Book One: The Stranger Trilogy, sequel to The Seer
Book One: The Stranger Trilogy
Sequel to The Seer.
Finally liberated from her captor, Amarta—The Seer of Arunkel—travels south to Perripur, her former hunter—and lover—at her side.
She needs all the help she can get, because more hunters are tracking her, close behind.
As Amarta’s fame spreads across two countries, so does her need to understand herself, and to find others who can also see into the future.
Back in Arunkel, the man who once held Amarta's freedom—the queen's Lord Commander and Royal Consort—plays a deadly game with the aristocratic Houses. He must win if his queen and his child are to survive. He has not forgotten the Seer whom he once hunted, and held captive.
Amarta has not forgotten him, either.
Unmoored—the first book of The Stranger Trilogy—begins new adventures for Amarta, The Seer. Come explore this rich world, follow the court intrigue, and learn the truth about power.
Be sure to pick up the other books in the trilogy: Maelstrom and Landfall.
Amarta's eye was caught by a shimmering shell on a vendor's table. She went to it eagerly, fingertips tracing its bright green curve.
She had seen it before, she was nearly positive. A dream or a vision--a moment ago, a lifetime hence, she wasn't sure. An echo from some possible future? _The glinting, rainbow iridescence rippled across a field._ Then it was gone: another mysterious glimpse of what might yet be.
"Tell your fortune, foreign miss?"
So much of Amarta's foresight was like this very shell, she reflected. The emerald glint in sunlight befuddled the eye. Did she see this shell before her, true? Or was it to come, and still only possible in the world?
The eye and mind could be confused. Touch was more certain. Her fingers brushed the hard surface again.
"Your future? Good sera? I to tell you?"
READ MOREAmarta blinked, realizing that these spoken words were now, here, in this busy market. And further, were spoken in her own language. No future vision, this.
She looked for the source, across tables heaped with trays of still-twitching sea creatures, past piles of oddly shaped fruits with fingers like the limbs of lovers entwined--but no--that didn't bear thinking about.
Beyond the seawall, the crashing of waves cut through the market chatter every few moments, the hush of the sea weaving through the high laughter of children, who darted and dodged around haggling adults. Suddenly, a few paces away, a table leg collapsed, skeins of yarn tumbling to the dirt and cobbles. A sharp, outraged yell. Children scattered in all directions.
A young boy ran in front of Amarta and stopped, gaping and pointing at her. A scowling shopkeeper lurched for the child who dashed out of reach and was gone, sliding through a narrow opening of brick and barrels.
"Sera? Your fortune you want?"
Amarta at last thought to look down. On the ground, from under a tattered awning, its fabric faded to colorlessness, an aged hand reached out and up. She leaned into view, the old woman, her face lined, dark skin blotched pale, her white hair a ragged fuzz.
"What did you say, grandmother?" Amarta asked her in the language and dialect of this land.
"Ah, you speak Perripin! And so well," said the old woman, grinning toothlessly. "I would hardly know you for a foreigner, miss, but for your sickly pale skin. Do you wish your fortune, this fine, bright market day? I was trained in the auguring ways by the Monks of Revelation, so I can tell your future true."
Amarta felt a hand close on her arm. A gentle grip, but it might as well have been steel. He leaned in close.
"She can't, Amarta."
The scent of him warred with the mingling smoke of frying fish and the heavy brine of the sea, and won. An ache swirled through her.
"And if you keep walking away from me," he breathed into her ear, "you will seem an Arunkin woman traveling the coast of Perripur alone, rather than a back-country couple, here to shop. In these lands, that is worthy of note."
Amarta brushed back the tail of the long scarf he'd wrapped around her head that morning. The local style, the scarf and blouse. They dressed the part of poor rural inlanders. The scarf tangled, and she tugged at it, frustrated.
"I'll do better," she said.
"Try to seem at ease with me," he said gently. "Or annoyed, if you prefer. Act familiar, in any case, as if we've been together for years. Yes?"
"Yes."
Together for years. Which they had been, in a way. Years in which he had hunted her relentlessly. A lifetime ago. A world away.
COLLAPSESonia Orin Lyris
