A desert village is in crisis. Plants won’t grow. Animals kill without reason. Two young mystics trace the cause to a battle between powerful spirit rulers. They strive to restore balance, but to succeed they must pass through death and risk losing each other forever.
Filled with adventure and mysticism, Fire From the Overworld is fantasy rooted in spiritual reality. The story draws from diverse cultures to take the reader on a profound journey.
Some writers are great stylists and will write beautiful stories that say nothing new or important. Other writers are great storytellers whose tales are exciting but mundane. Only rarely do we see a writer who creates compelling, important stories with captivating prose. B.T. Lowry is one of those rare authors whose work is not only compelling and moving, but also important to read. “Fire from the Overworld” is a terrific debut!
– David Farland, New York Times Bestseller, Lead Judge for one of the world’s largest writing contests.
A glimpse of the story
A cool night breeze blew through the open door of the thatched hut, yet sweat beaded on Teacher’s brow. He lay flat on his back, his eyes closed. The shapes of his deeply lined face rose and fell like stony lands. His slow breathing moved the black and white sash around his waist—the colors of a Master Ayur. His heart continued to beat, but his awareness was clearly elsewhere. A single braid—ink-black with veins of gray—snaked over his shoulders. Its tip rested beneath his hands where they lay crossed over his chest.
Héyowan had placed them there after Teacher had left his body. Teacher had slumped to the ground, and Héyowan had laid him on this mat with yellow and red stripes, then he’d placed some folded cloth under Teacher’s head, as a pillow, and waited.
Usually Teacher was gone for a few hours, but that had been two weeks ago.
Héyowan fingered his own braid, pressing his fingers into the intertwining coils of hair. Bird and lizard calls marked the coming of dawn. Pine resin smoldered in a pot in the corner, its scent mixing with the smell of the moist clay floor.
Smoke drifted through the light of a clay-pot lamp, up into darkness. Dried medicinal plants hung from the ceiling like hands reaching down, casting their shadows on the wicker walls. Teacher seemed to gaze upward, toward the realm of the Creator. His eyes were closed, but perhaps he looked with inner eyes.
If only it were true, thought Héyowan. No, he’s not in trance now.
Héyowan looked over to Yuvali. She knelt opposite him, by Teacher’s shoulders, breathing deeply with her eyes closed. She was trying to conquer her fears, Héyowan knew, preparing herself to leave her body.