By S. L. Farrell
The breathtaking first novel in a super new fable seriesA masterwork of myth, The Nessantico Cycle is the epic story of an empire at its peak, but poised close to what can be a devastating descent into wreck. advised from the viewpoints of diverse characters, it's a sweeping saga of homicide and magic (portrayed either as a strong faith and a forbidden art), of deception and betrayal, of Machiavellian politics, star-crossed fanatics, and a realm dealing with conflict on each entrance.
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Additional info for A Magic of Twilight: Book One of the Nessantico Cycle
But the Archigos chuckled again. “As soon as we ﬁnish this tiresome routine, I’ll sign your Marque in the Old Temple,” he said. ” Pudgy, splayed ﬁngers touched her shoulder softly and she forced herself not to ﬂinch away from his touch, a touch that reminded her too much of her vatarh’s hand. “Shh, Ana. . You know how much I love you. Don’t pull away, my little bird. . ” “You’ve been gifted by Cénzi Himself, Ana,” the Archigos said so softly that she could barely hear him over the crowd. ” His ﬁngers tightened on her shoulder, and she frowned as the lines deepened in his face.
Watching, as he always did. Even in the warmth of the sun, Mahri wrapped himself in several layers, his clothing rent with great tears and the hems all tattered, the patterns on the cloth smeared with ﬁlth and blackened where they dragged the ground. His hood was up, so that his scarred and ravaged face could only be glimpsed: the empty socket of his left eye, the smashed nose laying on the right cheek, the gaping darkness between his remaining teeth, the shiny white tracks of burns over the left side of his face, pulling and twisting at the ﬂesh.
FA R R E L L A barely-stiﬂed sigh escaped him. “I know, Matarh. You’ve said that often enough. ” He sniffed, looking away from her and back to the painting. “Then show me you understand,” she answered tartly, pressing her own lips together in annoyance at his tone. ” he asked, but didn’t give her a chance to answer. “I take it you have candidates in mind? Someone appropriately connected, no doubt. ” Marguerite sucked in her breath. “It wasn’t your wife’s fault that your children died. Why, little Henri was ﬁve and thriving when the Red Pox took him, and poor Margu .