A Choir of Lies

by Alexandra Rowland Narrated by Xanthe Elbrick, John Keating

Overview

A young storyteller must embrace his own skills-and the power of stories-to save a nation from economic ruin, in the standalone sequel to A Conspiracy of Truths. Three years ago, Ylfing watched his master-Chant tear a nation apart with nothing but the words on his tongue. Now Ylfing is all alone in a new realm, brokenhearted and grieving-but a Chant in his own right, employed as a translator to a wealthy merchant of luxury goods, Sterre de Waeyer. But Ylfing has been struggling to come to terms with what his master did, with the audiences he's been alienated from, and with the stories he can no longer trust himself to tell. That is, until Ylfing's employer finds out what he is, what he does, and what he knows. At Sterre's command, Ylfing begins telling stories once more, fanning the city into a mania for a few shipments of an exotic flower. The prices skyrocket, but when disaster looms, Ylfing must face what he has done and decide who he wants to be: a man who walks away and lets the city shatter, as his master did? Or will he embrace the power of story to save ten thousand lives? With a memorable cast of characters, starring a fan-favorite from A Conspiracy of Truths, and a timely message, Choir of Lies reminds us that the words we wield can bring destruction-or salvation.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

★ 06/03/2019

Rowland unleashes formidable skills in this worthy follow-up to 2018’s A Conspiracy of Truths. Heartbroken and disillusioned by his master’s treachery and lies, young storyteller Ylfing wanders the world trying to find peace. Settling in the prosperous market town of Heyrland, Ylfing finds work as a translator for Sterre de Waeyer, one of the richest merchants in the region. When Sterre discovers her newest employee’s talent with crafting narratives, she asks him to help sell a strange flower known as the stars-in-the-marsh. Their efforts spark a buying frenzy that quickly grows out of control. Through his work, Ylfing discovers true love and rediscovers his chanting talents, just in time to use his stories to save the city he’s nearly destroyed. Rowland’s characters are consistently surprising and supremely empathetic, and the footnotes, worldbuilding details, and tales sprinkled throughout create a full and complex reality for readers to wander at will. This is a wise, moving, and captivating adventure. (Sept.)

From the Publisher

If A Conspiracy of Truths was a story about stories, then A Choir of Lies, its stunning sequel, is a love letter to storytellers. Rowland uses unreliable narrators to break our hearts and mend them. Readers and writers alike will come away feeling like they've been entrusted with the best kind of secret.”—A.J. Hackwith, author of The Library of the Unwritten

“In a voice that is equal parts clever, charming, funny and poignant, Rowland will have you spellbound from page one with this unique and fascinating tale.”—Sam Hawke, author of City of Lies

"Alexandra Rowland's story about the power of stories and the obligations of those who tell them is extraordinary. They have woven something truly magical out of this tale of human experience, greed, redemption, and most of all, the power of being good."—Jen Lyons, author of The Ruin of Kings

“A Choir of Lies is insightful, beautiful, and hysterically funny, showing the power of stories for good or ill.”—Stephen Blackmoore, author of Fire Season

"In A Choir of Lies, Rowland combines a uniquely crafted narrative, a vibrant, tactile world, and a nuanced exploration of storytelling into a novel that simply sings."—Rowenna Miller, author of Torn

“Hopeful and wise, A Choir of Lies examines how badly a story can go awry—and also how much it can repair. I loved it.”—World Fantasy Award-winning author Cat Rambo

Product Details

BN ID:	2940173037077
Publisher:	Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:	09/16/2019
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

A Choir of Lies


All right . . . I suppose things like this usually start with an apology of some sort.

My former master-Chant thought we shouldn’t write down the things we know. I don’t know if he was right. I don’t know if I agree. Rather, I don’t agree entirely, but I don’t disagree entirely either. I’m still exploring all my options. But one option must be to write a little down, because here I am, writing, even though I’m not really supposed to. The argument he gave was that mere ink and paper can be lost or destroyed or taken from you.

These won’t get taken from me. These are mine, and I’ll burn them up once I’m done with them. And anyway, if he cared so much about what I do, he shouldn’t have—

I won’t write it. I can’t. (“Can’t” here meaning both “I don’t want to. I refuse to. I won’t face it” and “If I were to face it, there would still be no language in the world with strong enough words to make myself understood. Whatever I wrote would be a work in translation, and it’s just not linguistically possible.”)

There’s a kind of magic in writing down the things you know. It makes mere ink and paper into weapons. It makes them a mind, in a way: A paper copy of a mind with some of the mental abilities that its writer possessed—persuasion, or charm, or insidious destruction.

But paper can’t think and ink can’t adapt—they are an arrow shot into a foggy night by a blind man. At least this way, I know that there’s no one in front of me, no one to be struck and killed by a stray bolt carelessly shot, and no witnesses. And even though there’s no one to hear my words, no one to see what I’m doing, no one to care at all . . . Sometimes, I’m going to lie, even here, when I’m all alone: I’m a Chant now myself, after all, and Chants are liars.1

But first, something true.

1. You little shit. I’d argue with you, but you’ve already proven your own point, haven’t you? And not just a liar, but an oathbreaker (and in regards to that: Fuck you very much, thanks). Why am I even bothering with this? Why even waste the ink to call you a shit and an oathbreaker? You’ve already run off—at least you know how to abscond in the night like a proper Chant. It’s not like you’ll ever read anything I write here. It’s not like you’d particularly care about it even if I did catch you. But . . . Dammit, I’ll have the last word, even if you aren’t around to witness me getting it. The last word and the satisfaction of yelling at you the way I want to, and what does it matter that you won’t ever hear me? You never heard me before, so it’s really no different.

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