The second book in the series, Nubia: The Reckoning, which Epps wrote with Clarence A. Haynes, will be available on Tuesday, Sept. 26.
Excerpt from Nubia: The Reckoning, by Omar Epps and Clarence A. Haynes from Entertainment Weekly:
Prologue
He knew his powers were gone long before he opened his eyes. Beneath the castaway, the beach was coarse, his lacerated skin burning. Sand raked his fingertips, filled his mouth. He heard the easy lap of the water nearby. He supposed he should have felt relief that he had washed ashore, though he had no idea where he was. The man slowly opened his eyes, the air thick against his skin as he spat an errant braid from chapped lips, a gesture that required more energy than he had. He couldn't move his hands or limbs, couldn't lift his head, his body a wasted, corpselike thing almost devoid of life. How long had it been since he'd eaten, since he'd had fresh water, his days defined by the thrashing of the ocean?
He shifted his gaze, trying to discern the surrounding landscape. The sand on the horizon was a brilliant gold even with overcast skies. The castaway lifted his eyes slightly, barely making out the thick copse of palm trees dotting the horizon.
A hole opened in the castaway's chest, an agonizing chasm of regret and grief. As much as he wanted it to be, he knew this land wasn't Nubia. And even worse, he knew he'd lost the glorious, wondrous thing he'd cherished above all else.
He closed his eyes, his mind racing to the recent past, to the hurricane he'd chosen to create as an exercise of power. Doing so was his divine right as both sovereign and catalyst, a ritual that would have strengthened his connection to the kinetic. Never had he dreamed that he'd lose control of the storm, that the thunder and winds and rain would become a rampaging terror, destroying everything in its path. His people barely had time to get to the boats as they shrieked and moaned and wailed, sounds that hadn't desecrated his land in eons.
The ache in his heart burst forth again as he thought of the other elemental Nubians who'd rushed to his side to try to stem the storm so others could flee. How many people had escaped? Had his wife made it to safety? His brother?
"You have to leave with us, you numbskull," his brother had begged, running up to him during the storm. "You must come now, or you'll drown."
In response, the man had tried to make light of the situation, letting forth a small smile, trying to convey that this absurd situation would soon be resolved, that Nubians would never be run off their land by a storm. Anything to get his stubborn sibling onto the boats to watch over their family.
He remembered seeing the last of the vessels leave the shore of his island home amid the wind and rain. He whispered a quick prayer for his pregnant wife as the small league disappeared on undulating waves. The rain grew thicker and he could barely see the hands he held in front of his body, trying to focus his gifts. He finally grasped that all was lost when the gigantic wave reached the shores of the only home he'd known and battered his head and arms and torso and filled his lungs and swept him away, drowning out the screams of the other elementals who'd stood by him.
He didn't know how long he'd lost consciousness for, how his body had managed to rise to the ocean's surface from the depths. But when he awoke, he was shocked to find that life still throbbed within his veins. He was even more shocked to find that he was surrounded by floating debris. A Nubian boat, he was sure, destroyed by the hurricane. No survivors to be found.
And so he'd clung to a large piece of driftwood as day turned to night, shame eating away at him as he cried, a being once heralded for his power reduced to such vulgar circumstances. His head pounded. He could barely stay awake, much less call forth his gift. And then, after two full days had passed and the storm had subsided to reveal a bright blue sky, it had happened. The man had felt the break in his heart that cracked and splintered through his entire being. The splitting of his body, his mind . . . everything. The exquisite power that had lived and breathed within, sliced and gutted from him for no reason he could discern. The pain of losing his connection to the kinetic had been unlike anything he had ever known, even though the castaway was a hardy man, having withstood regular beatings over the years from Thato during their blasted fighting-forms sessions.
My gift has vanished, the man thought.
No . . .
He'd clung to the driftwood in disbelief, trying to settle his mind and heart, thinking the watery abyss might offer him true peace. But still he'd held on, even as the storm returned more ferocious than ever, so unrelenting that he eventually succumbed to sleep even while being battered by waves and rain.
The weight of these memories seized the man as he lay on the beach, pulling him in so many directions that, at any moment, he thought he might shatter, might disappear. He was spent. He had no voice to cry for help, no strength to rise. If night fell, he would be easy prey for any manner of beast. This isit,then,he realized as the last bit of energy left his frame, as his powerless body succumbed to whatever the fates decreed. He felt the darkness closing in like a heavy blanket, the kind his wife would drape over him when they lay down.
"Sleep, dear heart," she would tell him. "Sleep, and when you wake, you'll find me in your arms."
But that tenderness was gone. That life, his beloved . . . all gone. The tears came again. Nubia, their paradise, their oasis, swept away, all because he hadn't been good enough.
The drums of failure beat a sharp, staccato dirge in Siran's mind. And as he closed his eyes to welcome death, a bead of rain fell upon his cheek.
Source: EW.com