Title: Strange the Dreamer
Release Date: 27th September 2016
What we know so far:
Strange the Dreamer is the story of:
the aftermath of a war between gods and men
a mysterious city stripped of its name
a mythic hero with blood on his hands
a young librarian with a singular dream
a girl every bit as perilous as she is imperiled
alchemy and blood candy, nightmares and godspawn, moths and monsters, friendship and treachery, love and carnage.
the aftermath of a war between gods and men
a mysterious city stripped of its name
a mythic hero with blood on his hands
a young librarian with a singular dream
a girl every bit as perilous as she is imperiled
alchemy and blood candy, nightmares and godspawn, moths and monsters, friendship and treachery, love and carnage.
THE COVER
The all blue cover on the left is the UK edition while the half blue half gold is the US edition. Personally I prefer the US cover (I think because it's slightly more abstract and I like that it focuses more on the title), but ultimately I think they look best when they are side by side.
Which edition do you prefer?
Any thought's on the Prologue?
PROLOGUE
In the second sabbat of Twelfthmoon, in the city
of Weep, a girl fell from the sky.
Her skin was blue, her blood was red.
She broke over an iron gate, crimping it on
impact, and there she hung, impossibly arched, graceful as a temple dancer
swooning on a lover’s arm. One slick finial anchored her in place. Its point,
protruding from her sternum, glittered like a brooch. She fluttered briefly as
her ghost shook loose, and then her hands relaxed, shedding fistfuls of freshly
picked torch ginger buds.
Later, they would say these had been hummingbird
hearts and not blossoms at all.
They would say she hadn’t shed blood
but wept
it. That she was lewd, tonguing her teeth at them, upside down and dying, that
she vomited a serpent that turned to smoke when it hit the ground. They would
say a flock of moths had come, frantic, and tried to lift her away.
That was true. Only that.
They hadn’t a prayer, though. The moths were no
bigger than the startled mouths of children, and even dozens together could
only pluck at the strands of her darkening hair until their wings sagged,
sodden with her blood. They were purled away with the blossoms as a grit-choked
gust came blasting down the street. The earth heaved underfoot. The sky spun on
its axis. A queer brilliance lanced through billowing smoke, and the people of
Weep had to squint against it. Blowing grit and hot light and the stink of saltpeter.
There had been an explosion. They might have died, all and easily, but only
this girl had, shaken from some pocket of the sky.
Her feet were bare, her mouth stained damson. Her
pockets were all full of plums. She was young and lovely and surprised and
dead.
She was also blue.
Blue as opals, pale blue. Blue as cornflowers, or
dragonfly wings, or a spring—not summer—sky.
Someone screamed. The scream drew others. The
others screamed, too, not because a girl was dead, but because the girl was
blue, and this meant something in the city of Weep. Even after the sky stopped
reeling, and the earth settled, and the last fume spluttered from the blast
site and dispersed, the screams went on, feeding themselves from voice to
voice, a virus of the air.
The blue girl’s ghost gathered itself and perched,
bereft, upon the spearpoint-tip of the projecting finial, just an inch above
her own still chest. Gasping in shock, she tilted back her invisible head and
gazed, mournfully, up.
The screams went on and on.
And across the city, atop a monolithic wedge of
seamless, mirror-smooth metal, a statue stirred, as though awakened by the
tumult, and slowly lifted its great horned head.
