The Stars Speak
How the Cosmology of Secret Sky: The Young Universe Shapes the Book’s World and Story
How the Cosmology of Secret Sky: The Young Universe Shapes the Book’s World and Story
The idea of “world building” comes up a lot in discussion of speculative fiction, though, for most of its existence the term had never been formalized. No one told L. Frank Baum he was engaged in world building when he wrote The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, just as no one similarly informed C.S. Lewis when he produced The Chronicles of Narnia.
Only decades after one of fantasy fiction’s first landmarks—Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings—did anyone stop to think we should be codifying the quirky thing Mr. Tolkien did in giving a background and history to every aspect of his world. Today, you can’t breathe a word about epic fantasy without world building coming into play. It’s become one of the genre’s biggest selling points.
However, many people who read Secret Sky: The Young Universe are surprised to find a sophisticated amount of world building in what could otherwise be described as a book for children. As well as the degree of cosmology that was put into a work of fantasy.
by T. Alan Horne (Author)
James Bernardin (Illustrator)
August 21, 2024
Genre: Children's sword and sorcery, fantasy
The stars speak in a language of secrets, yet their stories cannot remain hidden forever.
Billions of years ago, on one of the first-ever Earths, a boy named Skylar will walk away from his home for the last time. Beset by dreams where he flies through the early universe as a sentient starship, he will never be safe if his secret gets out. His only chance to stay alive is to fall in with the same knights who destroyed his peasant village and live under the shadow of the king who sent them to exterminate Skylar’s people.
But powerful dreams have a way of shaping reality, and with each midnight flight across the cosmos, Skylar finds his world—and himself—changing. Magic is another thing which should only exist in dreams, yet Skylar has it—one more secret that needs keeping.
Against a waking life full of monsters, warriors, swords, sorcery, treasure, and ancient mysteries, Skylar has only one key for putting all the pieces together: the Secret Sky that haunts his sleeping mind.
Praise:
“Perfect for those who enjoy mystery, magic, and an engaging main character.”
– Always in the Middle
“Read this if you like a mixing of genres, children with hidden talents and want to dive into the characters of the story.”
– Log Cabin Library
"A zany, wholly absorbing start to an otherworldly, whimsical adventure worthy of multiple volumes."
– Kirkus Reviews
Chapter 3: Dead Man’s Testament
You’ll notice I didn’t begin this story with “Once upon a time.”
I know how odd it seems, bringing that up three chapters in, but there’s an important lesson here. “Once upon a time” is a forecast for a bad story. It’s the storyteller’s way of announcing that he never learned how to write an opening, that he finds you unintelligent, and that he can’t be bothered to think of anything original.
Anyway, once upon a time there lived a king. But not like the kings you find in other stories. For one thing, he had never ruled a country. He wasn’t fond of countries, which explains why he’d outlawed them.
His Glorious Exaltedness, Herac the Second, lived a life most kings can only dream of. The name of his kingdom was “Everything,” and its people were known as “Everyone.” And though his capital lay many days away from Skylar’s mountain home, word of the man’s failing health had already reached the ends of his Earth.
It’s hard to appreciate, so long after the fact, just how big a deal the man’s death would become. To put things into perspective, everything in this story happened a bajillion years before the first dinosaur had been invented. You have no more business crying over King Herac than you do for Tyrannosaurus Rex.
But back then, absolutely everyone grieved at the idea of losing him. Without exception. Except the ones happy and excited to learn he was dying. Because let’s face it: why would you want a sickly old king when you have a shiny new one waiting to take his place? All eyes turned now to the heir—Herac’s only son—as the future of the kingdom and the world.
Coins bearing the boy’s face had already been struck. Officials made plans to rename cities and landmarks in his honor. And everyone started to ask, “What kind of person is this prince? What sorts of things does he like? And what could be done to make him happy?” In those questions there was money to be made. Or lost. The smart ones had already jockeyed into position, placing their bets on the biggest gamble in a generation.
They were all going to lose.
You’ll notice I didn’t begin this story with “Once upon a time.”
I know how odd it seems, bringing that up three chapters in, but there’s an important lesson here. “Once upon a time” is a forecast for a bad story. It’s the storyteller’s way of announcing that he never learned how to write an opening, that he finds you unintelligent, and that he can’t be bothered to think of anything original.
Anyway, once upon a time there lived a king. But not like the kings you find in other stories. For one thing, he had never ruled a country. He wasn’t fond of countries, which explains why he’d outlawed them.
His Glorious Exaltedness, Herac the Second, lived a life most kings can only dream of. The name of his kingdom was “Everything,” and its people were known as “Everyone.” And though his capital lay many days away from Skylar’s mountain home, word of the man’s failing health had already reached the ends of his Earth.
It’s hard to appreciate, so long after the fact, just how big a deal the man’s death would become. To put things into perspective, everything in this story happened a bajillion years before the first dinosaur had been invented. You have no more business crying over King Herac than you do for Tyrannosaurus Rex.
But back then, absolutely everyone grieved at the idea of losing him. Without exception. Except the ones happy and excited to learn he was dying. Because let’s face it: why would you want a sickly old king when you have a shiny new one waiting to take his place? All eyes turned now to the heir—Herac’s only son—as the future of the kingdom and the world.
Coins bearing the boy’s face had already been struck. Officials made plans to rename cities and landmarks in his honor. And everyone started to ask, “What kind of person is this prince? What sorts of things does he like? And what could be done to make him happy?” In those questions there was money to be made. Or lost. The smart ones had already jockeyed into position, placing their bets on the biggest gamble in a generation.
They were all going to lose.
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T. Alan Horne is a writer of science fiction, fantasy, and tales of high adventure. He specializes in taking familiar genres to new places and creating characters that readers get to keep forever as souvenirs to live in their imaginations.
His first book, Advent 9, garnered high praise, and was called “Absolutely Brilliant!” by bestselling author David Farland—the writing teacher and mentor of Brandon Sanderson, Brandon Mull, Stephenie Meyer, and James Dashner.
Mr. Horne spends most of his time writing but occasionally answers fan inquiries.
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