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The Ruling Sea Hardcover – Deckle Edge, February 16, 2010
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Though the immediate plans of the dark sorcerer Arunis have been thwarted, the battle for control of the Chathrand, on which the fate of empires hinges, is far from over. On board, a small band of allies bound together less by trust than by desperate need scrambles for a means to defeat the conspiracy, while the nobleborn Thasha Isiq and the lowly deckhand Pazel Pathkendle find themselves unwillingly drawn inward to the plot’s core—and into a deadly game that will force them to make hard sacrifices.
The wizard Ramachni has left the travelers and retreated to his own world to nurse his battle wounds, but Arunis remains at large—weakened, yet still a terrifying foe. More pressing is the conspiracy of the Arquali Emperor, his chief assassin, Sandor Ott, and the Chathrand’s notorious captain, Nilus Rose, to use the dawn wedding of Thasha and a Mzithrin prince as a signal to launch a war.
With every move they make, Thasha and her compatriots find that they have more to lose—especially the deposed ixchel queen, Diadrelu, and the woken rat, Felthrup, who each harbor terrible secrets they dare not reveal.
Worst of all is a hidden, festering horror lurking in the hold of the Chathrand. A danger that not even Ramachni could have foreseen, it is the twisted product of a malevolent power determined to pull down the pillars of the world.
Now, as the Chathrand sets course through the uncharted waters of the vast and mysterious Ruling Sea, the fragile bonds of trust and love beginning to form between the unlikely allies will be tested to the breaking point—by unspeakable terrors, magical wonders, and shattering betrayals that dwarf anything that has come before.
- Print length640 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherDel Rey
- Publication dateFebruary 16, 2010
- Dimensions6.5 x 1.5 x 9.25 inches
- ISBN-100345508858
- ISBN-13978-0345508850
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From Publishers Weekly
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
From Booklist
Review
“Robert Redick is an extraordinary talent.” —New York Times, author Karen Miller
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Dawn
7 Teala 941
86th day from Etherhorde
(Treaty Day—six hours earlier)
“Eyes open, Neda.”
The Father had come to her alone. He held his own cup and candle, and he smiled at the girl asleep on the granite slab under the woolen shift, who obeyed him and smiled in kind and yet did not wake or stir. Her eyes when they winked open were blue; he had seen nothing like them in any other living face. A strand of weed in her hair. Dry streaks of salt water on her neck and forehead. Like his other children she had spent the night in the sea.
She was twenty-two, the man six times her age, unbent, unwearied, his years betrayed only in the whiteness of his beard and in the voice deep and traveled and kindly and mad. The girl knew that he was mad, and knew also that the day she revealed such knowledge by glance or sigh or question would be the day she died.
She knew many secret things. Until the Father woke her she would sleep like the other aspirants, but there was a disobedient flame in her that gleamed on, thought on, insensible to his orders. She wished it out. She tried to snuff it with meditation, inner exorcisms, prayers: it danced on, full of heresies and mirth. And because the Father could peer into her mind as through a frosted window it was but a matter of time before he saw it. Perhaps he saw it now, this very minute. Perhaps he was considering her fate.
She loved him. She had never loved another thus. It was not an earthly or a simple love but he could read its contours in her sleeper’s smile as he had on his children’s faces for a century.
“You dream, do you not?”
“I do,” she replied.
“And yet the dream is unsteady. You are nearer to waking than I’ve asked you to be.”
It was not a question. The girl lay watching him, asleep and not asleep. The Old Faith she had taken for her own states that life is not a struggle against death, but rather toward that authentic death inscribed at the instant of one’s birth. If he had come to kill her it meant fulfillment, the end of her work.
“You must not wake, best beloved. Turn your face to the dream. And when it surrounds you again, describe it.”
The girl’s eyes rolled, the lids half lowered, and watching her the Father trembled as he always did at the immensity of creation. She would see nothing more of the shrine about her—not the dawn light on the huddled sleepers nor the west arch open to the sea nor the quartz knife on his belt nor the pure white milk in his cup—but what endured were the territories within. Outside, fishermen were picking a trail through the sawgrass down to the shore, greeting one another in the happy lilt of Simja, this island unclaimed by any empire. Under the sheer wool the girl’s limbs began to twitch. She was not quiet in the place of the dream.
“I am in the hills,” she said.
“Your hills. Your Chereste Highlands.”
“Yes, Father. I am very near my house—my old house, before I became your daughter and was yet simple Neda of Ormael. My city is burning. It is on fire and the smoke trails out to sea.”
“Are you alone?”
“Not yet. In a moment Suthinia my birth-mother will kiss me and run. Then the gate will shatter and the men will arrive.”
“Men of Arqual.”
“Yes, Father. Soldiers of the Cannibal-King. They are outside the gate at the end of the houserow. My mother is weeping. My mother is running away.”
“Did she speak no last word to you?”
The sleeping girl tensed visibly. One hand curled into a fist. “Survive, she said. Not how. Not for whom.”
“Neda, Phoenix-Flame, you are there at the rape of Ormael, but also here, safe beside me, among your brothers and sisters in our holy place. Breathe, that’s right. Now tell me what happens next.”
“The gate is torn from its hinges. The men with spears and axes are surrounding my house. They’re in the garden, stealing fruit from my orange tree. But the oranges are not orange, they’re green, green still. They’re not ripe enough to eat!”
“Gently, child.”
“The men are angry. They’re breaking the lower limbs.”
“Why don’t they see you?”
“I’m underground. There is a trapdoor hidden in the grass, overlooking the house.”
“A trapdoor? Leading where?”
“Into a tunnel. My birth-father dug it with his smuggler friends. I don’t know where it leads. Under the orchards, maybe, back into the hills. I thought he might be here, my birth-father, after leaving us long ago. But no one’s here. I’m in the tunnel alone.”
“And the men are looting your house.”
“All the houses, Father. But ours they chose first—Aya!”
The girl’s cry was little more than a whimper, but her face creased in misery.
“Tell me, Neda.”
“My brother is there in the street. He’s so young. He is staring at the men in the garden.”
“Why do you not call to him?”
“I do. I call Pazel, Pazel—but he can’t hear, and if I raise my voice they’ll turn and see him. And now he’s running to the garden wall.”
The Father let her continue, sipping thoughtfully at his milk. Neda told how her brother pulled himself up by the thrushberry vine, crept in at his bedroom window, emerged moments later with a skipper’s knife and a whale statuette. How he fled into the plum orchards. How a mob of soldiers drew near her hiding place and spoke of her mother and the girl herself in terms that made the Father put the cup down, shaking with rage. As if they were cannibals in truth. As if souls were nothing and bodies mere cuts of meat. These men who would civilize the world.
The dawn light grew. He pinched his candle out and beckoned the vestment-boy near to keep her face in shadow, and the lad quaked when her blue eyes fixed on him. But Neda was gone—gone to Ormael, possessed by the dream she was speaking. The soldiers’ roar at the discovery of the liquor cabinet. Her girlish clothes tossed with laughter from a window, socks in the orange tree, blouses held up to armored chests. Bottles shattered, windows smashed; a ruined bleat from the neighbor’s concertina. Sunset, and endless dark hours in the cave, and frost on the trapdoor at morning.
Then she cried much louder than before and he could not comfort her, for she was watching the soldiers drag her brother down the hillside, hurl him flat and beat him with their fists and a branch of her tree.
“They hate him. They want to kill him. Father. Father. They are screaming in his face.”
“Screaming what?”
“The same words over and over. I did not speak their language, then. Pazel did but he was silent.”
“And you recall those words, don’t you?”
She was shaking all over. She spoke in a voice not quite her own. “ ‘Madhu ideji? Madhu ideji?’ ”
The Father closed his eyes, not trusting himself to speak. Even his own slight Arquali was enough. He could hear it, in all its snarled violence, bellowed at a child in pain: Where are the women? And the boy had held his tongue.
When he opened his eyes she was gazing right at him. He tried to be stern. “Tears, Neda? You know that is not our way. And no fury or grief or shame can best a child of the Old Faith. And no Arquali is your equal. Stop crying. You are sfvantskor, best beloved.”
“I wasn’t then,” she said.
True enough. No sfvantskor or anything like. A girl of seventeen at the time. Captured that very night, when thieves skulking deeper inside the tunnel chased her out at knife-point, into the hands of the Arqualis. Unable to speak to them, to plead. Brutalized, as he would not ask her to recall, before the strange Dr. Chadfallow intervened, freeing her in a shouting match with a general that came almost to blows.
The doctor was a favorite of the Arquali Emperor, who had named him Special Envoy to the city before the invasion. A friend to Neda and her family too, it seemed, for he took the girl bleeding as she was to his Mzithrini counterpart, who was to be expelled with his household that same afternoon.
“Save her, Acheleg,” he pleaded. “Take her with you as a daughter, open your heart.”
But this Acheleg was a beast. He had failed to predict the invasion, and so was returning to the Mzithrin in some disgrace. He saw no reason to help his rival. Both he and Chadfallow had wished to marry Suthinia, Neda’s mother, and although she had refused both and vanished none knew where Acheleg still fancied himself particularly spurned. Now fate had given him Suthinia’s child. Not the great beauty her mother was, and left unclean by the enemy, but still a prize for a slouching ex-diplomat whose future conquests would be scarce. He took her to Babqri—but as a concubine, not a daughter. And only because the man was fool enough to bring her to court, when he came beetling through with his lies and flattery for the king, had the Father spotted her.
Blue eyes. He had heard of such things in the East. And when the girl saw him watching and raised those eyes the Father knew she would be sfvantskor. A foreign sfvantskor! It was a sign of catastrophe, of the old world’s end. But in a hundred years of choosing he had never needed more than a glance.
Such an odd fate, Neda’s. Saved from an Arquali by an Arquali, and from one Mzithrini by another. Twice taken as plunder, the third time as a warrior for the gods.
But still not a sfvantskor, in point of fact. None of his children (he moved amo...
Product details
- Publisher : Del Rey; First Edition (February 16, 2010)
- Language : English
- Hardcover : 640 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0345508858
- ISBN-13 : 978-0345508850
- Item Weight : 2.05 pounds
- Dimensions : 6.5 x 1.5 x 9.25 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #3,191,690 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #206,422 in Fantasy (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
I'm the author of The Fire Sacraments epic fantasy trilogy. My new novel, SIDEWINDERS (Book II in the trilogy) is the longest and most ambitious book I've ever written. If you like desert adventure, meditations on peace and war, brothers with a love/hate relationship, dastardly global criminal networks, demon children or flying jellyfish, this book is for you. I'm told it reads well as a standalone too.
I wrote much of MASTER ASSASSINS (Book I), in the city of Bogor, Indonesia, beside a window through which the sounds of the city--calls to prayer, street vendors, kids, dogs, parrots, screeching toads and geckos--filtered in a soundtrack that waxed and waned but never stopped.
I'm also the author of the epic fantasy series The Chathrand Voyage Quartet, which begins with THE RED WOLF CONSPIRACY and concludes with THE NIGHT OF THE SWARM.
I've had the good fortune to live abroad and travel extensively. Before my two years in Indonesia, my travels were mostly in Latin America. In Cali, Colombia, I worked with a human rights foundation and taught in a bilingual school. In Argentina I interviewed park rangers, park administrators, superintendents and biologists across the country and wrote an in-depth study of ranger training in Argentina and elsewhere. My first novel, Conquistadors, is set during the Argentinian dictatorship of the late 1970s. The book was a finalist for the 2002 AWP/Thomas Dunne Novel Award.
For four years I worked as a stage critic for two New England newspapers--a nice job to have if you're dating. I've also worked as a baker, translator, Paso Fino horse handler and lab technician in an acid rain study.
For more information please visit robertvsredick.com
I live in rural western Massachusetts with my compañera, Kiran Asher, and an assortment of mammals and reptiles.
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The same elements that made The Red Wolf Conspiracy a good read are here. There are interesting characters, flawed good guys, scary bad guys, and several ambiguous good-bad guys (or bad-good guys) who you aren't sure still where their true allegiences lie. But above all, the main strength of RVSR writing remains that its fun. In fact, it's fantastical. At the end of the day, isn't this what the fantasy genre should be about? I found myself once again completely submerged into his world and taking off on a great adventure.
I also think that the ship on which 90% of the novel takes place is a great invention. It is more than an inanimate object, it is an inanimate character. Perhaps the best inanimate character in a fantasy novel I have read since China Melvielle's The Scar.
As far as weakness, there are none that detract from the enjoyment of the novel. It may lack the beautiful prose of someone like Guy Gavriel Kay. It may lack the grittiness of Joe Abercrombie. But those things aren't who this author is. This author gives a very entertaining fantasy novel. There were a few times in this novel (and in its predecessor) where I thought the novel was spinning out of control, that the plot was simply more than the author could chew. But everytime I felt a twinge of worry in this direction, the author pulled the plot back in and kept the story on focus.
All I can say in the end is this: I read both novels during a bad week for me. It was a week of medical complications and chemotherapy ravaging what cancer had not in my body. With these novels I mentally went somewhere else and became engrossed in a world that was full of adventure and humanity. I read fantasy novels for many reasons, but this is the main one: to touch the fantastic. And both of these novels by Robert VS Redick are just that, fantastic. The novel doesnt garner five stars from me for being perfect, but for being so darned fun.
The only downfall of the Ruling Seas is the plot and pace. While it all wraps up nicely at the end and leads directly into the next book in the installment, there were times when the story was a tad bit mishandled. Motivations didn't line up properly, things happened too quickly or slowly, a solution presented itself that made things too easy - that sort of thing. On balance though, it is a good book and I look forward to the next one from Robert Redick.
This book had me so excited, it was just wonderful. The sequel was much better than the first. I'm dying to read the 3rd book and can't believe i'll have to wait for a 4th book sometime also...here's my short and sweet description for those of you who have read book 1:
The action and events were much closer together, it was nearly impossible for me to put it down. We had answers for things we wanted out of book 1, but not too many answers. We have the same characters, although some are changing in magical ways and others are growing into the roles they will play in the end. There was still a naive trait that some of the characters posses, but it's nothing that makes you roll your eyes. We have some new minor characters to pay attention to, mostly villains or undetermined sides. There seems to now be a good side, bad side, and an undetermined middle ground and you start to wonder if that middle ground is the side to root for. There is still little hope for the handful of heros, but each find ways to make their role important. It is a little dark, the description of some scenes are done well and created nasty images in my mind. We're given a few new settings aside from the Chathrand, which is a nice change of pace. The ending does leave you wondering "what on earth happens now???" but the book overall was complete in itself.
If you haven't read book one; I feel like this series needs to be read as a series. I don't think that you can view the same connection to the characters and the meaning of parts of the plot, if you haven't started with book 1.
Top reviews from other countries
The depth and breadth in the thinking of the author kept me struggling to keep up, yet I was hooked and hanging on every word, every page. In fact I am still battling to come to grips with the story, is it truth or a fable, I'm not sure. For a speed reader, it was difficult to not read every word and not fight the urge to go back through pages to verify a fact or was it?