This weeks Fantasy Sci-Fi Network new release is from author Joshua Grasso. The Astrologer's Portrait, released on July 5th is this talented English Professor's second book... and well worth the look.
Prince Harold has fallen in love with a portrait, which he much prefers to his real bride-to-be. However, the portrait may be a hundred years old, and only the greatest sorcerer in the land can verify her existence. Unfortunately, Turold the Magnificent is currently on trial for maliciously impersonating a person of quality and despoiling her family history. Harold gets him off on the condition that they locate his lady love before his wedding to Sonya, who vows to kill him on their wedding night. Along with his faithless Russian servant, Dimitri, the three steal off to locate the true identity of the sitter—only to confront a curse much older than the portrait. To dispel the curse the prince must lead a revolution, fall in love with his wife, and release the centuries-old hands of Einhard the Black, who are eagerly awaiting their latest victim.
"...light-hearted, fast-paced fantasy with some interesting ideas. The characters are fun and you really don't want the story to end." 5 Stars
Chapters One and Two to get you started;
Chapter One
The
Royal Astrologer was dead. Shortly after eight o’clock he tumbled to his death
from the highest tower in the palace. According to the testimony of a handful
of onlookers, there was a violent crash (the window), a pained cry (the
Astrologer), a tremendous clatter (a series of coins which clattered onto the
courtyard) and a resounding thump (the body). There wasn’t much left to parade
around the streets in the morning, so it was a very hushed-up, discreet affair,
much like the man himself. No one quite knew what he did in the queen’s employ.
After all, the title “astrologer” is a rather ambiguous term. To some, he read
the stars and charted their invisible trajectories. To others, he was a dabbler in witchcraft and
the magical arts, bringing some unspeakable doom upon the kingdom. But if you
asked the queen she would probably call him a “sponge” and insist that his room
was fumigated as thoroughly as possible.
The only question was
what to do with the late Astrologer’s effects. In his room he had amassed a
prodigious collection of artifacts, from paintings, sculptures, books,
diagrams, maps, experiments, crystals, and other, less recognizable items that
were promptly thrown in the trash. The queen had everything catalogued and put
up for auction, which attracted a steady stream of collectors and connoisseurs.
Apparently the Astrologer—who never contributed a single krouck to the court’s
coffers—was sitting on a fortune worth several hundred thousand fobs. Priceless
weapons and faded maps changed hands and brought a girlish smile to the queen’s
lips. How nice to suddenly stumble into a neglected fortune and not have to
dirty one’s hands with the transaction! She called her chief attendant aside
and commanded him to find out how many other octogenarians were in her employ;
she was particularly interested if any of them might be willing to depart for
their final journey before rather
than after the upcoming ball season, the cost of which went up every year and
promised to bankrupt her.
Prince Harold sullenly
appeared at the auction. His mother insisted that he have more of a presence at
state functions, as the people needed to see him take an active interest in the
state…or at least believe he could crawl out of bed before noon on occasion.
Crossing his arms, he leaned against a darkened corner of the room with his
personal servant, Dimitri. The two made unflattering remarks about the men in
attendance, particularly one simpering, mustachioed nitwit who pawed every item
with a scaly hand and purred, “ah…delicious, quite delicious.” Dimitri spoke
little English (or so he claimed) and limited his remarks to, “man has head of
block, yes?”
“Yes, he’s a blockhead,”
Harold agreed. “I’ve seen him at my mother’s council before…says yes, yes to everything you say, even if
you complained of gout or constipation.
A first rate villain.”
“And see there—gentleman
with ass face,” Dimitri snickered.
“Ah, now you’re being
unkind. That’s Count Scarmento, the greatest gossip in the kingdom. It’s said
that no reputation is safe once he gets a mind to ruin it. I don’t know a woman
in the kingdom who can out-malice him; he has the heart of a jackal.”
“Smell like one, too,”
Dimitri said.
The Queen finally
spotted her son and with a look of patient disappointment, signaled him over.
The prince took his leave of Dimitri—who avoided the Queen like the plague—and
sauntered over to her, careful not to seem indifferent or obliging. It didn’t
work.
“Need I remind you that fashionably late is ten minutes late,
not an hour,” she scolded, smoothing his shirt. “Disgraceful. I only ask you for a few minutes out of your
day—minutes, need I remind you, that will add years to your reign as king.”
“I have nothing to do
here,” Harold said, moving aside. “Besides, how can I bid on anything...someone
stopped my allowance.”
“My son, gambling is a
black mark on the royal family. I clearly had to step in when you lost our
southern estates in a silly card game—what was it called?”
“Ratchets.”
“Indeed. At least you
might have had the foresight to gamble away our disastrous colonial
possessions,” she sighed. “My sister died of that ghastly tropical disease
there…terribly unfashionable.”
“I’m not interested in
money,” he said, glowering at anyone in eyesight. “So what’s this about,
mother? Marriage? Do you plan to couple me off with some pock-marked, toothless
relation in the back of beyond?”
“Don’t be silly,” the
queen smiled, taking his arm, “our family has always boasted a remarkable set
of teeth. Though a few pock-marks never hurt anyone...”
Harold was appalled.
Marriage? That was the end of every respectable prince in history. Before long, he would have to share his bed
with an insistent, harpy of a wife and herd thankless children to and fro under
the watchful eye of society. Why couldn’t things remain as they were? Here he
could do nothing, think whatever he liked, lose track of the days, and
celebrate each bottomless night. Was it so much to ask that one prince out of a
thousand could shirk his duties and become a nothing, a nobody, and a
none-of-your-business?
“At least smile once in
a while,” the queen said, pushing him forward. “Go bid on something. I’ll pay
for it, of course. Surely you have some interests. See if they have any of
those antique goblin idols. They would look marvelous in your room…whichever
room you frequent these days.”
The prince muttered a
“yes, mother” and ambled off to a corner of the room, where several
connoisseurs were ransacking the Astrologer’s collection of warm-weather
walking gloves. The gentlemen smiled knowingly as he approached, though the
prince had no interest in gloves—they merely obliged one to shake more hands
than necessary. Instead, he leafed through a few books—none in any language he
understood or cared to learn—and perused a series of maps. Most were blatantly
wrong, inserting fabled lands at the edge of discovery, complete with bogus
attractions, such as “Rivers of Gold,” and “Isles of Virginity.” How many
voyagers relied on these maps to find a safe haven, perhaps fleeing a violent
hurricane, only to find—more ocean? How many cities of gold, once plotted, had
vanished into thin air? Everyone lies to us, he thought to himself, tracing his
finger around an optimistic coastline. Better to die at once with the truth
than live endlessly with their lies…and be forced to lie yourself.
At that moment he looked
up and saw it. A portrait. Or was it? If so, it was like no other portrait he
had never seen…so real he swore the woman was standing before him herself. The
portrait was of a girl in her early twenties, wearing a dress with elaborate
frills at the sleeves and the collar. The sleeves ended slightly past her
elbows, with both prominently displayed in the portrait. One rested elegantly
against a divan, allowing the lower half of the arm to drape luxuriously
against the fabric, a single finger extending to touch a small, metallic box.
The other elbow rested against her waist, extending the arm to her lap, where
she supported the box. A book of some sort was propped open in her lap, though
the box, rather than the book, seemed to command her attention. The young
lady’s hair was bound behind her head in a sumptuous bow, blinding the viewer
with the radiance of her white flesh, from forehead to bosom. The lady’s
expression was the most notable feature of the portrait: the eyes were not
typical of a society lady, being bored and severe; instead, they shone out with
curiosity and interest. A sincere, unaffected smile spread over her face,
balancing a short, full nose and a roundish face. All of this blended
harmoniously with her periwinkle dress, which matched—not exactly, but close
enough—her searching eyes.
Time melted away. The sounds and movement
behind him faded into the faintest whisper. All he saw was the woman, frozen
and in constant motion. She seemed to invite his stare, to be aware of her
golden frame. However, it wasn’t the eye of society she desired, but the gaze
of one individual—someone she had long expected and could now indulge in eager
conversation. The pain of not entering into that conversation, of not being
able to shatter the silence with a single word, was unbearable to the prince.
He reached out to touch the frame.
“No one’s bid on this
one yet, Your Grace,” a gentleman said, coming up behind him. “The suggest price
is thirty krouck, but for a member of the family, I could easily lose one or two of the items…”
“Don’t be absurd,” he
said, reluctantly turning away from it. “I’m no art connoisseur. What do I know about painting?”
“Oh, I thought…my
mistake,” the gentleman bowed.
Harold almost turned
away, but catching her eyes which seemed to know him...
“Wait—look, you say no
one’s bid on it?”
“Not a soul, Your
Grace.”
“Well…I should buy
something, just for appearance’s sake. And if nobody wants it…” Harold trailed
off, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Fine: I’ll give you fifty
krouck. And I want it set up in the
closet gallery, immediately, today. Go.”
“Your Majesty,” the
gentleman bowed, and immediately set about removing the portrait.
At the same moment,
Dimitri, having assured himself that the queen was nowhere about, stole to the
prince’s side.
“Ah—she look like weasel
face,” Dimitri said, clasping his shoulder. “Very good quality in woman,
yes?”
Chapter Two
The queen had arranged a
match between her son and the daughter of the respected, if widely despised,
Baron Vysotsky. She had never seen the daughter personally, though the
miniature that was sent of her with the Baron’s acceptance was nothing to crow
about. Despite the obvious skill of the painter, the daughter had a sense of
heaviness that had nothing to do with weight. Her eyes, expression, hair, all
seemed ponderous and frightening. For a moment she wondered if her son deserved
this. In the end she supposed it was for his own good, and what’s more, for her own good, since the kingdom was
particularly low on cash at the moment. Marriage always supplemented the
coffers handsomely. Whether or not one’s son would be happy was of small
account. He would be happy with the money he could waste gambling and indulging
in simple-minded mischief. Men were easy that way; so much more difficult for
women, whose vices demanded both skill and art.
The prince had little
reaction to his mother’s plans. Instead of telling him in person—for she feared
a scene, and he was famous for scenes—she sent him a letter. The letter
consisted of six pages of gossip and intrigue; however, buried in the middle
was the following sentence, which laid everything out in clear and simple
Yazik: “I have made certain plans of a not entirely matrimonial nature which
may, in time, grow into a specific engagement between two not so disagreeable
people upon whom the kingdom, and indeed, the entire world, would not look
unfavorably upon should it be announced in the fullness of time.” Harold
tossed the letter aside and returned to the portrait.
Who was she? Was she
still alive? Could they ever meet? Was this her exact likeness? Or was she too
beautiful even for the poetry of art? He secretly believed the latter;
something about the portrait rang true to him. This was her, or an impression of her that the artist saw and felt was
more than mere appearance. If he could see her, even if she was twenty years
older, he would recognize her at a glance. If not for the eyes, for her
movements—for indeed, the portrait seemed to move for him—the turn of her head,
her gait, even the sound of her voice.
“This is silly…it’s just
a portrait. She might even be imaginary, like those fabled continents on the
map,” he thought, his finger tracing the embellishments of the frame. “Who’s to
say if she ever lived or died? What does it matter? But she is here…and for
whatever it’s worth, she’s mine.”
Nevertheless, the
possibility upset him: this could be a real woman. From her look he would say
she was foreign, or at least from one of the outlying provinces. The clothing didn’t look too outdated, though
it wasn’t what was worn here—the style was too flamboyant for their reserved,
cautious taste. It could be recent, particularly as the Astrologer traveled
widely in the world and might have purchased the portrait from the artist (or
the sitter?) himself. But how could he know? He knew nothing of art, the
styles, the techniques…the portrait might have been painted five centuries ago
for all he knew. Were women even that beautiful five centuries ago? Surely not…
Suddenly all his art and
history lessons—or the lack thereof—made a deep impression on him. He had
largely ignored his private tutor, whose turgid lessons in philosophy convinced
him that the ancients were born postmortem. If only his tutor had told him that
his love life depended on a thorough knowledge of art history...then he
might have listened.
Suddenly it dawned on
him: the Royal Academy! He would summon the greatest art professors and have
them disrobe her on the spot (her secrets, that is). He ran upstairs to his
rooms and kicked Dimitri awake, who had been slumbering on and off for
days.
“Why to kick me?”
Dimitri grumbled, wiping the drool from his mouth.
“I’m writing a letter,”
the prince said, searching for paper on and under the bed. “You will take it
directly to the Royal Academy. Wait for their response.”
“Academy? Why I to go
there?”
“The portrait, you
simpleton. I want to know where it’s from.”
Dimitri smiled drunkenly;
not that he was drunk—truth be told, he rarely drank—but he knew it made him
look foolish, and therefore, charming.
“Ah, is all clear now,”
he said. “Your mother will have painting for daughter-in-law.”
“I’m not marrying her,
just satisfying my artistic curiosity,” the prince said, removing a crumpled
sheaf from between the mattress. “Besides, this has nothing to do with my
mother. At least, not yet.”
Dimitri watched the
prince hastily scribble out a letter, which he promptly sealed and thrust into
his hands.
“I to go now?”
Dimitri asked.
“Damn you, yes. You do
have duties, the occasional commission to earn your pay. Loafing and drinking
you can do on your own time.”
Harold pushed him out
the door and collapsed on his bed, thoughts of the woman spinning around him.
He could see her in motion, opening the box to show him a key that she placed
in his hand. The rustle of her skirts swept over his body, covering his arms
and legs with gooseflesh. So close—and yet, he could never truly know her,
share her thoughts. No woman he had ever known or flirted with compared to this
single glimpse of a phantom creature. What bothered him more than anything was
that the artist was there. When he
took up his brush to paint her (in the same room!), he looked and said, “yes, I
want the world to see this,” which meant that he wasn’t alone, but was the
second—if not thousandth—person to see her like this. She could never truly be
his, nor he her own.
An hour or two
later—though it felt like a full calendar month to the prince—Dimitri entered
the room with an eccentric-looking gentleman, clearly a professor from the
university. The professor, who introduced himself vaguely as “an eternal
student of the arts,” made an awkward bow—which emptied the contents of his
pockets on the floor. Coins, miniature globes, tops, and jacks bounced and
clattered at their feet, which the professor made no attempt to pick up.
Grimacing, the prince kicked them aside and ushered him to the portrait.
Without saying a word, he simply gestured to it, as if to say, “now you
see why you’ve come!” He expected the professor to fall back in awe, to
gingerly step forward with outstretched hands to assure its reality. In short,
he expected him to confirm what he already knew: that this was a work of
outstanding genius that should, in good conscience, be displayed in the Royal
Assembly. Instead, the professor took out a cracked monocle and craned his neck
forward to inspect it, sniffling and muttering faintly.
“Who is she?” the
professor finally asked.
“I...I have no idea. I
was rather hoping...you could tell me.”
“I find her very pretty.
Well, not so much pretty as...”
“Beautiful?”
“Mmm, no, that’s not the
word...”
“Magnificent?”
“No, doesn’t start with
an M,” he frowned.
“Enchanting?”
“Ah yes, but instead of
that, something that suggests a sense of...oh, I can never remember the
word...” he grunted.
Harold ran through a
dozen adjectives in his head, offered a few, but each one was brusquely
dismissed. What arcane, academic word was he searching for that could possibly
capture the divine, intoxicating sense of beauty that this portrait alone
possessed?
“Ah, there is it,” he
suddenly shouted, stamping his foot.
“Old!”
“Old?” Harold
exclaimed.
“Yes, the very word!
Don’t you think so? Something about the way she’s looking at me...her eyes, I
suppose. Very old, even antique.”
“So you’re
saying...she’s an antique?” Harold asked, with evident pain.
“Older than me, I
imagine!” he laughed. “That’s why they
call them ‘old souls.’ Sometimes even children
have the look of a wizened sage. Something to do with past lives, I
suppose. Or maybe it’s just her hairdo.”
“So you mean her—she’s
the one that’s old? Not the painting?” Harold asked, almost seizing him in his
arms.
“The picture? Oh,
heavens no, it might have been painted yesterday—look at the paint,” he said,
tapping it. “5-10 years, no more, maybe less,” he said, with a chuckle. “I
meant the woman herself. She strikes me
as...oh I couldn’t say...89?”
“89? This girl?”
“Yes, it is the
eyes—how they stare at you!” he said, shaking his head. “Never seen a student with eyes like that.
Definitely an old soul.”
“But the painting
itself, it’s new, right? It might have been painted recently, a few years ago,
of a living woman?”
“When else might it have
been painted?” he shrugged. “And as for a living woman, well, anything might
have happened since then. A plague; an overturned coach; a bad childbirth; even
a bad fall could end things like that. You would have to ask the painter. Very
accomplished fellow, though I can’t say I can place him or the model...I’ll
have to consult the Directory. If only I could find the key...I seem to have
misplaced it after my last lecture.”
“Can you find it?”
Harold asked. “It’s very important!”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly
remember, it was so long ago,” he sighed.
“But you said you just
lost it—your last lecture, remember?”
“Indeed; I haven’t set
foot in a classroom these ten years.”
“Ten years?” he
repeated, aghast. “So what do you do at the university?”
“You know, I’m not entirely
sure,” he said, eyes narrowing in thought. “I typically spend my days in the
office, going through old papers...and then at some point I fall asleep. Then
my servant wakes me for supper...usually something with broccoli, which I
despise...and then I go back to the office to read something before I fall
asleep. Not much time for the classroom. But the students seem very
understanding; they don’t mind missing a few classes, as long as they graduate
in the end.”
“But you’re sure...it’s
a modern painting? Of a living—that is, of a woman who was until very recently,
alive?”
“Certainly, I would
stake my career on it. Wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose so,” he said,
lost in thought. “But how can I find her? Do you have any idea?”
“Ask a sorcerer. They
have means of finding people, though they typically ask for something in
return, always the thing you least want to give them.”
“Yes, but I don’t know
any sorcerers,” he scowled, attempting to tug his beard (which had just begun
to grow, and thus scarcely qualified).
“Try Turold,” the
professor suggested.
“Who’s Turold?”
“Oh, a splendid
magician—a man of the first rank! Known far and wide for his wizarding
wonders.”
“Excellent! Where can I
find him?”
“I believe he was
arrested last week.”
“You’re kidding!” Harold
exclaimed. “On what charges?”
“I forget—I read about
it in the papers. Something serious, I seem to recall. He might be on the next
boat—exiled to the Colonies.”
“Dimitri! Pay the
professor twenty krouck and see him out. Then go straight to the prison—get
this Turold released at once!”
“Me? But where I to get
such krouck?” Dimitri gasped.
“From the money you
stole from my cabinet last week, you churl! Let bygones by bygones, just pay
the professor.”
Dimitri grumbled
something in Russian—though its intent was clear in any language—and led the
professor out, who gave another clumsy bow, vomiting another series of baubles
and trinkets.
“So you are alive,” Harold said, turning to the
portrait. “I just pray this Turold fellow knows what he’s doing.”
The young woman in the
portrait didn’t respond, though her eyes flickered with a hidden light. A
light, the prince had already assured himself, that shone exclusively for
him.
Why Grasso chooses to write Young Adult Fantasy;
"To me, Young Adult is not an age group as much as a framework: it allows for a very generous suspension of disbelief, where you can indulge in fantastic flights of fancy, while still grounding it all in a work of literary merit."
Also by Joshua Grasso;
Count Leopold always wondered about the strange chest sealed with three magic locks. His father warned him never to mention the Box—nor pry into the secret chamber where it was kept. Now the Box has begun speaking to Leopold, begging him to find the key and undo the hateful locks. If he does so, it promises him to fulfill his every desire, even offering him the hand of the forbidden—and forbiddingly named— Lady Mary Bianca Domenica de Grassini Algarotti. However, before unfastening the third lock he catches a glimpse of something unspeakable inside—and turns to the only man who shared his father’s secret, the legendary Conjurer-Magician, Hildigrim Blackbeard. A man who, if the stories are true, will exact a terrible price in return for his service.
About the Author;
Joshua Grasso is a professor of English at East Central University in
Ada, Oklahoma. He received his Ph.D. from Miami University, specializing
in British Literature from the long eighteenth century. As both a
writer and teacher, he uses the past--whether its literature, art,
music, or simply ideas--to help us see ourselves through the 'mirror' of
time. Even with the passing of centuries, our reflection is remarkably
consistent--if occasionally troubling. The Count of the Living Death is
his first novel.
More from Joshua;
Website, The Virtual Astrolabe
Available from Amazon;
The Astrologer's Portrait
The Count of the Living Death
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