An ancient evil unleashes catastrophic horrors upon the rainbow world of Spectara after Asdin, the Sacred Star of Frozen Light, goes missing. A hostile political takeover and merciless executions follow. Forced to flee his homeland, Sindle begins an adventure filled with peril, marvelous discovery, and the prospect of true love. But hope for personal fulfillment is frustrated when Sindle learns that he and his companions must run a desperate race against time to save their world from growing sinister forces that threaten its total annihilation.

In a time before the present universe came to be, there was a world flowing through space and time much like a river running through its bed. The water of this river was light, and its bed was darkness. This world did not orbit a star as planets normally do. Although in one sense it could be said to have “revolved” around a star, it did not do so according to laws of motion as our world understands them. Rather, the force that propelled this world forward was a pure source of eternal and uncreated light, and the force that held this world in its orbit–if it could be called an orbit–was a belief about a star known as Asdin. Indeed, it is this belief that also holds in its orbit the story to be told through the pages of this book.

To describe this world is nigh impossible, for though the river of light just described carried particles of darkness along its current as water carries sediment, it did at the same time continually separate out into every color of the spectrum. It was, in fact, this peculiarity that was partly responsible for the name given to this iridescent world, the name Spectara.

However, the world in which this story unfolds was also called Spectara because a species of specter beings known as Shades inhabited its lands. Unlike human beings, Shades did not possess physical bodies as such. They possessed instead shadow shells–not hard, but soft–animated by souls known as scintillas. Scintillas could best be described as living entities of fluid light that possessed intelligence, will, and emotion.

Though Shades, like humans, could distinguish between light and darkness, their world had neither sun nor moon, nor day nor night. Yet the Shades did have a daily rhythm of life, called a lumen, by which they measured time. Lumen-flow was their way of referring to the period of time in which light increased, while lumen-ebb described the period in which light decreased. Thus, early lumen-flow referred to dawn; mid-lumen-flow, to mid-morning; high lumen-flow, to noon; early lumen-ebb, to mid-afternoon; mid-lumen-ebb, to evening; low lumen-ebb, to night; and so forth. However, daytime was never as bright as our day, nor night, quite as dark as our night. Low lumen-ebb was an extended period of twilight, the dimmest part of which was reserved for sleep. Ten lumens made a lumnus-week; fifty lumens, a lumnus-month; and five-hundred lumens, a lumnus-year. The seasons in Spectara–if they could be called seasons–were places instead of times, so one in fact had to travel to reach autumn or spring. These were the ways the Shades measured time. The main standard for measuring space was called a shadow-span, its distance being equal to two hand-lengths.

Shades, like human beings, were free to choose between good and evil. They could experience feelings such as hope and fear, joy and sorrow, love and hatred. They were capable of a wide range of beliefs and opinions. Because they lived in a shadow realm where light and darkness were mixed in varying degrees, they were often confused by shades of gray. Living in a world separated into distinct colors explains, on the other hand, why they, by nature, resisted change and tended to be somewhat set in their ways. Though resistant to change, however, they were not altogether lackluster. On the contrary, they could, on occasion, express excitement and even exhibit fervor. Such was the case, to be sure, on the day on which this tale takes its start.

The story that follows begins on the dark edge of Spectara, in the city of Zil, where the Shades of a gray land called Kenøth were gathering for the millennial celebration of a ritual begun long before by Zil Magnus, their ancestor and the founder of their civilization. This was none other than the ritual of Asdin, a sacred star composed of indestructible frozen light. Because the empire Zil Magnus had founded had lasted a thousand lumnus-years, the Shades of Zil-Kenøth had good reason to be excited. Indeed, this excitement only increased as they gathered to remember the ancient event that in their mind had once and for all established order out of chaos and had guaranteed with absolute certainty the eternal security of their world.

CHAPTER 1

ASDIN

A tall, slender, light-haired young Shade named Sindle stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking the city of Zil. Crowds were already gathering below in the streets of this colorless city located in the land of Kenøth, a gray netherworld situated on Spectara’s dark edge. Sindle stood still, silent, his glowing eyes transfixed on the swelling tide of Shades. The Ritual of the Sacred Star his people called Asdin would soon be taking place, but Sindle was growing anxious because he knew all was not well. Time was running out, and his grandfather, Wizdor, had not yet arrived. This could mean only one thing. The whereabouts of Prince Neblas, son of the High Guardian of Asdin, was still unknown. Early that lumen-flow, the High Guardian had issued an order, “Prince Neblas must wield the sword of spectral light! A thousand lumnus-years of tradition cannot be altered! Find him!”

The High Guardian, emperor of all the land of Kenøth, was an immense, imposing figure feared by everyone except his son, the Prince, a young man Sindle’s age who was cocky, hardheaded, and rebellious. Though Sindle admired Neblas, he was quite the Prince’s opposite. Sindle was unsure of himself and somewhat shy. He had many questions about life that had not been answered to his satisfaction, and though he agonized over their answers, he kept his questions to himself largely out of fear that he might be scorned or rejected by his superiors whom he was very eager to please.

Sindle watched the dim streets of the city of Zil as throngs of ghostly forms, like puddles, fed muddy rivulets that repeatedly divided and merged as they meandered around anemic buildings made of frozen light. After coalescing into a single, sluggish river, Shades from every region of Zil-Kenøth reached the Temple court, giving it the appearance of a stagnant swamp at midnight. Above this swamp of Shades rose the luminous Star Tower of Zil-Kenøth’s Temple, a rather plain building of straight design made of frozen light and featuring a central Star Tower that rose many shadow-spans above six surrounding towers of equal height.

The Star Tower, which normally had the appearance of a lighthouse, now appeared bleak, for early that lumen-flow, Asdin, the Sacred Star made of indestructible frozen light, had been removed prior to the Star Ritual in keeping with ancient custom. Now Shades from all quarters of the land gathered in their sacred city to watch the High Guardian of Asdin perform the ancient rite and return the Star to the safety of the Star Tower where it was usually housed. As the Shades crept through the streets of Zil, their eyes glowed and flickered like eyes of night creatures. Sindle had almost fallen under their hypnotic influence when a voice, coming from behind, jolted him back to reality.

“Sorry I am late.”

Sindle turned and saw the face of his grandfather, Wizdor, pointing up at him from a hunched-over frame. Sindle loved and respected the wise, old man with every fiber of his being. In Sindle’s mind, all the lumens of his own life had ebbed and flowed around Wizdor’s sage advice. The old Shade’s long, thick, silver hair always appeared to Sindle like an angelic halo, and Wizdor’s bright eyes, which burned amid the maze of wrinkles on his age-worn face, were lamps of truth that thus far had guided Sindle through the labyrinth of his short life.

As Wizdor looked at his grandson, his brow became furrowed and his eyes dimmed. “Prince Neblas has not yet been found, Sindle, and the High Guardian is in a rage. Someone will have to perform the ceremony of the Zarafat of Zil.” The Zarafat was the ancient sword of spectral light wielded in ancient times by the founder, Zil Magnus. “It may fall to you, my dear lad, to do the ritual.”

Sindle’s eyes grew bright and his facebeamed. He was an unassuming young man and so had never been given the chance to “shine.” Now he was thrilled that his chance had finally come.

“When was Prince Neblas last seen?” Sindle asked, trying to hide his excitement. Because he had been chosen to stand in for Neblas, he was truly hoping that the Prince would not show at the last minute.

“He was last seen early this lumen-flow, near the Light-Freezers Craft Houses,” Wizdor replied. “Rumor has it that he and his uncle had a terrible argument. It could explain why he has gone missing. You know how difficult Neblas can be at times. It goes without saying that his uncle has an impossible job in his role as Advisor to Prince Neblas. Still, he should not have gotten the Prince so riled. Now we are in a mess.”

Below in the Temple courts, a lake of shadows settled in what seemed the crater of a bloodless moonscape. Wizdor squinted. “Really, the Prince should know better. I know you would never do such a thing, Sindle.”

Sindle smiled. “I would never want to disappoint you, Grandfather.”

Beyond the Star Tower of the Temple, the impermanent outlines of the Light-Freezers Craft Houses etched themselves into Sindle’s and Wizdor’s vision. The buildings struggled not to be erased by the churning Sea of Darkness beyond. Against its heaving canvas of chaos, the city of Zil seemed as a fragile ghost ship disappearing into wisps of black fog.

“The sea grows restless,” Sindle remarked.

Wizdor’s eyes were kindled with fascination. “Why art Thou so troubled, Thou Ocean of darkest night, Thou Artificer of frozen light?”

Just then, a distant shout reached their ears, and they turned. The Temple Warden, Zil-Kenøth’s magistrate in charge of the upkeep and security of the Temple buildings, came loping toward them, his thin, disheveled hair blowing in the wind. The Warden was a caustic, dour, and impatient man who had not smiled in many a lumnus-year. Indeed, he likely could not smile as his face had hardened into a permanent frown. As the Warden approached, his bushy eyebrows knitted themselves together beneath impatient wrinkles that smoothed out into a bulging forehead. Veins in his neck pulsated, and his panting made his cheeks look like bellows hard at work to ignite some fire.

When the Warden reached Wizdor and Sindle, he was breathless. “You have, no doubt, heard.” He bent over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. “The Prince is still missing. The decision has been made. Sindle will wield the Zarafat of Zil. Do you think he is capable?”

Sindle hung his head, clearly dejected that the Warden had such little confidence in him.

“Sindle can be trusted to perform the ritual of the sword well,” replied Wizdor coming to his grandson’s defense. A shy smile crept over Sindle’s face, and his spirits lifted a bit.

The Warden’s impatient gaze fell upon the scene below. “The Temple precincts have been secured and the guards are stationed. We can delay no longer. The other magistrates await.”

After hurrying from the cliffs overlooking Zil down a path and through the city’s streets to the assembly place, they arrived to find the High Guardian of Asdin yelling at his brother-in-law, Lord Dargad. Dargad, a proud, pompous, and pushy man was also Advisor to the Guardian’s son, Prince Neblas. Because of his prominent position in the royal family, he kowtowed to no one save the High Guardian.

Lord Dargad’s bulldog face stood firm until the tirade spewing from the craggy mouth of his immense brother-in-law ceased. “He would not listen to reason,” Dargad then responded. Beneath the fragile crust of calm in his voice, anger threatened to erupt at any moment. “We argued early this lumen-flow. All I tried to do was to cram an ounce of sense into that thick head of his! Then he bolted! What was I to do?”

“It must be about the Prince,” Wizdor whispered to the Temple Warden. The tall, bony magistrate’s eyes rolled and his bushy eyebrows writhed in an exasperated response.

Just then, the High Guardian’s eye caught hold of Wizdor. “So, you have arrived at last, Lord Protector!” Then he asked the Temple Warden, “Does Sindle know what to do?”

When Sindle heard these words, his confidence fled and a lump of fear formed in the pit of his stomach. The Warden, who was clearly put out with the whole ordeal, replied, “He does, indeed, Your Excellency.” The Warden’s tone of voice did little to make Sindle’s lump of fear subside.

“And the Starkeeper? What is keeping him?” About that time, Wizdor spotted him. “Here he comes now.” The Starkeeper, who was Zil-Kenøth’s magistrate directly in charge of protecting the Sacred Star Asdin, was a nervous, overwrought little man who always seemed just on the verge of hysteria. With pudgy arms, he now was treading air like water as he waddled toward them, a roll of fat bouncing up and down from his belly and almost swallowing his legs.

“Did you bring the Zarafat of Zil?” the Guardian asked.

With some difficulty, the Starkeeper’s round body rocked back and forth on its stumpy legs until he had managed to turn around. Sticking out a chubby arm, he motioned to an attendant.

“Bring it to Sindle,” the High Guardian commanded. The Starkeeper, who had no neck to speak of, nodded his round, bald head. The attendant handed Sindle the ancient sword of spectral light. As Sindle held it, he gazed at it with awe. The very act of holding it made him feel inadequate and out of place. Then he heard the Guardian say to him, “You had better not mess up, do you hear?” Then the Guardian turned to the Starkeeper. “I hope your people remembered Asdin, too.” The expression on the Starkeeper’s face revealed he did not comprehend. “The Star, dull wit!”

“Oh,” he squeaked. “The treasury guards are bringing it.” The Starkeeper seemed preoccupied with the difficult task of arranging the strange paraphernalia on his head.

Just then, the Grand Inquisitor of the Holy Task, the magistrate in charge of the purity of Zil-Kenøth’s light-freezing dogmas, approached the High Guardian.

“The Dark Circle is ready, Your Highness.” The Grand Inquisitor was tall, handsome, charming, and always wore the black velvet cape that was the sign of his office. Of all Zil’s magistrates, he was best liked with the exception, perhaps, of Wizdor.

The Guardian watched as the Grand Inquisitor’s people brought forth the Dark Circle, a large hoop, approximately seven shade-lengths in diameter, covered with black velvet like that of the Inquisitor’s cape. “Good,” the Guardian said. “At least one of you is capable of exhibiting a modicum of responsibility.” The Guardian, who towered over Wizdor, looked down at him. “Lord Protector, it is time.”

Wizdor moved his hunched-over body ahead of the other magistrates and called them to order, but the Starkeeper had not yet returned. Wizdor called for him. “Over here!” came a high-pitched voice. The rotund little man waddled toward them carrying a black box. The Starkeeper set the box before the High Guardian who knelt on both knees and opened it with care. Light, splendid and brilliant, burst out, and everyone shielded his eyes. The High Guardian gently removed the Sacred Star of Frozen Light and towered to his feet. The Starkeeper closed the box, handed it to an attendant, and took his place beside the Temple Warden. Wizdor joined Prince Neblas’s Advisor, Lord Dargad, directly behind the High Guardian. Then the High Guardian nodded, and the procession began. view abbreviated excerpt only...

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