The Hod King

by Josiah Bancroft

  Marat smiled with paternal patience. “What would you do if you saw the Sphinx again?”

  “I would drag the worm out of his hole and watch him shrivel in the sunlight.”

  “You would kill the Sphinx?”

  “I would. And then I would pound this wretched coffin nail of a Tower into the earth.”

  “Come the Hod King,” Marat said.

  “Come the Hod King,” Senlin parroted.

  Marat looked like a man settling into a warm bath. He sighed and said, “I want to teach you a word. It will be your first word in hoddish. The word is mhul-ky.”

  “Mhul-ky.” Senlin appeared to mull the sound over, to savor it. “What does it mean?”

  “One who opens the heavens. Mhul-ky: That is what we are, and that is what we shall do. We will tear the cloud from the Tower’s top and expose the Sphinx to the world.”

  Marat held out his palm and uttered an inscrutable command. One of his bare-chested bodyguards slid a long knife from the sheath at his hip and laid the wire-bound handle in his master’s hand. “Come here. Let me free you. I’m afraid you’ll have to kneel because I cannot stand,” Marat said as Senlin went to one knee by the arm of his chair. Senlin offered Marat his throat.

  The zealot lord set his blade to Senlin’s neck and held it there.

  Senlin conjured up the vision of Marya walking up the green mountain with her back to him and the round face of their daughter staring wide-eyed at him, stumbling after them.

  Marat jerked the knife, and the noose fell from Senlin’s neck. “Your hair is long, Hodder Tom. It’s turning gray as well. Here, let me lighten your burden.”

  Marat turned Senlin’s head with the gentle authority of a barber and set the knife to his temple. He began scraping the hair down to the stubble, erasing the evidence of many seasons of Senlin’s life. The desert wind stirred and swept his mane away.

  The story continues in …

  THE BOOKS OF BABEL

  Book IV

  Keep reading for a sneak peek!

  Acknowledgments

  I redrafted a sizable portion of The Hod King while my wife, Sharon, was pregnant with our first child. The constant support she gave me during those months was surpassed only by the patience she provided after the arrival of our daughter, Maddie, when I had to sequester myself for hours and weeks to revise the draft. This book would not exist if it were not for her steadfast insistence that I get back to work, even as our miracle cooed, cried, and grew. I would also like to thank my parents, Barbara and Josiah, and Sharon’s parents, Carol and Bob. I owe them thanks for many things, but in particular, I am grateful for their support of Maddie and Sharon. My sister, Jesse, was a wonderful source of perspective and understanding throughout this odyssey. She flew across the country to make us cookies. They were delicious.

  I must thank my editors at Orbit Books, Bradley Englert and Emily Byron, for their assistance in the completion of this volume, which would be much worse but for their intervention and guidance. I’d also like to thank my agent, Ian Drury, and all of the exceedingly helpful members of Sheil Land Associates—particularly Lucy Fawcett and Gaia Banks—for their work in helping to expand my audience.

  Writing is solitary work, but fortunately I found commiseration and encouragement from a community of personable and talented writers, including Jonathan French, Dyrk Ashton, Baird Wells, Benedict Patrick, Timandra Whitecastle, David Benem, and Phil Tucker, among many, many others. If you are not familiar with their work, I would encourage you to seek them out. They are deserving of your attention and affection. Of course, without Mark Lawrence’s enthusiastic endorsement, none of this would’ve occurred. I am, and will forever be, indebted to him and his magnificent Self-Published Fantasy Blog-Off. He changed the trajectory of my career and life.

  And many, many thanks to my readers and fans. Your personal notes, your thoughtful comments, and your generous reviews warmed my heart when it had cooled and raised my spirit when it was low. The success of the series is the direct result of your efforts to share your enjoyment of these books with other readers. I am so grateful for your support.

  This book is dedicated to William Barber Bancroft, my uncle, who passed away in 2004. Barber was responsible for introducing me to so many of my formative influences, including Fritz Lang, T. S. Eliot, Gertrude Stein, and Jacques Derrida. Barber taught me that good writing requires more than style, theory, and poetry. Good writing, at its core, is an extension of the tradition of storytelling, which is fitting because I never met a more entertaining and spirited storyteller. A formidable writer and a consummate teacher, Barber treated me like a peer when I was not one and behaved as if I were a talent when I hadn’t any. He encouraged me to begin and to persist. I would not be the writer I am were it not for him.

  extras

  meet the author

  Photo Credit: Kim Bricker

  JOSIAH BANCROFT started writing novels when he was twelve, and by the time he finished his first, he was an addict. Eventually, the writing of Senlin Ascends began, a fantasy adventure not so unlike the stories that got him addicted to words in the first place. He wanted to do for others what his favorite writers had done for him: namely, to pick them up and to carry them to a wonderful and perilous world that is spinning very fast. If he’s done that with this book, then he’s happy.

  Josiah lives in Philadelphia with his wife, Sharon, their daughter, Maddie, and their two rabbits, Mabel and Chaplin.

  if you enjoyed

  THE HOD KING

  look out for

  THE BOOKS OF BABEL: BOOK IV

  by

  Josiah Bancroft

  Behind a veil of stubborn clouds, beneath a crystal dome, sweet cherry trees ripened in a park at the heart of Helios.

  The glass shell that encased the Tower’s crowning city collected the scheduled fog. The condensation turned into a hesitant rain that pattered upon the canopy of fruit trees. Beyond the garden, gold and silver turrets shone with the diffuse light of evening, while song birds tested the limits of their sky and flew circles about the spires.

  Adamos Boreas stood on a stool plucking cherries from the lower branches and placing them into a basket hooked upon his arm. He wore a starched shirt, slender trousers, and his suspenders off his shoulders. His jacket dangled from the stump of a branch above a pair of hard leather shoes into which he had stuffed his socks. Beyond the park’s lush hedge, Adam heard the clatter of a passing railcar. A lively dialogue rumbled through the walls of the city’s landmark theater, a structure that looked like an egg stood upon its sharper end.

  Despite the noise, he felt blissfully alone. He hadn’t had more than a handful of minutes to himself since arriving in Helios two weeks earlier. It was novel to hear his own breath come and go, a novelty to think his own thoughts, which seemed suddenly commonplace and small in the absence of an audience. He tugged cherries from branches and thought of how his mother used to dry fruit on the windowsills of his childhood home.

  He heard the rustle of someone crossing the lawn but didn’t stop his pleasant work.

  “There you are,” she said. She still wore her evening dress, a black shift that flattered her long limbs and longer hair that was as pale as chamomile.

  “Celeste,” Adam said, stepping off his stool. Again, he enjoyed the cool prickle of grass on the bare soles of his feet. “I thought you were watching the show.”

  “I thought you were, too. Mauvis saw you slip out. He’s worried you don’t like his masterpiece,” she said, smiling at a joke they’d only recently begun to share.

  “Of course I do. But after two or three or six viewings it begins to stir up … hard memories.”

  “Your sister,” Celeste said.

  “Yes. Always Voleta. But also …” He looked down, searching for an answer, but then distracted by the beauty of the bright emerald grass. It seemed more precious and exotic than the finest woven rug. “There were so many years of my life when I felt misunderstood. I believed I was only lackin
g opportunities. Never purpose or self-possession. No, I was just waiting for a fair shot. But now, after confronting so much of my past, I’ve started to wonder if I didn’t know myself half so well as I thought.”

  “You always wanted to be a cherry picker, is that it?” she said, a gentle joke.

  He nearly laughed. “No. No, I just wanted to do something with my hands for a moment, if only to give my head a break. It didn’t work.” He held the basket to her, offering her a cherry, though instead she took the handle and set the hamper down. She kicked off her slippers and stepped closer till her toes wriggled over his. He smiled as she reached up to stroke his cheek. “Now, where’s our director?” he asked, his eye shining with a little mischief.

  “Oh, who cares?” She felt along the edge of his black satin eyepatch, slipping a fingernail under it.

  “Don’t,” he said. “It’s ugly.”

  Her smile broadened but saddened at the same time. She let the edge of the patch go. “One day you’ll show me all of you.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “So tell me, Adamos Boreas, Son of the Western Plains of Ur, what sort of wicked thoughts are you trying to chase off with your gardening?”

  His posture softened as she kissed him again. He placed his hands on her hips, drew her closer to him. “Nothing,” he said softly.

  “Come on. Still trying to figure out what to do with all those gold fixtures you squirreled away in your room? Still plotting ways to smuggle out the silverware? You’re a terrible thief. You jingle when you walk.”

  This time he laughed, then kissed her softly on the lips. “Perhaps I have a different sort of treasure in mind now.”

  “Oh, do you?” She rolled her forehead against his, her hands running up his back. “Is it buried treasure?”

  “It is a little buried.”

  “Should I help you dig for it?” she asked.

  “If you like,” he said.

  As their embrace grew more impassioned, a shiver ran through the city. The birds boiled about the peak of the dome, raising a panicked chorus as the street plates rattled and the ripest fruit dropped into the grass. The quake did not alarm the lovers. Tremblers here were as regular as the rain, and almost certainly not growing stronger.

  If Adam’s eye hadn’t been closed, he might’ve seen the men and women in formal dress crouched among the bushes.

  if you enjoyed

  THE HOD KING

  look out for

  EMPIRE OF SAND

  The Books of Ambha

  by

  Tasha Suri

  A nobleman’s daughter with magic in her blood. An empire built on the dreams of enslaved Gods. Empire of Sand is Tasha Suri’s captivating, Mughal India–inspired debut fantasy.

  The Amrithi are outcasts; nomads descended of desert spirits, they are coveted and persecuted throughout the Empire for the power in their blood. Mehr is the illegitimate daughter of an imperial governor and an exiled Amrithi mother she can barely remember, but whose face and magic she has inherited.

  When Mehr’s power comes to the attention of the Emperor’s most feared mystics, she must use every ounce of will, subtlety, and power she possesses to resist their cruel agenda.

  Should she fail, the Gods themselves may awaken seeking vengeance …

  Chapter One

  Mehr woke up to a soft voice calling her name. Without thought, she reached a hand beneath her pillow and closed her fingers carefully around the hilt of her dagger. She could feel the smoothness of the large opal embedded in the hilt, and its familiar weight beneath her fingertips calmed her. She sat up and pushed back the layer of gauze surrounding her divan.

  “Who is it?” she called out.

  The room was dark apart from one wavering light. As the light approached, Mehr realized it was an oil lantern, held aloft by a maidservant whom Mehr knew by sight but not by name. Through the glare of the lit flame, the maidservant’s features looked distorted, her eyes wide with nervousness.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady,” the maid said. “But your sister is asking for you.”

  Mehr paused for a moment. Then she slid off the divan and wound the sash of her sleep robe tight around her waist.

  “You work in the nursery?” she asked.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Then you should know Lady Maryam won’t be pleased that you’ve come to me,” she said, tucking the dagger into her sash. “If she finds out, you may be punished.”

  The maidservant swallowed.

  “Lady Arwa is asking for you,” she repeated. “She won’t sleep. She’s very distressed, my lady.”

  “Arwa is a child,” Mehr replied. “And children are often distressed. Why risk your position and come to me?”

  The light wavered again as the maidservant adjusted her grip on the lantern.

  “She says there is a daiva watching her,” the maidservant said, her voice trembling. “Who else could I come to?”

  Mehr strode over to the maidservant, who flinched back.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sara, my lady,” said the maidservant.

  “Give me the lantern, Sara,” said Mehr. “I don’t need you to light the way.”

  Mehr found Arwa curled up in her nurse Nahira’s lap outside the nursery, surrounded by a gaggle of frightened maidservants. There was a Haran guardswoman standing by, looking on helplessly with her hand tight on the hilt of her blade. Mehr had some sympathy for her. Steel was no good against daiva, and equally useless in the comforting of distressed women.

  “Mehr!” Arwa cried out, coming to life in the woman’s arms. “You came!”

  The nurse holding on to her had to tighten her grip to keep Arwa in place, now that she was squirming like a landed fish. Mehr kneeled down to meet Arwa at eye level.

  “Of course I’ve come,” said Mehr. “Sara says you saw a daiva?”

  “It won’t leave my room,” Arwa said, sniffling. Her face was red with tears.

  “How old are you now, Arwa?”

  “Nine years,” said Arwa, frowning. “You know that.”

  “Much too old to be crying then, little sister.” Mehr brushed a tear from Arwa’s cheek with her thumb. “Calm yourself.”

  Arwa sucked in a deep breath and nodded. Mehr looked up at Arwa’s nurse. She knew her well. Nahira had been her nurse once too.

  “Did you see it?”

  Nahira snorted.

  “My eyes aren’t what they once were, but I’m still Irin. I could smell it.” She tapped her nose.

  “It has sharp claws,” Arwa said suddenly. “And big eyes like fire, and it wouldn’t stop looking at me.”

  Arwa was growing agitated again, so Mehr cupped her sister’s face in her hands and made a low soothing sound, like the desert winds at moonrise.

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” she said finally, when Arwa had gone still again.

  “There’s not?”

  “No,” Mehr said firmly. “I’m going to make it go away.”

  “Forever?”

  “For a long while, yes.”

  “How?”

  “It isn’t important.”

  “I need to know,” Arwa insisted. “What if another one comes and you’re not here? How will I make it go away then?”

  I’ll always be here, thought Mehr. But of course that was a lie. She could promise no such thing. She looked into her sister’s teary eyes and came, abruptly, to a decision. “Come with me now, Arwa. I’ll show you.”

  One of the maidservants made a sound of protest, quickly hushed. Nahira gave her a narrow look, her grip on Arwa still deathly tight.

  “She won’t approve,” warned Nahira.

  “If my stepmother asks, say I forced you,” Mehr told her. She touched light fingers to Arwa’s shoulders. “Please, Nahira.”

  “I imagine Lady Maryam will draw her own conclusions,” Nahira said dryly. She let Arwa go. “She doesn’t think highly of you, my lady.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Mehr. “Come on now,
Arwa. You can carry the lamp.”

  The nursery was undisturbed. The living room was lit, candlelight flickering on the bright cushions and throws strewn across the marble floor. Arwa’s bedroom, in the next room along, was dark.

  The guardswoman trailed in reluctantly behind them. Her hand was fixed firmly on her scabbard.

  “There’s no need for this, my lady,” the guardswoman said. “Lady Arwa simply had a nightmare. I’m sure of it.”

  “Are you?” Mehr replied mildly.

  The guardswoman hesitated, then said, “I told Lady Arwa’s nursemaid and the maidservants that daiva don’t exist, that they should tell her so, but …” She paused, glancing uneasily at Mehr’s face. “The Irin are superstitious.”

  Mehr returned her look.

  This one, she thought, has not been in Irinah long.

  “I ran into the room as soon as she screamed,” said the guard, pressing on despite Mehr’s pointed silence. “I saw nothing.”

  Ignoring her, Mehr nudged Arwa gently with her foot.

  “Go on, love. Show me where it is.”

  Arwa took in another deep breath and stood straight, mustering up her courage. Then she went into her bedroom. Mehr followed close behind her, the guardswoman still hovering at her back.

  “There,” Arwa said, pointing. “It’s moved. On the window ledge.”

  Mehr looked up and found the daiva already watching her.

  Pale dawn was coming in through the window lattice at its back. Silhouetted against it, the daiva was a wisp of taloned shadows, its wings bristling darkly against a backdrop of gray-gold light. It was small for a daiva, no larger than Arwa, with nothing human in the shape of its face or in the lidless glare of its golden eyes.