as fantasy cultural and word references, and she did it all so masterfully that I can only pray that she copyedits every book I write from here on. Thank you, Ana!
Hubris is what it takes to attempt a book this ambitious, the first of a series.
Humility is what’s required to carry it from idea to final publication.
The book you’ve just read (or are about to read, if you’re like me and skip to the acknowledgments to get a sense of the author) and the series you’re beginning was birthed over twenty years ago. That’s when I actually set fingertips to keyboard and began typing the first words of what is now the Burnt Empire Saga. The spark of that story began long before that, and in a sense, the writing of this series parallels my entire life.
It’s impossible to thank only the people involved with publishing just a single edition, or even a single book, when the task entailed decades of growing, living, struggling, nurturing, dreaming, before the physical act of writing could even begin. So please excuse me as I set down this epic recounting of names and expressing of gratitude and make a long book even longer:
John Joseph Smith and (Siobhan) Kelly, my great-grandparents who sailed away into obscurity a century ago and were never heard from again: the family intrigue, mystery, drama—and ten abandoned children—that you left behind on the island of Sri Lanka (then Ceylon) laid the template for a lifelong fascination with family sagas to which the Burnt Empire Saga is the inevitable culmination.
Agnes May Smith: a brown boy in Bombay, India, raised by an Irish grandmother is, by definition, “different.” I wouldn’t have had it otherwise. Nana, you were my first patron, sponsor, and fan. From letting me take over your dining table for hours on end to taking eight hundred rupees out of your meager savings to pay for the printing of my first book in 1979, you let me be a writer. I know this isn’t a historical novel, the kind you like best, but it’s a family saga, and I know you enjoy those. Wish you were here to read it. I miss you and love you.
Sheila Ray D’Souza: as if an Irish grandmother weren’t enough, an Irish-Portuguese mother with more attitude and progressive ideas than most “woke” women today, you were far ahead of your time. Enormous India was too small to contain you, cosmopolitan Bombay wasn’t sophisticated enough to understand you, and the men in your life sure as hell didn’t do right by you. I love you for doing so much more than seemed possible, against impossible odds. You were the best mother anyone could want. If you were still around, you would have read this book and given me notes, I know. I can only hope it’s up to scratch! Love and miss you.
Polycarp Joseph D’Souza, Brian Xavier D’Souza, Yvonne D’Souza, and all the cousins and relatives who’ve drifted away over the decades or just plain died out. Thanks for the time we spent together, brief as it mostly was.
The extended Jain family: Indrakumar, Prakash, Vivek, Vaibhav, Usha, Pragati, Prakhar, Saumya, Mauryansh.
I’ve worked with many, many publishing professionals over my career. I’m grateful to every single person who played a role in the life of every book I wrote. You make it possible for authors to pursue careers. Thank you.
A few names stand out:
Arun Shastri, who was responsible for my first print byline, and Miss Sheila (whose surname I’ve forgotten in the fog of forty-plus years ago), the editor who gave me my first edits and praise.
The brothers at St. Francis, Bangalore, who wrote such a warm letter of praise for my poem “The Kingdom of Beasts” and then published it.
Joyce Aranha, for giving me a love for history that has endured all my life. It was good speaking with you last—was it ten years ago or fifteen?—and being able to thank you personally. You were more instrumental in my becoming a writer than any English teacher.
Ezra Aboudi, who saw a twelve-year-old boy scribbling on the back of his exam question paper and, instead of reprimanding me, praised my writing talent. Your encouragement was exponential in its effect!
Miss Sophy Kelly, a great educationist, a pillar of the community, and one of the greatest people I ever had the pleasure of knowing. Not only did she create a great institution, Hill Grange High School, Pedder Road, but she fostered the arts, theater, dance, music, and deserved far, far better than she received. Her sponsorship of my work—she gave me ten thousand rupees to write, mount, and produce my first theatrical production, “Are They Guilty?”—and her embrassingly effusive praise and support made me believe I was a writer, not just a boy trying to become one.
Kelly Cohen, who was right there at Hill Grange during those final golden years of that great institution, head boy to my assistant head boy, producer to my writer-director, fellow organizer of socials and eater of paper dosas on Altamount Road. Those were the days, old friend. Who would have thought two Hill Grangers from aamchi Mumbai would end up in Los Angeles and Cleveland around the same time? Shalom, pardner!
Randhir Khare for mentoring a very raw young writer, opening his bookshelves and his home, and for sharing the invaluable gifts of time, advice, camaraderie, and the first real drink this fifteen-year-old had ever taken (a Screwdriver with freshly squeezed orange juice). Randhir, thank you for everything and wish you well.
Menke Katz of Bitterroot, the editors of the literary journal of the University of Texas at Dallas and other literary journals in the US and UK for publishing the work of a teenager (without knowing he was a teenager), and all the other editors (Atlantic Review! TLS!) who wrote me persona
lized rejection notes with such warm encouragement.
Zamir Ansari, who took the time and trouble to write back to and then meet with an eager young novelist (all of fifteen years old in 1979) carrying a backpack filled with an entire science fiction trilogy (The Man Machine, The Ultimatum, The Last of the Robots) and for giving me gentle, useful advice on how to approach international publishers.
Aughie Dalton, who believed that a junior undergrad was capable of tackling a postgrad course, and gave me the encouragement I needed sorely at that crucial point in my budding career.
The sisters at Daughters of St. Paul, who published my first book—and paid me my first book advance. Sister Mary, I’m happy to say it earned out!
R. K. Mehra, who launched me properly as a novelist, published my first bestsellers including my novel Vertigo, and paid me what he said was the highest advance paid for an Indian English novel at the time (Rs. 50,000 in 1992), which made me believe it was possible to earn a living as a full-time novelist. It wasn’t, but I did it anyway.
Amit Chaudhuri, for sharing a love for literary Bombay, recognizing something that would stand the test of time in a self-effacing twenty-nine-year old in torn jeans, and for including my work in The Picador Book of Modern Indian Literature. (Back in print recently.)
David Davidar, for introducing me to the world of power editors and publishers with far more on their minds than books, and for all those wonderful breakfasts at the Oberoi discussing books, literature, Bombay, and publishing. The rest I could have done without, but as time goes by, I’ve come to accept that publishers, like authors, are at least partly human.
Dom Moraes for all the mumbled but excellent advice and wise suggestions, the good reviews and editorial encouragement. I never did write that literary memoir, Dom, but I will soon, I promise!
Jeet Thayil, who edited and published one of my first science fiction stories—in an anthology translated into Hebrew and released in Haifa, Israel—but it still counts!
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