Z. Bennett Lorimer's Blog: Dispatches from the Trail

I recently picked up Kate Elliott’s Crown of Stars series, a somewhat forgotten epic fantasy from the ‘90s beginning with King’s Dragon (1997). Elliott is one of the grandmasters of the fantasy genre, so the prose compares favorably to the bulk of epic fantasies published today. For most seasoned fantasy readers, the story will feel a bit familiar and tropey, but the execution is so refined that I still found much to enjoy the experience.

It’s important to consider King’s Dragon in the context of its time. The epic fantasy genre has exploded since the ‘90s. Elliott didn’t invent any of the tropes that she’s playing with here, but they weren’t quite as tired in 1997 as they may seem to contemporary readers. We’ve got all the familiar trappings of a medieval fantasy. An acquisitive kingdom riven by noble strife. A pair of orphaned protagonists with grand destinies. An invasion of non-human raiders from across the sea. A race of Ashioi, who are basically elves. That she deploys these tropes isn’t as important as how she deploys them. Elliott isn’t the author mining the raw materials. Few really are. Thankfully, she’s an evocative writer and a skilled enough fantasist to mold them in inventive ways.

Reading King’s Dragon did get me thinking about the evolution of the genre we now know as epic fantasy (we used to call it “high fantasy”), and where it might be heading in the future. The genre’s progression is marked by long periods of imitation and permutation punctuated by revolutionary works that shift the fantasy metagame, introducing a new paradigm. I’m not arguing that one is better than the other. You can find excellent works of imitation and permutation that fall squarely within an existing paradigm. Not every writer needs to shatter the fantasy mold, and the traditional publishing world can be small “c” conservative, making it difficult to do so. It’s always going to be easier to pitch the next A Game of Thrones than a novel that subverts everything readers love about A Game of Thrones.

Notably, Elliott began publishing this series at one of the genre’s major inflection points. As a result, it exists as a kind of transitional text, emulating both the tropes and styles of the earlier paradigm while also embracing the emergent mode.

Lord of the Rings is epic fantasy’s ur-text

For an interesting taxonomy of fantastic fiction, I highly recommend Farah Mendlesohn’s Rhetorics of Fantasy. In her monograph, Mendlesohn divides the literature of the fantastic into four descriptive categories. Modern epic fantasy falls into what she terms “immersive fantasy.” I’m paraphrasing Mendlesohn’s more sophisticated argument here, but in an immersive fantasy, the speculative elements are treated as normal by the characters populating the story. We’re in an alternate reality where the rules are different and self-evident. Mendlesohn contrasts this approach with “invasive fantasies,” where the speculative elements insinuate themselves into consensus reality; “portal fantasy,” wherein the characters access the fantastic through some transitional portal connecting consensus reality to the speculative plane; and “liminal fantasy,” the realm of what we now call “magical realism.” For examples of invasive fantasy, see most horror fiction and urban fantasy. Portal fantasies include The Chronicles of Narnia, Harry Potter, and Lev Grossman’s The Magicians (though Grossman does blend invasive elements in the later entries). Liminal fantasy is the most diverse tax, and includes texts ranging from A Hundred Years of Solitude to the works of Jonathan Caroll and the short stories of George Saunders.

It’s rare that we can point to one, precise literary moment where an entire genre begins, but epic fantasy has a clear ur-text: Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. That’s not to say that LotR is the first immersive fantasy, though all epic fantasy belongs to this category. While Tolkien drew heavily from Scandinavian mythology, he was also inspired by the early pioneers of immersive fantasy, particularly Lord Dunsany. We also have evidence that he read at least some of H.P. Lovecraft’s work, which falls closer to the invasive fantasy tax. Inspiration aside, the leap from The King of Elfland’s Daughter to The Fellowship of the Ring is categorical.

Middle-earth is an entirely secondary world with no in-text relationship to consensus reality. The setting comes complete with its own history, mythology, culture, religion, etc. With this backdrop, he establishes what will become the hallmarks of the genre: an epic struggle between good and evil; a heroic quest traversing the secondary world; an alternative metaphysics that’s internally consistent (i.e. magic). Thousands of writers saw the potential of what Tolkien unleashed on the literary world, and it would be decades before anyone dared to tinker with the formula.

After Tolkien rose to prominence in popular culture during his 1960s renaissance, the paradigm was set. The period of imitation and permutation commenced. Over the next three decades, while the science fiction genre overflowed with creativity and experimentation, epic fantasists struggled to think beyond Tolkien’s vision. Of the imitators, Terry Brooks’ Sword of Shannara is perhaps the most shameless, but every bestseller from Ray Feist’s Riftwar Cycle to Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman’s Dragonlance novels presented what was essentially “Tolkien, but my world.” In fairness, I never read past The Sword of Shannara, but I’m told Brooks finds his voice in the later entries.

It’s not quite as clean cut as I’m making it sound. Epic fantasy had its early experimentalists. Jane Gaskell’s Atlan series (1977) introduced elements of classic sword and sorcery, but through the lens of a female protagonist. Her work also contains elements of alternative history, and is definitely worth the read. Ursula LeGuin’s Earthsea series contains almost no echoes of Tolkien, and she is a rare match for Tolkien in terms of literary caliber. Thanks, in part, to LeGuin’s elevated craft, the Earthsea books remain well read and beloved to this day. Katherine Kurtz’s Deryni series introduced an element of medieval realism to the milieu that continues to have an impact on the genre. While Kurtz isn’t as well read today as she probably should be, it’s hard to imagine A Game of Thrones or a King’s Dragon without Deryni Rising.

Robert Jordan cracked the mold

Full disclosure: I’m a bit of a Robert Jordan stan. I came to the Wheel of Time late in life, initially intimidated by its 14-volume breadth, but I ended up burning through the series, enamored of Jordan’s craft and innovation. WoT truly withstands the tests of time.

By the late ‘80s, more novelists saw the potential of the genre and were looking for ways to transcend Tolkien. Jordan’s Eye of the World (1990) finally managed it in a way that reset the paradigm. In part due to the series’ length, WoT exists as both a transitional text and a paradigm-setter. The first book begins in a familiar setting, with five young people shaken from their bucolic lives in the pastoral Three Rivers and called to a higher destiny. In later interviews, Jordan said that he intended the opening scenes of WoT to recall Tolkien’s Shire, and I’ve always read this as an interesting vantage on a writer shaking off the shackles of genre.

While WoT begins like a conventional LotR permutation, it grows into something entirely other. We still have the overarching battle between good and evil (the Dark One vs. the Dragon, in this instance), but this manichean worldview is complicated by flawed heroes, sympathetic villains, and a tangle of complex motivations. No one reads LotR rooting for Saruman or the orcs, but Lanfear and Asmodean both have their fervent apologists. And while no one really likes Demandred, his motivations feel relatable. On the side of the light, Mat and Nynaeve evolve from the two most irritating, unlikable characters in The Eye of the World to the most admirable heroes out of Emond’s Field. Rand begins the journey as the archetypal reluctant hero, but instead of walking a straight line toward accepting his destiny, he nearly falls from grace. Fans of Jordan call this grim mid-section the “Darth Rand” arc. And my personal favorite character, Egwene, also happens to be the most widely hated hero among the fandom. I can understand it, even if I don’t agree. Egwene accomplishes more for the light than perhaps any other character in WoT, but her methods are often morally questionable.

Jordan’s plot is also strikingly political. Tolkienian epic fantasies, like the ancient myths that inspired him, are more concerned with individual flaws and corruptibility. Jordan widens the aperture to explore the corruptibility of human systems and societies. Tolkien helped show us why good people do bad and how the weak show strength. Jordan shows us why many people trying to do good produce bad in their collaboration, and why strength in numbers is often its own kind of weakness. At its core, WoT is a story about how difficult it is to get people to pull in the same direction–even with the fate of creation itself at stake.

Honorable mention to Tad Williams’ The Dragonbone Chair (1988), which arguably opened up these possibilities before Jordan stuck the landing. The Dragonbone Chair is a notoriously challenging text, and many readers bounce off its bloated, expository opening, but Osten Ard paved the way for Randland and eventually Westeros. It deserves its due.

George R.R. Martin finished shattering the Tolkien mold

King’s Dragon hit shelves in 1997, just a year after George R.R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones. I can’t entirely credit Martin with resetting the paradigm. He’ll readily admit that he was working in the shadow of Jordan. But it’s also hard to understate the impact A Game of Thrones had and continues to have on the epic fantasy genre. Martin might be a son of Jordan, but the publishing landscape is now dominated by sons of Martin. Some of the most popular contemporary subgenres–like Grimdark–spring forth from Martin’s loins moreso than Jordan’s.

A Game of Thrones added a few new aesthetic touches inspired by dark, military fantasies like Glen Cook’s Black Company and the historical fiction that Martin admires. For a window into what George was reading, I recommend The Accursed Kings by Maurice Druon and literally every single novel written by Bernard Cornwall (for my money, the best living historical fiction writer). Martin made epic fantasy postmodern. Jordan gave us complicated heroes and villains? Martin has no real use for either heroes or villains. His characters remain the most human creations you’ll find in epic fantasy, rife with conflict and possessed of rich interior lives.

Westeros is a gritty, cynical world. Heroes die early and often, and the antagonists frequently “win.” We still have the supernatural big bad lurking in the wings in the form of the Others and their undead wights, but for the majority of the narrative we’ve seen so far, this threat only exists as an afterthought to highlight the selfish concerns and mismatched priorities of the principal cast.

As popular as Martin has become, I still think he’s underrated. So much of what makes A Song of Ice and Fire transcendent is a pure product of his singular talent as a writer and storyteller. He writes genre, so he’ll likely never get his due from the literati, but he deserves to be discussed alongside Melville, Nabokov, Morrison, and Atwood. Lev Grossman famously dubbed him the American Tolkien. I’d go one step further and rank him among the greatest English-language writers of all time.

Martin’s skill presents a challenge to his descdendants. We have some excellent epic fantasists working in the Martin-Jordan paradigm, but Martin is a generational talent, and few can match his literary skill. J.V. Jones’ Sword of Shadows perhaps most closely emulates Martin’s style, but the next few decades brought even more provocative permutations like Steve Erikson’s Malazan: Book of the Fallen, Joe Abercrombie’s First Law, and Seth Dickinson’s Masquerade. Abercrombie, in particular, is credited with launching the Grimdark trend, more a branch of Martin’s tree than a new trunk of epic fantasy. Erikson’s Malazan is often misclassified as Grimdark, but what defines the Grimdark form for me is an abiding cynicism toward the heroic archetype and a pessimistic take on the human condition. In Grimdark fantasies, the characters succumb to their flaws more often than not, and pure intentions are treated as weakness. That fact that readers equate this style with greater realism is telling. Malazan: Book of the Fallen is a dark, violent text–harder to read in places than anything produced by Martin or Abercrombie–but at its core, it’s a story about forgiveness and perseverance. These themes don’t fit well in the Grimdark mode. For an epic fantasy that takes the Grimdark style to its extreme, I recommend R. Scott Bakker’s Prince of Nothing.

None of this would be possible, of course, without Martin’s postmodernization of the epic fantasy tropes.

King’s Dragon absorbed some elements of the transition taking place in the genre in 1997, but it shares more DNA with the medieval fantasies of the ‘80s and early ‘90s. If I had to guess, that’s why the series isn’t more widely read today.

Honorable mention to Robin Hobb’s Realm of the Elderlings. Assassin’s Apprentice hit shelves in 1995, a year ahead of A Game of Thrones. Hobb’s story is just as innovative as Martin’s, and she inspired her own lineage of fantasists, including Patrick Rothfuss and the 700-lb gorilla on the fantasy shelf, Brandon Sanderson.

Romantasy, the New Weird, and progression fantasy: how the genre is branching

The publishing landscape today is overwhelmed by popular works incorporating the tropes and elements of epic fantasy. While many of these series have inspired subgenres of their own, they haven’t quite flipped the paradigm in what I would term “core epic fantasy.” Brandon Sanderson is arguably the most popular fantasist actively publishing, and he seems dogmatically determined to ignore the last 30 years of cynical postmodernism. Sanderson is notable for working in the Robert Jordan mode without absorbing any of the new elements tempered into the canon by Martin’s literary hammer. He’s obviously tapped into something. While Martin’s cynicism was a welcome innovation in 1996, it’s become the dominating trend, and I think readers are hungry for pure-hearted heroes embarking on great adventures.

Sanderson now has his own imitators, though they tend to hyperfocus on one aspect of his style and none of them can match his work ethic. His transparent prose has its detractors, but there’s no denying his skill as a storyteller and the fecundity of his imagination. Many of Sanderson’s descendants focus too narrowly on the one element of Sanderson’s writing that has become his calling card–the “hard” magic system. Since Mistborn arrived on the scene in 2006, we’ve seen an explosion of fantasies defined by their systematized, empirical metaphysics. It’s another element introduced by Robert Jordan, though Sanderson dials it up to 11. What Sanderson and Jordan understood that their paler imitators seem to have missed is that character, not setting, provides the bedrock of most compelling stories. I get the sense reading some of the later devotees of the hard magic system that they built their narrative to explore the contours of their clever metaphysics. The characters are a bit of an afterthought.

By the 2010s, epic fantasy began to fracture even further. The bookstore shelves feature Martin’s grimdark progeny right next to the starry-eyed Sandersonians and newer evolutions like Romantasy, “progression fantasy,” and elevated, literary fantasy from writers like David Anthony Durham, Marlon James, Ken Liu, and Guy Gavriel Kay. Kay might lay some claim to sprouting this last branch of the family tree. He’s been occupying his own literary genre space since the publication of Tigana in 1990, a time when no one besides Ursula LeGuin, Gene Wolfe, and Patricia McKillip dared to blend epic fantasy with literary fiction.

China Mieville is another epic fantasist difficult to pigeonhole. His Bas-Lag novels, beginning with Perdido Street Station (2000), blend elements of steampunk, Dickensian epic, Lovecraftian cosmic horror, and political manifesto to create an alchemy so unique that it spawned its own genre dubbed “New Weird.”

All of these contemporary subgenres exist within the realm of immersive fantasy, but I would argue that none of them fit comfortably into the trunk of what I’d term “core epic fantasy.” Simply put, they scratch a different itch.

Take Romantasy: the Romantasy trend has done more to increase fantasy readership than perhaps any genre blending from the last 30 years. Legions of romance readers have used ACOTAR and Fourth Wing as gateway drugs into the world of epic fantasy. I imagine at least some of these readers will begin to explore more traditional epic fantasies with romantic themes like Kristen Britain’s Green Rider series. They might even find they like it here and stay a while.

Another contemporary trend, progression fantasy, is defined by a singular plot element: the in-text quantitative progression of the characters’ skills and abilities. If this sounds like a video game mechanic, you’re not far off. The truth is: this plot element is only innovative in western fantasy. Quantitative progression has been a popular story element in the Japanese shonen and isekai genres practically since their inception. I haven’t read Dungeon Crawler Carl yet. If I’m being honest, the very notion of progression fantasy turns me off on its face, but it’s always been my belief that popularity is a prima facie case for a story’s merit, so I do plan to take the plunge at some point, if only to understand the appeal. I do think progression fantasy grows in the shadow of Brandon Sanderson’s hard magic, though it’s more of a bastard child than a legitimate heir. In my mind, progression fantasy is more of an aesthetic trend than a true subgenre of epic fantasy. A genre needs more than a single story element to define itself by, and I imagine all the DCC imitations and permutations about to flood the market are going to get pretty tired pretty fast.

The New Weird movement is a tough one to pin down. In some sense, it’s defined by its own creativity. Mieville’s work transcends genre to the extent that you see his inheritors working in other spaces and forms. The short story seems the most natural home for weird fiction. Very few writers have the skill to sustain a sense of the uncanny for the duration of a novel, and those that do (see: Jeff Vandermeer, Catherynne Valente, Stephen Graham Jones) are often labeled experimental or avant garde. I think this challenge explains why we haven’t seen more attempts to work in Mieville’s mold. Epic fantasy writ large has fewer literary barriers to entry than the New Weird.

In short, the epic fantasy tree has grown many branches, but the trunk is still dominated by the Jordanian-Martinites, about evenly split between the Grimdark Martinites and the Sanderson Church of Orthodox Jordanians. We’re all still waiting for The Winds of Winter. The irony is: by the time it arrives, epic fantasy may have finally moved on.

What’s epic fantasy’s next paradigm?

I had a sociology professor in college who proffered the hypothesis that social movements don’t really progress but rather vacillate between two poles in a recursive cycle as the dominant culture reacts to itself. Since artistic movements tend to reflect social movements, the same logic applies. I think he was onto something, but with a minor tweak: each reactive iteration comes with its own novelty, product of its time.

If I could prophesize the market with any degree of accuracy, I’d be able to quit my day job, so take this forecast with a generous helping of salt. I do think there are some trends that inform an educated guess, however. If past is prologue, the next paradigm will emerge in reaction to the existing one. Those trends that are now feeling tired and overused are the same ones the next wave of innovators will seek to subvert. We also need to consider the cultural context. The Williams-Jordan-Hobb-Martin paradigm of gritty, realist, political epic fantasy emerged at a time of cultural complacency marked by prosperity, social liberalism, and optimism. We had less need for escapism and so we accepted a less magical, more grounded version of the fantasy genre. Times were good. We were happy to visit a world that wasn’t.

Here we are a quarter of the way through the 21st century, and the ‘90s and ‘00s feel more like a rare quiescent period than a prelude to utopia. Authoritarianism is on the rise and the neoliberal world order in place since World War II is beginning to crumble. Younger generations are skeptical of institutions we once took for granted and the very notion of liberal democracy as a viable form of government. Our villains aren’t misguided anymore. We’re once again faced with evil actors who only want to watch the world burn, and their successes have us grasping for increasingly flawed heroes: Bob Mueller, Gavin Newsom, Nigel Farage, Volodymyr Zelenskyy, Elon Musk, Hamas… The impacts of climate change are becoming impossible to ignore, and our collective inability to endure any short-term discomfort in response to the crisis now seems terminal. If you’re disturbed by the nativist, ethno-supremacist politics of the 2020s, buckle up for the neo-Hitlerian politics of the 2030s when the climate diaspora strikes in force. Endstage capitalism has given us a second gilded age, an indefensible wealth disparity, generational debt, the collapse of higher education, the end of meaningful social mobility, and NFTs. The real world is grimdark enough. We need something different from our fantasy fiction.

Our socio-political moment is a good match for the upcoming genre subversion. I’d argue that Grimdark, quasi-military fantasy has reached its maximum. Court politics and scheming have replaced high adventure as the most prominent engines of plot, and I’m already hearing rumblings from agents and editors tired of the sundry attempts to emulate A Game of Thrones in this regard. We’re no longer living in the age of reason, democracy, and debate, which leads me to believe plots centered around political collaboration and its shortcomings will no longer seem quite so germane. We’re living through a new age of dark lords with near-omnipotent power. We have space again for a band of unlikely heroes to save the day.

In one sense, I think this means the Sanderson lineage will outstrip the Martinites, with the caveat that a new wave of fantasists with a more literary inclination will cast off the trend of the “hard” magic system and return us to the more numinous, soft magic of Tolkien. We’re likely to see more optimistic fantasy with writers perhaps reaching back into the pulp era to find inspiration from heroes of classic sword and sorcery like Conan, Elric, Kane, and Jirel. Stories that pit one deific hero against a fallen world seem a powerful match for the moment.

In parallel, I can also see a second wave of weird fiction pouring into the epic fantasy mold. Mieville showed us what was possible 25 years ago, and Vandermeer taught us that weird fiction is the genre best suited for contending with the uncanny impacts of climate change. I see a diminishment of identitarian themes and an increase in ecological themes. Man vs. Evil begets Man vs. Himself begets Man vs. His Environment.

One ongoing series that I’m watching closely is Seth Dickinson’s Masquerade, beginning with The Traitor Baru Cormorant (2015). Dickinson’s prose is exquisite, and his story walks an interesting line between the gritty epic of Martin and the literary masterpiece of Gene Wolfe. The first book is a real page-turner, but the subsequent entries become increasingly opaque (though no less beautifully written). He’s clearly working in the Martin paradigm, telling a grounded story of empire and political machination, but with a historian’s insight into the subtle ways empires absorb and displace the cultures they impress. Instead of a vast ensemble, we follow a single, unlikely heroine, in a style reminiscent of the earlier mode. He engages with environmental themes, as well, though these plot elements play second fiddle to the preeminent story of empire and rebellion.

The fourth and final book in the series is still forthcoming. We’ll see how Dickinson sticks the landing, but I certainly think it’s possible that we’ll come to think of the Masquerade as another transitional text, paving the way for a wave of heroic, literary fantasy that places environmental themes front and center.

Ardent Wings on Jealous Skies has been out for about two months, and many of you have already taken the plunge. I think I can venture into this topic without coughing up too many spoilers. That said, if you’ve yet to join the Tales of Ciel party and consider yourself a purist, minor spoilers for Book 1 to follow.

The prologue is one of the most misunderstood tools in the novelist’s kit. New writers seem to like including them, even though they don’t fully understand their function. The truth is right there in the Latin: pro logos–before the story. A prologue is a contextualizing scene that takes place before and apart from the arc of the narrative. I don’t know who needs to hear this, but your book does not need to start with a prologue. That might sound obnoxious coming from me, because I frequently start my books with a prologue, but I do it with intention.

The easiest way to break this down is to start with what isn’t a prologue.

--If your first scene takes place concurrently with the timeline of your narrative or far in the future, it isn’t a prologue.

--If your first scene launches the primary arc of your narrative or, in some cases, actually includes the inciting incident, it isn’t a prologue, either. It’s Chapter One.

Consider the prologue of Ardent Wings on Jealous Skies. This scene plays out far from the Zephyr Archipelago, from the point of view of a tertiary character, Hekuba Klaeda, who does not appear again until the epilogue. The scene feels disconnected from the rest of the novel and only becomes more relevant as the trilogy develops, but it serves a few different functions:

--It establishes key elements of the setting – the sky island geography, Gifts, Leviathan bonding, piracy, the Celestial Empire, the Long Drop.

--It introduces a character whose existence and mission accrues importance over the next three books.

--It introduces a mystery box – the cartographer – who also gains layers of importance as it becomes more central to the plot.

--The prologue doesn’t introduce Effie or Vanna. It doesn’t introduce the Zephyr Islands. It’s a scene that takes place temporally prior to the story and apart from the main narrative arc of Book 1. That doesn’t mean it’s irrelevant to Book 1. That would also be a mistake.

In the drafting stage, I managed to avoid a few other tantalizing options that would have been missteps. Vanna’s Ascension could have easily been the prologue to Book 1, but this scene introduces all the main players in Ardent Wings on Jealous Skies and some crucial elements that provide the book’s narrative thrust: Effie’s ambition, Vanna’s skill, the relationship between the sisters, Celestial rule of the Zephyrs, the Ascension Ceremony itself. The scene is properly situated as Chapter One.

I also might have flashed back to an earlier moment on Volturnus. At the earliest stages in the planning, I toyed with an in-scene depiction of Maug’s attack on the Zephyrs, the malign event that orphaned Effie, Vanna, and Kai. This is obviously an important bit of backstory in Ardent Wings, but it would have been the wrong choice for a variety of reasons.

--This scene would waste precious page space on characters that we’ll never see again–the deceased parents of our cast.

--It would set the wrong tone for the novel.

--It would introduce the setting of the Zephyrs years in the past instead of establishing the paradigm in which the story actually takes place.

--Most importantly, it would be a POV slippage. If I let readers experience Maug’s attack in-scene, then they’ll have a more vivid recollection of those moments than the two POV characters who provide our eyes and ears over the course of the novel. The truth of Maug’s attack isn’t what’s significant to Ardent Wings, but rather the event’s impact on the lives of Vanna and Effie.

Ultimately, the story of Maug’s attack is better related in Effie’s own voice, despite her foggy recollection. It comes quickly enough through narrative summary in Chapter Three.

Readers will ultimately decide whether I made the right choice here, but from a storyteller’s perspective, I think it’s an effective scene.

Ardent Wings on Jealous Skies

Ophiuchus Flinched is now available wherever books are sold, and until February 9, you can score Book 1: Ardent Wings on Jealous Skies for just $0.99.

ORDER NOW

In response to last week’s solicitation, I’ve got a triptych of reader questions related to the Tales of Ciel. Thanks for participating and answering the call!

From Ryan in Brooklyn, NY:

Who are the new chapter characters in book 2?

Appreciate the curiosity, Ryan! I mentioned in a previous newsletter and blog that Ophiuchus Flinched adds two more POV characters into the mix. Ardent Wings rotated between Effie and Vanna. Both return as POV characters in the sequel, with Vanna picking up a heavier plot load than she carried in Book 1. Ophiuchus Flinched also introduces perspective chapters anchored by Kai Bowker and Sire Muldoon.

Kai is a young dragoon cadet serving under Vanna and Kendy. He’s also Effie’s childhood friend and first love, though they finish Book 1 a bit estranged. Muldoon is a Patrician servant of the Celestials and the former governor of Aeolus, dispossessed by Vanna in Book 1.

Whatever you think of both characters from Ardent Wings on Jealous Skies, I suspect you will uncover hidden multitudes once you see the story from their perspectives.

From Erica J. in London, UK:

Will Ophiuchus Flinched be available in paperback in Europe?

Yes! You should be able to order the Trade Paperback through any independent book store or major retailer. You can also order the TP through Amazon UK if you’re so inclined.

If you’re having trouble getting your hands on a copy for some reason, shoot an email to staff@hightrestlepress.com and we’ll try to help you troubleshoot.

***SPOILER WARNING: This last question and the answer contain major spoilers for the end of Ardent Wings on Jealous Skies.***

From Chris Moore in PIttsburgh, PA:

Where is Effie going after the ending of Ardent Wings on Jealous Skies?

That’s the big cliffhanger, isn’t it? I’d like to say that you will find out on February 3, but you reached out with a genuine question, and you deserve a genuine answer.

Effie finds herself in a precarious position at the beginning of Ophiuchus Flinched. She’s just violated an Ascension Ceremony that she was not called to participate in. Conversely, she’s proven that she should have been called by demonstrating her Gift with the wild dauphine.

Book 2 picks up Effie’s story immediately after Effie’s last scene in Book 1–like, seconds after. Effie steps off the back of the dauphine, and Kelestina whisks her away in her flying carriage pulled by six hippocampi.

It isn’t too much of a spoiler to tell you that Effie will not face any retribution for her impetuousness–not from Kelestina, at least. Her Gift is too valuable to squander. In the immediate aftermath of the Ascension, Kelestina takes Effie up to her palace on Aquilon Island and confines her to quarters in one of the palace’s decadent spires. There, Effie is trapped in a superposition between honored guest and prisoner while she awaits the judgment of the Celestial court.

You’ll excuse me if I leave Effie’s longterm fate a mystery for you to unravel in the pages of Ophiuchus Flinched.

Click to Buy:

My newest book is out in the world in Ebook and Trade Paperback. Free to read on KU. If you're still looking for an excuse to take the plunge into the fallen world of Hebdomar, look no further.

--Seven Days of Mercy earned Editor’s Pick honors from Publishers Weekly/BookLife, the first HTP book to do so.

--IndieReader named Seven Days of Mercy an “IR Approved" read, scoring us in the top 10% of novels they review.

--Based on ARC reviews, Seven Days of Mercy holds a 4.6 average on Goodreads, and has yet to collect a review lower than 4 stars.

--Readers and critics agree that Ruxindra makes a “formidable” and “entertaining” protagonist, who more than carries that narrative weight. It’s still early days, but the critics who have weighed in so far think she stands shoulder-to-shoulder with genre titans like Conan the Barbarian, Elric of Melnibone, Red Sonja, and Jirel of Joirry.

--This came as a surprise to me, but more early readers compare the book to gritty, philosophical fantasy series like Steven Erikson’s Malazan: Book of the Fallen, R. Scott Bakker’s The Second Apocalypse, Gene Wolf’s Book of the New Sun, and Frank Herbert’s Dune. I kind of liked the “Red Sonja in realistic armor” quote, but I’m a fan of all those series, so I take these comparisons as high praise.

--There’s still time to bag the Trade Paperback at the early reader price of $14.99. The Ebook will be available for $2.99 for the foreseeable future.

--Book 2, What Lies Between, is already slated for publication on May 19, 2026.

Launch preparation for Ardent Wings on Jealous Skies is in full swing, but so is the first draft of The Divine Heretic Book 2: What Lies Between. It takes no small investment of time to keep High Trestle Press on the rails, but our stated mission to deliver series SFF on an expedited timeline without compromising quality means that I have to be able to walk and chew gum at the same time. A few readers have asked what my routine looks like, and I know that maintaining good habits of art is a point of interest for the many writers who subscribe to this newsletter. I know very few professional artists who have the privilege of coasting by on family money or a high-earning spouse. Most of us have day jobs. Many of us have kids. All of us have chores, and social lives, and myriad obligations drawing down on our creative energy and time.

It isn’t easy, and there’s no right or wrong way to stay writing. Some writers maintain rigid schedules with set writing times and target word counts that they hold themselves too ruthlessly. Others need more flexibility. I usually recommend a hybrid approach, since this is what works best for me. I do try to write or revise a creative work every day. That can mean proofreading a single scene or knocking out 10,000 words of fresh prose in a concentrated eight-hour writing binge. Both results are fine, as long as I’m producing something. This next bit may seem a bit fluffy, but I also try not to get down on myself. Some weeks are more productive than others, and sometimes life gets in the way of art. Kids get sick. Day jobs gets busy. Travel obligations can turn your whole regimen upside-down. The key is to not get caught up in what you can’t control and to practice gratitude for what you can. It’s easy to start feeling futile after a few days or weeks without any real forward progress. But every day grants you 24 new hours of possibility, and when you do find your way back to the keyboard, it doesn’t serve you well to dwell on past stumbles.

Over the last week, I fielded a few questions about my newsletter and why I commit so much time to writing it when I could be writing new prose. It’s a fair question with time at a premium, but I see this point of connection with readers as an essential part of the indie publishing ecosystem.

Independent art has always been about connecting artists and audiences directly, without the mediation of corporate gatekeepers. Every time you open the Weekly Ride, read this blog, or crack an HTP book, you’re choosing to spend some of your valuable time experiencing my work, and in my mind, that confers a reciprocal responsibility to work quickly, maintain quality, and keep you all informed. I hope that makes you feel like part of the HTP process, because you very much are. I have an old-school approach to entertainment. I’m here for you.

Record labels, publishing companies, film studios, distributors–at a glance, they all look like conduits between audience and art, but in reality, they function more like filters. In the best cases, they serve a curation function, elevating quality, professional content and investing in its visibility. But the creative economy is so screwed up right now that these institutions no longer serve their primary function. Risk taking is non-existent. Imitation and iteration dominate because they are the safest business decisions. Most music fans realized this long ago. That’s why independent music has emerged to claim all the cultural cache in that space. To a lesser extent, the same goes for film. The major film aficionados that I know spend most of their time watching niche, independently financed films that haven’t been flattened by the studio system.

We’re not there yet in fiction–probably because the barrier to entry for writers is so low. The market is flooded with low-content, low-effort, and otherwise low-quality books, so most readers still rely on institutional curation. AI has only made a bad situation worse. With HTP, I’m trying to be part of the solution to this problem, and you’re all a part of that effort.

That’s why I spend so much time dialoguing with readers. I don’t see it as optional.

Read the original post: High Trestle Press

With the holidays bearing down upon us, I know everyone’s attention is getting pulled in a dozen different directions. I think this week is the last, best opportunity to deliver the annual “State of the Press” update before everyone scatters. The laws of probability suggest at least some of you are fans of Brandon Sanderson, the bespoke king of the hill in epic fantasy. I’ve always admired Sanderson’s work ethic, and in my own habits of art, I try to emulate his strategy for juggling multiple projects. Every year, Sanderson produces a “State of the Sanderson” blog detailing the current status of his in-progress projects. This week, and every year going forward, I’m going to attempt to do the same.

We haven’t quite reached Cosmere level yet at HTP, but we have enough projects in various stages of publication that I thought this would be a fun exercise in transparency.

I incorporated High Trestle Press back in March and made this venture public in June, followed by the first edition of The Weekly Ride. In November, we published our first book, Ardent Wings on Jealous Skies. Since then, thousands of readers have downloaded, ordered, or pre-ordered a High Trestle Press book. We’ve accumulated dozens of trade reviews and over forty individual reader reviews across platforms. We’re just getting started.

The ink hits the page in 2026. We have no fewer than six major releases planned, with two more book-length projects that have a puncher’s chance to reach readers before the year is up. Additionally, we’re planning 5-7 short-form releases to complement the ongoing series and keep readers engaged during the (brief) wait between books.

Dear Readers, the State of the Press is strong.

Tales of Ciel

Ardent Wings on Jealous Skies is now available wherever books are sold, and readership continues to grow steadily week-over-week. We have hit a bit of a lull in reader reviews, so if anyone has finished the book and would be so inclined, please head over to Goodreads or any point of purchase, and leave us a star-rating or written review. We haven’t quite reached the review threshold that will unlock greater algorithmic rewards, but I’m hoping we’ll see surges of interest around the upcoming releases of Ophiuchus Flinched and The Mark of Cain.

Book 2: Ophiuchus Flinched is locked in with the printer and now available for pre-order in Amazon Ebook or in Trade Paperback wherever books are sold. Early feedback has been overwhelmingly positive, with most ARC readers finding the story to be a worthy successor to Ardent Wings that expands the story and the lore of Ciel in intriguing ways. It’s a much bigger book–309 pages in paperback compared to Ardent Wings’ brisk 192. Since length was the most common complaint after Book 1, I’m hoping all you Tales of Ciel readers will be satisfied with the expanded scope.

You won’t have to wait long to wrap up the first trilogy. Book 3: The Mark of Cain is all polished up and currently sitting with the proofreader. Once I take a pass through their edits and finalize the artwork with Zefanya, this one will go up for pre-order in all the usual locations. The release date is pegged for April 21. Book 3 wraps up all the major storylines begun in Ardent Wings, while opening up a few new avenues for the story to explore in the subsequent trilogy. I had a lot of ground to cover in this one. Even after revisions, the un-corrected galley clocks in at 458 pages in Trade Paperback.

I’ve written a bit about this series’ structure as a saga of sequential trilogies. The Mark of Cain provides a satisfying conclusion to “The Zephyr Arc”, but it also opens the door to the next arc, set to begin with Book 4: Cut Him into Stars. The wait will be a bit longer between Books 3 and 4, but not too long. The book’s release is currently slated for January 2027, but if all goes well and I’m confident I can follow up with Books 5 and 6 in short order, there’s room in the schedule to move it up to November 2026.

I’m also ready to announce a few short-form projects that I plan to release between The Mark of Cain and Cut Him into Stars. These short stories and novelettes are all part of the Tales of Ciel anthology. They expand on elements of the world and a few popular side characters, but they’re entirely inessential to enjoy the series. Readers eager to spend more time in Ciel between trilogies will be able to purchase them in Amazon Ebook, and I’m planning to give at least one of them away for free through Bookfunnel and the HTP website.

Here’s a little teaser:

“The Clouds, from Afar”: A prequel to Ardent Wings following Kellen Bowker, Kai’s uncle.

“The Tortoise and the Mare”: A prequel to Ardent Wings following the misadventures of everyone’s favorite Leviathan pirate, Hekuba Klaeda.

“The Hand that Feeds”: A side-story that takes place contemporaneously with the first trilogy in a distant corner of the vast skies of Ciel.

“Anaximander of the Mud”: A direct prequel to Ardent Wings exploring the origin story of a very popular cartographer.

“Auster Adrift”: A story that picks up directly from a pivotal scene in Ophiuchus Flinched and follows a minor character from Avernus. This story provides some connective tissue between the first and second trilogy.

TL;DR: 2026 will bring 2-3 Tales of Ciel novels and 3-5 short stories.

The Divine Heretic

Seven Days of Mercy for the Apostatic Priest is careening toward its January 13 release date. Critical buzz has been very positive, but I’m more anxious about the reception of this series than any of the others. For one, it’s written in a much more literary mode than the other HTP series. I disseminated the ARC pretty widely to many different types of readers, and while non-traditional fantasy readers have all responded well, there is a class of fantasy readers who bounce off this manuscript. If you’re more accustomed to popular fiction with a transparent style, then the style of this one might feel a bit opaque. Unfortunately, that tends to be a hard sell in the indie publishing world, but I’m hoping the visceral action and exciting plot will pull readers through. Ultimately, time will tell, but I’m prepared for this one to be a little slower finding its audience than the Tales of Ciel.

You’ve already seen the art for Book 2: What Lies Between. I’m closing in on a first draft of this one, and I expect the editing process to be as smooth as it was with Book 1. For that reason, I was able to slide this one up from its original August release date to an open spot on the calendar in May. What Lies Between will now be published on May 19, 2026 .

Ruxindra’s story continues from there to Book 3: A Myrtle among Thorns. Publication is currently slated for March 2027, but pending progress on the manuscript, there is a small chance I can move it up to December 2026. If that happens, it would mean that we managed to publish eight novel-length works in 2026.

So, where does the story go from there?

The sword and sorcery genre has always thrived in the short story format. I’ve never been much of a short story writer. My ideas tend to translate best to longer formats. That said, I’ve found some inspiration working on shorter stories attached to bigger projects, The Divine Heretic being one of them. I’ve got a few shorts in development that I’ll likely thread between these first few tentpole releases in the series.

Here’s what’s currently in production:

“Springtime in Elberina”: A bloody short about warring street gangs in the city of Elberina, due north of the Pentamarine, the primary setting of Seven days of Mercy.

“Cleric”: A short story following a Karochan cleric on her pilgrimage. Set in the same desert region where Seven Days of Mercy takes place.

“The Hecatur’s Maw”: A prequel to Seven Days of Mercy following Ruxindra and Gerritt on a mission for the Shibboleth.

I have many more short stories and novelettes to add to this anthology, but most of them won’t be ripe for readers until they’ve read Book 4, which includes a pivotal event that will unlock more of the world of Hebdomar. Currently, the fourth book in the series only exists in the meanest outline. I could give a tentative release date, but it would just be conjecture at this point. I can only promise that it will be released sometime in 2027, and that readers will not have to wait more than six months for a continuation after A Myrtle among Thorns.

TL;DR: 2-3 Divine Heretic novels coming in 2026, as well as 2-3 shorts.

The Compact Cycle

Sci-fi readers won’t have to wait much longer. HTP’s flagship space opera will be upon us before we know it, and I have a special holiday gift related to this project for newsletter subscribers that I’ll deliver next week. I actually spent some time with the polish draft of The Politics of Fear this week, and the work went a lot smoother than I was anticipating. There’s a very good chance that this one will be ready for the proofreader sometime in January, with a pre-order campaign to follow. The exact timing depends entirely on continued smoothness of the revisions and the artist’s timeline with the cover art. My hope is that you will be able to pre-order this one in Amazon Ebook and Hardcover by the end of January. Publication did slip from our original June date, but it’s now locked in for July 6.

Here’s the blurb:

"Nothing strains the bonds of an alliance quite like peace and prosperity.

The Defensive Compact was a fine idea at its inception–a supranational governing body created by treaty between 237 interplanetary civilizations. And all it took to bring the squabbling, self-interested, xenophobic parties to terms was a shared existential threat.

That threat arrived in the form of the Dorylus Encephalon, a collective organism driven by its biological imperative to incorporate or eradicate every extrinsic genetic line it encounters. Thanks to the alliance, Compact forces managed to battle the Enceph to a stalemate. The resulting cease-fire shields Compact worlds from further Enceph incursion—as long as everyone abides by its terms.

1,000 years into the cessation of hostilities, those same Compact worlds have become hopelessly entangled in a corrupt web of economic, military, and cultural ties. The Compact Assembly is the bloated bureaucratic organ responsible for its administration. Mats Hyyland enjoys a permanent political appointment to the Assembly as Eminent Voice of the Human Diaspora—permanent being the operative word. In a vain attempt to cling to power, he achieves virtual immortality by cycling his consciousness through a series of increasingly volatile clones. When the Assembly is rocked by a high-profile political assassination, Hyyland’s investigation leads him to uncover a conspiracy that threatens the very cease-fire holding the Enceph at bay.

Hyyland’s race to prevent that dire outcome sets him at odds with his fellow corrupt politicians, amoral corporate plutocrats, a parasitic priesthood, flamboyant pirates, self-righteous academics, an oversexed cartel queenpin, a dying bounty hunter, and a kleptosexual prostitute with a remarkable anatomic quirk.

Politics, in other words."

This sucker is a tome, clocking in at 210,000 words in manuscript form, with multiple storylines and a dozen different POV characters to follow. Lest you be intimidated by its girth, early readers universally loved it, and most provided feedback that it moves at a breakneck pace despite its length.

The Compact Cycle starts with a cohesive trilogy comprised of The Politics of Fear, The Kakistocracy of Flagging Need, and Misprision. These three books tell a complete story, but that doesn’t mean Misprision will be the end of the cycle. My model here comes from fantasy writer Joe Abercrombie, who launched his popular First Law series with a cohesive trilogy followed by a few standalone novels and a second, cohesive trilogy.

The first Compact Cycle trilogy is already mapped out in a detailed beat sheet, with a few scattered scenes written across the breadth of the story. Early in the drafting process, I picked up one entire subplot and moved it from Book 1 to Book 2, where it’s more properly situated. That means I’ve got a substantial skeleton to work around as I continue drafting The Kakistocracy of Flagging Need. This will be my main writing project to kick off 2026.

These books are all major undertakings, so I don’t want to overpromise. You can expect Book 2 before July 2027, but likely not in 2026. Misprision will follow in late 2027 or early 2028. After that, I’m going to work on a few standalone novels in this setting, many following characters established in the first trilogy. As you can likely glean from the blurb, The Compact Cycle has a lot going on, and some of those oversexed cartel queenpins and anatomically industrious prostitutes have their own stories to tell.

TL;DR: 1 Compact Cycle novel coming in 2026.

Shattered

This is the series I’ve written about the least since launching HTP. Ironically, it’s also the oldest and the most thoroughly fleshed out. I’m a bit protective of this series, since I suspect it will have the broadest market potential. Shattered Book 1: The Girl Who Woke the Moon was the manuscript that landed me my first agent on one of my many quixotic attempts at traditional publication. I started this project back in 2014, soon after finishing the Clarion workshop. It went through many iterations before reaching its final form in 2019. As a result, it’s pretty much ready to go. It’s fully edited and only needs a final proofread before I send it out to the printer and prepare the pre-order campaign.

So, why am I sitting on it?

Launching HTP has been a learning process for me. I wanted to make sure I well understood the ins and outs of the publishing business before unleashing this one on the world. After moving through one Ciel trilogy, the first book in the The Divine Heretic Series, and a full-throated Hardcover release for The Politics of Fear, I’ll feel more ready to do this one justice. I think it merits that much care. A rising tide lifts all ships, and if Shattered soars, it will bring new readers into the fold for all of our other series.

Here’s the blurb for Book 1:

Stillborn on a moonless night, Oraluna gets a second chance at life when her mother, Gita, promises her to the moon goddess, Haiyan. Haiyan answers Gita’s prayers, but her intervention comes at a price.

Ora is born into a broken world watched over by a shattered god. The monks of the Order of Haiyan have made it their life’s work to uncover the path back to unification, but none of their efforts bore fruit until Ora arrived. The order covets her jealously, seeking to confine her to a life of contemplation and spiritual activism. They fail to account for her mother, whose own descent into debauchery threatens to mire Ora in worldly attachments, dragging her off the Unified Path.

Of course, no one ever bothers to ask Ora what she wants. She’s a goddess in a young girl’s body. Or the other way around. It isn’t entirely clear. More than anything, she’s a girl in conflict with herself, caught between a loving mother and a respected mentor—between her goddess-nature as an incarnation of Haiyan, and her Ora-nature as a lonely girl just trying to grow up.

You have a responsibility, the monks insist. Only you can fix the Shattered World.

Is that all? It’s a lot of pressure for one moony eyed girl.

Shattered is a True Series. Seven books telling one long story broken up into seven structured chunks. I was originally planning to release The Girl Who Woke the Moon in November, but after finally settling on an artist and revisiting the manuscript for the first time in months, I feel comfortable bumping this one up. You can now expect to read Book 1 on September 8, with pre-orders opening in late Q1 next year.

This series will likely follow a similar timeline to The Compact Cycle, with Book 2 landing around summer 2027 and Book 3 following in 2028.

TL;DR: The first Shattered novel is coming September 2026.

2026 will be a big year for us. In addition to all the new releases, we’ll be making our first appearance at several genre and library conventions as well as hosting an official launch party in Ames to coincide with the release of The Politics of Fear. And, of course, we’ll keep publishing The Weekly Ride every Monday for as long as y’all want to hang. If you haven’t signed up yet, just fill out the form on our homepage.

Seven Days of Mercy for the Apostatic Priest

Delivering series SFF on a speedy timeline is central to the mission of High Trestle Press. If there’s ever anything we can do on our end to move up the publication schedule for any particular series, you can bet we’ll make it happen.

If you’re enjoying Ardent Wings, but you’re still unsure about taking the plunge into the world of The Divine Heretic, I recommend checking out the Extended Preview, which is currently free to download. You’ll get the first 10 chapters in Ebook format and a solid sense of what to expect from this series. Like the Tales of Ciel, The Divine Heretic falls broadly into the fantasy genre, but tonally and stylistically, the two series couldn’t be more different.

Some fun facts about this series:

--The Divine Heretic is a sword and sorcery novel. It follows in the tradition of writers like Robert Howard, C.L. Moore, Karl Wagner, and Michael Moorcock.

--The series follows one POV: Ruxindar l’Maer, the titular Apostatic Priest and a deific heroine in the archetype of Conan the Barbarian, Elric of Melnibone, and Jirel of Joiry.

--An early reader described Ruxindra as “Red Sonja in realistic armor” and that feels about right.

--Sword and sorcery stories traditionally feature tons of kinetic action, limited interiority, and a focus on personal journeys and smaller stakes like survival or revenge. Seven Days of Mercy captures this aesthetic, but I’ve tried to bring some more modern elements of craft into the mix. Fans of the genre will notice a heavier focus on Ruxindra’s interiority than you might expect from a typical Conan story, and though Ruxindra’s personal mission and immediate survival provide the narrative thrust, a larger struggle looms in the background, which may provide some crossover appeal for fans of traditional epic fantasy.

--The world of Hebdomar is inspired by a variety of Iron Age Semitic cultures and Mediterranean settings. The series also draws heavily from Jewish mythology and Jewish, Christian, and Islamic mysticism.

--In keeping with the traditions of the genre, each novel tells its own self-contained story, though a larger metastory takes shape over the arc of the series, offering narrative rewards to sequential readers.

--I’m excited for you all to get your hands on this one.

Seven Days of Mercy for the Apostatic Priest

I finally hit the flow state on the first draft of What Lies Between (The Divine Heretic Book 2), the sequel to Seven Days of Mercy for the Apostatic Priest (due out January 13). I took this draft all the way up to the 80% mark, but I hit some tougher terrain approaching the climax. Still hoping to have this draft in the can before the ball drops, but we shall see.

I’ve written a little bit about the challenge posed by this series’ format. Unlike Tales of Ciel, which is organized into cohesive trilogies, I wanted The Divine Heretic to be more episodic, in keeping with the traditions of the sword and sorcery genre. Devoted readers who approach the series in publication order will definitely reap some narrative benefit, but each story is designed to stand on its own two covers. I think it’s a welcoming format that should broaden the tent of the series’ readership, but it also means writing each book is a little bit like starting from scratch.

After I got the first draft of Ardent Wings on Jealous Skies down, Ophiuchus Flinched and The Mark of Cain flowed out of me with relative ease. It wasn’t quite as breezy moving from Seven Days of Mercy to What Lies Between. The principal cast is the same from one book to the next, but the setting and most of the plot elements are entirely new. That novelty resulted in a few months of dithering over the initial outline and some underdeveloped themes that didn’t quite match the sequence of events. I scrapped two initial outlines before finding my way to the right inciting incident and a mix of worldbuilding that enriches the setting of Hebdomar without overwhelming the action of the plot.

I’ve worked as a book editor and spent more hours in fiction workshops than is strictly healthy. I’ve seen some stuff, and I can tell you that exposition is the biggest trap of epic fantasy. I’ve seen many manuscripts in their embryonic stage that get bogged down in the details of the setting.

I get it.

It’s easy to become enamored of your own worldbuilding, and the urge to share every detail of the universe you’ve constructed with readers is strong.

Writers must learn to resist this urge. Epic fantasy readers will tolerate a fair amount of exposition and travelogue, but no reader cares about the world as much as the writer does. In fact, readers only care about the world to the extent it impacts the characters. A first draft bloated with exposition can become part of a healthy process--as long as the writer returns and revises this content down with impunity.

I made this mistake enough times in my own writing that I now appreciate why it’s so problematic. When I’m feeling masochistic, I return to some of my earliest manuscripts–books that will never see the light of day. These efforts served an important developmental function, but the cringe is strong. Twenty years into my writing, I’m better equipped to sidestep the Bog of Fantasy Exposition and launch right into a leaner, more effective draft. It’s something I’ll always have in the back of my mind, however, and I’m constantly stress testing each chapter to ensure the right balance between character, action, and exposition prevails.