The Moon King

by Neil Williamson

Genres: Urban Fantasy; Science Fiction

Synopsis

All is not well in Glassholm. Life under the moon has always been so predictable: day follows night, wax phases to wane and, after the despair of every Darkday, a person’s mood soars to euphoria at Full. So it has been for five hundred years, ever since the Lunane captured the moon and tethered it to the city.

Now, all that has changed. Amidst rumours of unsettling dreams and strange whispering children, society is disintegrating into unrest and violence. The very sea has turned against Glassholm and the island’s luck monkeys have gone wild, distributing new fates to all and sundry. Turmoil is coming.

Three people find themselves at the eye of the storm: a former policeman investigating a series of macabre murders, an outsider artist embroiled in the murky intrigues of revolution, and a renegade engineer tasked with fixing the ancient machine at the city’s heart. Each must fulfil their role or see Glassholm shaken apart, while all are subject to the machinations of their inscrutable and eternal monarch, The Moon King.


“A truly unique fantasy, The Moon King is a mysterious, luminous read, full of intriguing characters and featuring a twisty, page-turning plot. Beautifully written and thoughtful. Sure to be one of the best debuts of this or any other year.” – Jeff VanderMeer

“A vivid evocation of a strange moon-ridden bipolar world that swings each month from delirium to despair, and the sort of book that creeps into your dreams.” – Chris Beckett, Arthur C. Clarke Award-winning author of Dark Eden.

"Williamson has woven a story that teems with ideas and imaginative power. There is beauty in it, and strangeness, and page-turning adventure. The marvellous conceit at The Moon King’s core also conveys a powerful message about man’s relationship with nature and with his environment. The commitment shown to the characters by their creator is intense, and palpable. An intricately constructed, heartfelt novel that does its author proud.” Nina Allan, author of The Silver Wind

 

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Release date: April 13, 2014

Publisher: NewCon Press

Print pages: 352

Sample

First and Second of Kent Wane, 507UM

Anton Dunn woke under a fullish sky. Feathers of cloud tumbled across the frigid blue like down from some passing snow goose, with the orb of the moon a powdery fingerprint in the background.

   All was peaceful.

   For a moment, anyway. Then a monstrous headache kicked in. Eyes streaming, Anton held on to that tranquil image, and hoped that it would help him bear through the hangover’s initial onslaught. How much had he had to drink the night before? It had been a long time since he had felt this poorly. Even if this time there had been justification.

   Ah, yes.

   Anton remembered making a good attempt at drinking what was to have been his Fullday wedding reception dry. He had set to it as soon as the confused functionary and the disappointed guests had gone home. His best man, Frank, had made an honourable show of helping him demolish the stockpile of beer, wine and gilberry gin, but in the end they’d hardly dented it. Frank had passed out around midnight, and sitting alone under the woven moonflower garlands that festooned the community hall, Anton too had finally given up on the monumental challenge on realising that no matter how many glasses he emptied, he would find no concoction capable of dissolving the knot in his chest.

   Because, inexplicably, instead of marrying him, Krista, his fiancée, had elected to become a Bride of the Moon.

   It was some minutes until Anton’s vision cleared sufficiently to see that he was not outside after all. The clouds were passing high above a domed window, cleverly-constructed from many small panes and there were sheets and pillows. He was in a bed, not in the street. When the pain subsided to an angry ache, Anton finally dared to raise his head.

   The large, linen-swathed bed was circular, and it was surrounded by hangings draped between marble pillars. Through the creamy material, decorated with silvery embroidery, Anton could see only vague shapes and shadows, but he had the strong impression that, like the bed, the roof and the ring of hangings, the room too was circular.

   The effort of sitting up brought a wash of nausea that burned his throat. Beside the bed, there was a jug of water. He poured himself a glass and sipped until the sickness passed. Cautiously he felt the back of his head. There was no lump, but from the belt of pain when he touched his scalp there felt like there ought to be. He decided against doing that again, and then wondered why he had expected to have felt a lump. Pieces of recent history resurfaced in his bruised brain like stormy flotsam.

      Naturally, he had not taken the news of the jilting well, and he had not simply settled for drowning his sorrows. At some point in the hazier part of the evening he had stolen into the Lunane’s Palace looking for Krista. He must have been seriously drunk then. There was no place in Glassholm he would be less inclined to go within a mile of, of his own volition, than the calcified carbuncle at the city's centre. He had vague memories of an ornamental garden, a storm drain, a cold kitchen and a lot of stairs. The real question, however, was not why he had gone there, but why he had ended up in this grand bed and not in a cell deep below the Castil tower.