Excerpt--Prisoner of Death coming October 1

When Tamsen wakes up in an unfamiliar place with no idea of who she is, something warns her to be cautious. So she plays a game with the man who claims to be her husband, and pays attention to what is going on around her. The physician her husband calls to tend to her after her accident makes her uncomfortable with his strange allure and odd style of speech. Nothing around her seems as it should be.

While Tamsen tries to regain her lost memory, Brial Ka'breona is tearing across the continent in an enraged hunt for his lost wife and Queen. But now the gods are forbidden to walk the mortal realm, and not even the Virgin Huntress can help them. In order for Tamsen and Brial to come together again, terrible sacrifices must be made--by mortals and immortals both. When a strange new ally presents itself, Tamsen must determine if the sacrifice she must make is ultimately worth the cost.

But sometimes, it doesn't matter what the price is. When the continued existence of the mortal realms is at stake, there may not be a price too high to pay.

* * *

I AWAKENED slowly.

My eyelids fluttered open, and I squinted against the bright light that turned my sight red for a moment. Hands that did not look familiar at all came up to shade them from the glare. Even that small movement made my head swim with a sharp, piercing pain penetrating behind my left ear, but I forced myself to sit up and look around me. 

The room was completely white: the walls, floor, ceiling, and furniture were all pristine, sharply white. The one window that let long cruel rays of light fall upon the snowy bed upon which I lay was shrouded in white, filmy fabric, flowing in a scarcely-felt breeze. 

What is all this? 

I lifted my hands once more, staring at the long, slender fingers and slim wrists in amazement, noting the extreme pallor of the skin stretched over the delicate bones. Are these my hands? Those hands went to my face, and the fingers felt oddly rough against my cheek, the fingers and thumb callused. 

Cautiously, I set my hands on either side of my body in the bed, scooting myself to the edge and swinging my feet to the floor. Then, I stopped again, fascinated and confused by the sight of my legs clad in long fitted leather trousers tucked into scarred high-topped leather boots. I looked down at my body. 

The leather tunic was fitted to me over a tan-colored shirt that stretched over the bones of my wrists. An intricate sash of leather belted both garments around a slender waist. No frills or furbelows about these clothes, and their tight fit didn’t disguise the feminine shape beneath them. 

I got to my feet, swaying as I rose to my full height. A sudden motion caught my eye as a very long silver-white plait swung against the top of my right thigh. Amazed, I lifted it in my hands, noting the fine silky texture of it. 

Is this my hair? 

I tugged on it and was rewarded with another vicious twinge of pain behind my left ear. I examined my head with cautious fingers and located a tender swelling on my temple. I moved as if I’d been asleep for a long time and stiffly made my way to the ewer standing on a white washstand nearby. I splashed water onto my face, hoping it would jar some memory loose. 

Everything about me was strangely familiar, yet I didn’t recognize anything. The clothes and hair were obviously mine, but why didn’t I… 

The water in the bowl stilled into a flat reflective sheet. I stared in absolute confusion at the reflection. The young woman with the puzzled frown, was that me? My mouth opened slightly, as did hers, and I realized I had no idea who I was. 

Faces, images flew past my inner eye, yet I found myself unable to grasp them. Too many discrepancies. I grasped the edges of the washstand with blanching fingers. 

Hands pale and slender, but callused. A young woman’s face, but the hair of an elder. Everything seemed like it should have been familiar, but wasn’t. I half-fell half-staggered back to the snowy bed and collapsed against the deep softness of the blankets and pillows. 

Who am I? 

I closed my eyes. Hopefully, when I woke up, I could put all of these pieces together. Hopefully, I would know who I was. 

* * *  

“TIME FER ye to be wakin’ up, milady.” 

My eyes flew open. A corpulent woman with a broad face peered down at me. 

“Are ye feelin’ all right, milady?” 

`“I—I’m not sure,” I stammered, sitting up. A wave  of nausea and dizziness overwhelmed me. Instantly, my companion’s strong, beefy arms came around me, lowering me back to the pillows. 

“Well, now, ye don’t want to be doin’ that, milady,” she chided me good-naturedly. “’Tis quite a knock on the head ye took, and that’s a fact. Jest lay there, and I’ll mix ye sommat to make ye feel better, all right?” 

“Who are you?” 

She placed a cool, damp cloth across my brow. “Ye don’t remember me?” 

“I don’t remember me,” I replied with a hint of dryness in my voice. 

“Gods above—the master said ye’d taken a hard knock, but I never thought it was that bad. I’m Graisen, yer maid, an’ ye’re the Lady Solange de Spesialle.” 

“Spesialle?” I asked blankly, disliking the name for some reason. “What is that?” 

The woman clucked her tongue. “It’s yer husband’s dukedom, milady. Yer the Duchess of Spesialle and married to Lord Gabril these past ten years or more. Don’t ye remember him?” 

A fleeting image of long golden hair and flashing black eyes raced across my mind and then vanished into the clouds that fogged my mind. 

“Is he blond?” I asked, trying to regain the sight. 

“Aye,” she replied, with a note of relief. “Lord Gabril’s as blond as they come, milady. Ye’re a right striking couple, ’im with ’is blond hair and handsome face, and ye, milady, as perty as a picture with yer silver hair and eyes and sech a tiny little figger. The Duke’s been right worried about ye, milady, and ’e won’t like it atall that yer memory’s been taken. Shall I tell ’im to come in and see ye?” 

I hesitated. Obviously, this woman knew me, which meant I was probably this Solange person, but I felt that it wasn’t quite right, somehow. Another name was just beyond the borders of my consciousness, hanging tantalizingly out of reach. Finally, I nodded, and the big woman bustled across the room to the door. 

“Ye kin come in, milord,” Griasen said. 

I lifted the cloth from my brow as a man entered the room. He was tall and fair, but his eyes were a piercing light blue instead of black. He came immediately to my bedside and took my hand in his. 

“How do you feel, my dear?” he asked. 

“You aren’t the face I remember,” I murmured, screwing up my eyes in an effort to recognize him. “I don’t remember you at all.” 

“It’s all right, Solange.” He brought my hand to his lips. “That was quite a fall you took. The physicians warned me that this might affect your memory but assured me your memory would return in time. Griasen and I are going to take good care of you, my sweet, until you’re all better.” 

 “How did I fall?” 

“Your horse threw you,” Gabril replied, a worried frown creasing his brow. “You hit your head on the garden wall.” 

“It hurts.” I withdrew my hand and closed my eyes. I didn’t remember this man, and I wanted to be left alone with my troubled blank thoughts. 

“Of course. I’ll come back later, my love, when you’re feeling better.” 

He rose with seeming reluctance and went to leave. Once at the door, he murmured in a low voice, “Clean her up, get her into something more comfortable, and then let her sleep. It’s the best thing for her.” 

Did I imagine the smug satisfaction in his voice? If Griasen was right, this man was my husband. Why would he be satisfied with an injury to his wife? Before I could think about it, Griasen was back at my bedside. 

“Come now, milady,” she coaxed me. “I’ve rung fer a bath, and I’ll wager that once ye’re washed up and in clean clothes ye’ll feel worlds better!” 

“Griasen.” I opened my eyes to look at her. “I do not remember the Duke as my husband.” 

“Don’t worry, milady,” she said, her eyes glistening. “Ye will…in time.”

Big Day for The Reckoning of Asphodel

Today has been a banner day--and there's not even a football game on. The first novel in The Asphodel Cycle--The Reckoning of Asphodel--is back on the bestseller list in its genre, which is always a good thing. 

But to make matters better, Reckoning is now available in paperback! Each month, as I release new digital books in The Black Dream on the 1st, I'll also roll out a paperback of an Asphodel Cycle novel. 

You can grab your paperback of The Reckoning of Asphodel here. 

Self-publishing and doing it the right way is not only difficult, but expensive. I approached this experience the same way  I approached the hundreds of books we published at Musa. Each book is professionally edited, copyread, formatted, and designed. Each book cover is original art, designed by a professional cover artist. Each book is produced in multiple formats. These aren't just word files slapped into a pdf. There's more to creating a good book than that technically. 

As soon as the craziness slows down around here, I'll blog about the entire process--most likely in tedious detail. But for today? 

Hurray! 

First Excerpt-- The Black Dream Book One: Servant of Dis

After the Ilian War, Tamsen Ka’antira settled into ruling the Elven Realm with her husband, Brial at her side. But when a diplomatic crisis occurs between Ansienne and Hippolytos, Tamsen and Brial are lured out of Leselle into the treacherous currents of human politics.

Tamsen realizes these escalating events are driven by something inimical—something determined to bring the Elven Queen from behind the magical barrier that protects her realm. Whispers of new sorcerers and upheaval among the gods soon coalesce into a single frightening truth. The peace the gods had granted to Tamsen is over, and the rising threat will turn erstwhile enemies into allies.

Only the greatest danger could persuade the Elven Queen to serve the god that once threatened the existence of her entire race. If Tamsen becomes the servant of Dis, the peril overshadows not just the mortal realm, but the realms of the gods.

  

“Your Majesty?”

I looked up from the pile of parchment that had been baffling me for hours. Bryse hovered in the doorway.

“Yes? What is it?”

“The scouts have sent word that a visitor is approaching Leselle,” she said.

“Who is it?”

“They didn’t say. They said that whoever it is, he is human and riding his horse hard for the city.”

“That can’t be good.” I sighed. “Are the children in bed?”

“Barely,” she replied, her eyes twinkling.

I grimaced. Although the twins were reasonably obedient for eight-year-old boys, Tamarisk was a handful.

“I’d best go down and see who it is.” I stood from my mother’s writing desk and reaching for my cloak.

“Of course.” Bryse curtseyed.

I pulled the hood over my head as I descended the stairs from my little study to the warm central room of our house. As I donned my gloves, I passed the nursery where our children slept, the telltale sounds of regular breathing reassured me that they were truly asleep. I laid a hand on the guardians who warded our home. Instantly, they slid aside, rearranging the disguising trunk of the colossal tree, and I ducked outside into the swirling whiteness of the storm.

The streets of Leselle were silent and empty, due not only to the lateness of the hour but also to the bitter wind that accompanied this early winter storm. I kept my head low as I negotiated the broad snow-covered branches that served as streets in this ancient city. Only in the Elven forest could trees grow to such a size as to support an entire city.

Leselle was built within the protective limbs of six towering oaks, trees so ancient their origins were lost in the dim beginnings of myth. Once, this lovely city had been leveled—razed by Elven mages to prevent its despoiling by my so-not-mourned uncle, the Duke de Spesialle. At my crowning, the Virgin Huntress had resurrected Leselle to stand as the jewel of the Elven Realm once more.

The only bad thing about it was trying to descend icy tree branches at night.

I slid the final few feet to the city gates where Malvern, one of our most experienced scouts, saluted. Behind him, a shadowed form stood next to a steaming horse whose head was lowered.

“What is it?” A tingle of premonition suddenly raced across my mouth.

The cloaked man lifted his head. I looked into the tired face of Mylan de Phoclydies. Although we were nearly the same age, his face had aged. He wasn’t much older than thirty-five, but deep creases lined his stern face, creases, I knew, that were placed there by the death of Anner de Ceolliune on the Ilian flood plain over a decade earlier.

“Mylan!” I rushed forward to embrace my old friend. I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him hard. He was smiling when I pulled back, but shadows lingered behind his eyes.

“We’ll go up to the house,” I said quietly. “Malvern, find Prince Ka’breona and my uncle. I think they’re down here somewhere. Send them up immediately.”

“At once, your Majesty.”

I linked my arm through Mylan’s, and we began the climb through the thoroughfares of Leselle. “It’s good to see you, old friend,” I said.

The young scouts behind us led Mylan’s exhausted horse to the stables Brial had built on the lower outskirts of the city.

“What in the world possessed you to come to Leselle in this weather, and nearly riding a horse to death in the process?”

“We’ll wait,” he said.

His voice was much deeper and more resonant than I remembered. I hadn’t seen Mylan for three years, not since the funeral of Hyagrem de Silenos in Geochon.

We hurried through the snowy streets, and I opened the guardians to escort my guest into the warmth of our home.

We preferred to live simply in Leselle. Nothing really indicated that this home was the residence of the royal family, save perhaps the shelves full of books that few Elves would own. I removed Mylan’s heavy fur cloak and pushed him onto a couch before the heaped Elfstones glowing on the hearth. I added cinnamon and nutmeg to a tankard of wine and heated it with a thought. One of our servitors appeared with a tray of cheese, bread, and fruit as I handed the hot drink to him. I dismissed her for the evening and served the Earl myself.

His green eyes were dulled with fatigue as he thanked me. I sat on the couch opposite after pouring myself a glass of wine. The guardians slid aside, and Brial strode into the room. A wide grin split his face as he walked toward his friend, arms outstretched. Mylan rose and the two men embraced, Brial almost dwarfed by the greater bulk of the human knight. Behind them, Wilden Ka’antira, my uncle and the last male of the Ka’antira line, smiled. When Brial pulled away with a hearty slap on Mylan’s back, Wilden stepped in and clapped Mylan’s shoulder.

Brial came to my side, and his smile faded as he looked into my face. “What is it, cariad?”

“I’m waiting for Mylan to tell us.” I turned my attention back to the man who had fallen back into the cushions of the couch.

“I came to fetch you two,” Mylan said gruffly. “You are needed in Geochon.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“There’s trouble over the Spesialle succession.”

“Why didn’t Mariol come to tell us, then?” I asked, puzzled.

“Mariol sent me to you. Dantel de Tizand is doing everything he possibly can, but—” Mylan spread his hands. “There are complications. If Dantel knew I was here, he’d probably throw me into a dungeon. The Council is divided.” Mylan’s voice hoarsened. “I have come, not for the Elven Queen, but for the Countess of Asphodel. Dantel needs friends, and you are probably the only two that can help.”

“Naturally, we’ll come,” I said. “But what could be the problem with the Spesialle succession? Rontil has held the duchy for over ten years.”

“Rontil has finally chosen a wife.” Mylan spoke carefully, as he always had when he was concerned about my reaction.

Of all the dear friends I’d made while on the Huntress’s game, he was the one whose good humor and high spirits had remained intact. Whatever he’d come to tell me, he was worried about how I’d take it.

“Well, that’s good isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “The wife he’s chosen is Alcmene, the sister of Queen Antiope.”

I sat back in my seat, thinking quickly. Thirteen years ago, Alcmene and her sister, Admete, had been sweet-faced little girls. They would be fully-grown warriors now who stood in line to the Hippolyte crown behind their older sister, Antiope. Antiope was still without an heir; the only child she’d borne was the posthumous son of Anner de Ceolliune who could not inherit the throne of a fabled race of female warriors. The political ramifications were obvious—and threatening to those who didn’t understand the terms of the Geochon accords as well as I did.

Brial let out a long whistle. “That’s an awfully big army for an Ansienne Prince to lay claim to. At least, that’s what the courtiers probably think, isn’t it?”

“You’ve got it,” Mylan said. “It doesn’t matter how many times we tell them that men are just a convenience to Hippolytes, the stupid Council doesn’t listen. All they can think of is Rontil sitting in Spesialle and his wife’s sister controlling the legendary legions of Hippolytos and what a huge military power that alliance forges.”

“How did they meet?” I asked.

“They met when Antiope paid a visit to her son,” Mylan wrapped his big hands around the tankard, as if he was trying to warm himself. “She and Mariol agreed to meet in Spesialle, so Mariol took Anteros down to Rontil’s palace. Antiope brought her sisters along and, well, you know Rontil. One thing led to another, and the two became betrothed.”

“How did Antiope take it?” Brial asked.

“She seemed to be all for it at first, but when word of the Council’s uproar reached her, I guess she forbade the whole thing. As a result, the girl took off and now is lodged firmly in Geochon while the whole thing plays out.”

That premonition was back again. I rubbed the back of my newly tense neck. “Where?”

I was afraid I already knew the answer.

“Alcmene is staying with your cousin,” Mylan said blandly. “For some reason, Cetenne thinks this whole thing is funny.”

So without my knowledge, Cetenne has involved the Elven Realm. No wonder Mylan is being so cautious.

I rolled my eyes to the heavens and let out a long-drawn sigh. “By the gods! Why didn’t Mariol come to tell us sooner? We could have headed this whole thing off weeks ago.”

Mylan’s expression darkened. “Mariol couldn’t come, Tamsen. He’s dying.”

Asphodel Meets Modern Fantasy

As I get ready to release the last Asphodel reissue, I'm starting to get excited about the publication of the sequel series. It will be interesting to see how fans of the first series respond to the second. 

Writers mature just like any other professional. As you progress, your writing changes. The Asphodel Cycle was my first fantasy series. The Black Dream is my latest. It was strange, to say the least, to revisit a world I first created as a teenager and wrote in the early 2000s. My voice is stronger, I think, and over a decade as a professional editor has made the writing tighter and cleaner. 

But just as the author matured, so too have my characters. I thought it best to keep the spread of time roughly equal to my own. So my protagonist, who was 18-20 in the first series, is 32-35 in the second, a mother of three, a ruler who's not had to deal with much turmoil since the end of the Ilian War. Fortunately, she's also an Elf so that decade hasn't really aged her all that much. 

Unfortunately for Tamsen, this second series will be punishing. 

I'm older and wiser in the ways of fantasy, and fantasy itself has changed. I literally used to get hate mail when readers thought I was being "mean" to their favorite characters.  Which, to a writer, is a great compliment. But the fact of the matter is that in old school fantasy, a group of heroes could get through an epic quest and emerge relatively unscathed. look at the Belgariad by David Eddings, for example. Only one major character was killed, and he was only dead for less than an hour. Otherwise, there were no consequences for any of those main characters except happily ever afters. 

Don't get me wrong--I love Eddings. Eddings was the first fantasy author I read back in high school, and in fact the world of Asphodel was created as a result. Not because I wanted to emulate Eddings, but because I wanted to see a female protagonist leading a fantasy quest. 

But now, revisiting Asphodel after more than a decade, I knew things would be very different. 

For one thing, Asphodel is Greco-Roman mythology re-imagined in a traditional fantasy setting. Anyone who knows anything about classical mythology knows that there are terrible consequences for mortals who oppose the gods. Tamsen has been living for a decade and a half as the most powerful mortal in the world. The only way to make a second series work is to make that no longer the case. And if her power is challenged on that level, there must be consequences indeed, not just for her but everyone. 

So for those of you asking if characters die in The Black Dream? Don't ask silly questions. Lots of people die. Lots of people are grievously injured. Lots of people suffer. 

In The Asphodel Cycle, the Huntress posed a single question: What gift can buy the redemption of the Elves? The answer hasn't changed. The answer is still everything.  And prepare yourselves--these characters will be asked to give everything they are, everything they cherish, everything they protect for a greater cause. They have to, or else there's no story. 

And, well--there's a reason this blog is called Elf-Killing and Other Hobbies. 

The Black Dream is darker, grittier, bloodier--more like the Greco-Roman world of its foundation than the fantasy idealism of its setting. The stakes are higher. The characters more dangerous...and in more danger. 

Yes, there will be consequences. Many of them. 

As a devotee of Joseph Campbell's Hero Journey monomyth, I firmly believe in the development of a hero through adversity and fear. But I think the monomyth is changing in current fantasy, and The Black Dream takes the hero's journey and goes several steps past it. 

So prepare yourselves, Asphodel readers. When Tamsen enters the modern twists of fantasy, the journey itself becomes a consequence. 

You have been warned.