Where’s the Next Book?

by  Christian A. Brown  |  November 22, 2015  |     No Comments

I’ve had a few questions via Facebook and my contact form about the release dates for volumes #3 and #4 of the series. I wanted to give my readers an update on the progress of my work. Feast of Chaos is currently with its first of two copy-editors. The line editing and all of the substantial tweaking has been completed. We’re still on track for a late winter or early spring delivery. I’m hoping—but not promising—that Feast of Chaos will release by March of 2016. By then, the final manuscript in the Four Feasts Till Darkness series should be complete. Feast of Mercy, the fourth book, should also see a release in 2016. So that’s two hefty servings of epic fantasy/ romance/ whatever-the-heck-I-write-about to look forward to next year.

Currently, we’re at the half-way point with that monster of a fourth manuscript—it really is huge, about 175 thousand words come “Part II”. Anyway, I’d like to give you a peek at what I’ve been working on. Keep in mind that what follows is first draft material. It’s all subject to change, trimming and correction. I only combed it over once before posting. Although, sometimes art is better when it’s not so refined. Here we are then, the opening poem for Feast of Mercy. It’s a bit dark, a bit romantic, and a little melancholy—I think it captures the essence of the series well.

Kericot over Zioch

Kericot over Zioch

Mercy’s Mirror

I came across a slash of blue

Under shade of ancient yew

Glittered silver, playfully

A trail, to which I was drawn

I followed the coin,

To a rasping shadow,

A highwayman

Fallen, blood reddening the ground

“No further,” he warned

Such demands held no threat

All trembles and aches

Gashes and shakes

His robbery had stolen from him

His life

Soon, at least

“Will you play for me? As I die?” asked he

Mine instrument declared my talent

I’d held lute like blade,

Whilst warily making my approach

A song seemed cleaner than my minding

—to take his coin, without a song

Thus, I sat and I crooned

Plucking every fair tune

For this fading soul and the moon

To which his light slowly rose

A twained star gone home

Till it was dark

And silent

I closed his eyes, kissed his cheek

Not a tear of mine did creep,

As I picked red coins from the ground

I wouldn’t feel shame

Nor ponder his blame

For I wished for an end

Selfsame

—From the private journal of Kericot

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