Release date: October 17, 2022
Subgenre: Historical fantasy, Greek mythology
About Xenia in the Court of the Winds:
Sometimes, the monster is just a man . . .
Painted as the savage man-eating Cyclops in Homer’s masterwork, The
Odyssey, Polyphemus comes to life in Scott Oden’s epic tale of duty and
obligation. A giant, one-eyed foreigner living on the fringes of Aeolia
in Sicily, Polyphemus shuns is neighbors; he scavenges from shipwrecks
along the rocky coast, robbing the dead and leaving their bodies to the
sea’s embrace -- a monstrous breach of the ancient laws of hospitality.
But, when he is himself robbed and blinded by brutal Achaeans journeying
home from the War at Troy, Polyphemus is quick to seek justice from
those same neighbors. Making his way to the Court of the Winds, where
the King of Aeolia holds sway, he befriends a fisherman’s son, young
Glaukos son of Lykaon. Together, they seek to answer the question: can a
self-professed monster, an outsider who flaunts the Gods and their laws
of hospitality, find justice at the Court of the Winds?
Xenia in the Court of the Winds is a mesmerizing descent into the
customs and traditions of the ancient Greeks; a beautifully rendered
tale where heroes and villains aren’t always what they seem.
Excerpt:
Mnemosyne, the Mother of the Muses, is a protean goddess. Her gifts are mercurial; without rhyme or reason she plays with men’s minds, obscuring what was once commonplace behind Time’s curtain while thrusting that which was once obscure onto the orchestra of recollection. I feel her hand on me. Names blur and fade; faces drift away on the tide of years like a skiff left unmoored. I can no longer recall what was said or done yesterday or the day before, but deeds done a thousand yesterdays ago? These memories are as clear and pure to me as the waters of holy Arethusa.
I was but a child – little older than you are right now, dear Eirene, daughter of my daughter – when the man rhapsodes named the Kyklops came to Aeolia. Eh, what was that? Was he a monster? My dear child, if the Fates grant you a life as long as mine, you will soon understand that while not all men are monsters, all monsters are but men. And this Kyklops was a man, no more and no less. It has been three score and eight years since that day. And while I can no longer recall my mother’s face, until Atropos cuts the thread of my life I will never forget the ruined visage of the Kyklops . . .
I saw him first, standing alone at the end of the stone mole that protected Aeolia’s harbor from the harsh winds that blew off the Tyrrhenian Sea at season’s change: a figure etched against the dawn sky, wreathed in fire; a Titan in silhouette – taller even than my father, who men counted among the tallest of Aeolians. He simply stood there, unmoving, like the harbinger of a doom not yet written.
“Papa,” I said. Father looked up from his nets, his fingers working across the strands of their own accord, and followed my gaze. A scowl cut deep furrows across his broad forehead.
“Zeus Savior and Eris,” Father muttered. Your great-grandfather, Eirene, was a pious man, and curses rarely passed his lips; hearing him invoke the Goddess of Discord caused the hairs to stir on the back of my neck. He straightened from his task and stood, shading his eyes with one long, calloused hand. “What is he doing here?”
“Who is he, Papa?”
“No one of consequence,” he replied. Our neighbors along the mole, fishermen like my father, also caught sight of the stranger. Murmurs of consternation rippled through them like wavelets caused by a dropped stone. “Stay here, boy.” Father stooped; nimbly, he caught up his bone-handled knife, its curved iron blade honed thin and pitted by the sea air. He sheathed it at his waist and mounted the crude steps to the top of the mole. Like his peers, my father wore nothing but a short kilt of saffron-colored linen, a zoma, supported by a supple girdle of ox hide. I watched him stalk toward the newcomer. “Polyphemus!” he called out
I was but a child – little older than you are right now, dear Eirene, daughter of my daughter – when the man rhapsodes named the Kyklops came to Aeolia. Eh, what was that? Was he a monster? My dear child, if the Fates grant you a life as long as mine, you will soon understand that while not all men are monsters, all monsters are but men. And this Kyklops was a man, no more and no less. It has been three score and eight years since that day. And while I can no longer recall my mother’s face, until Atropos cuts the thread of my life I will never forget the ruined visage of the Kyklops . . .
I saw him first, standing alone at the end of the stone mole that protected Aeolia’s harbor from the harsh winds that blew off the Tyrrhenian Sea at season’s change: a figure etched against the dawn sky, wreathed in fire; a Titan in silhouette – taller even than my father, who men counted among the tallest of Aeolians. He simply stood there, unmoving, like the harbinger of a doom not yet written.
“Papa,” I said. Father looked up from his nets, his fingers working across the strands of their own accord, and followed my gaze. A scowl cut deep furrows across his broad forehead.
“Zeus Savior and Eris,” Father muttered. Your great-grandfather, Eirene, was a pious man, and curses rarely passed his lips; hearing him invoke the Goddess of Discord caused the hairs to stir on the back of my neck. He straightened from his task and stood, shading his eyes with one long, calloused hand. “What is he doing here?”
“Who is he, Papa?”
“No one of consequence,” he replied. Our neighbors along the mole, fishermen like my father, also caught sight of the stranger. Murmurs of consternation rippled through them like wavelets caused by a dropped stone. “Stay here, boy.” Father stooped; nimbly, he caught up his bone-handled knife, its curved iron blade honed thin and pitted by the sea air. He sheathed it at his waist and mounted the crude steps to the top of the mole. Like his peers, my father wore nothing but a short kilt of saffron-colored linen, a zoma, supported by a supple girdle of ox hide. I watched him stalk toward the newcomer. “Polyphemus!” he called out
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About Scott Oden:
Scott Oden is a bestselling author of historical fantasy and
sword-and-sorcery. Since his debut in 2005, his books have received
starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist; he has been an
Amazon Editor’s Pick and has been nominated for a Gemmell Award. His
work has been endorsed by such preeminent authors as Steven Pressfield,
David Anthony Durham, and John Gwynne.
Scott lives in the foothills of the Appalachians with his lovely wife,
Shannon, and a variety of dogs — all of them neurotic and prone to
dancing like no one’s watching.
Before turning his hand to writing, Scott worked the usual slate of odd
jobs, from delivering pizza to stocking shelves at a local grocery. In
his spare time, he likes table-top roleplaying games, reading, and
making the occasional bracelet from old stone beads. He dreams of
running away from reality and living in a Hobbit hole . . .
