Let There Be Edits

 Proof in-hand, edits underway! 

Oliver laughed, and blinked the dark spots from the corners of his vision. He needed breakfast, he reasoned. A bracing cup of strong tea. “I wouldn’t–”

The clearing between the tents, the trampled snow, the drakes crunching up deer bones a distance away; their audience, and the shouts of the men calling orders, the lowing of the reindeer, and the hustle and bustle of a disassembling camp…gone. All of it.

Oliver stood on a floor of polished black marble, its surface gleaming beneath the glow of the cressets burning on the walls. Walls made of a glossy, rosy stone veined with white and green. He turned, and found that the room was a perfect circle, the torchlight reaching high overhead to flicker across the domed, glass panels of a see-through roof. The walls weren’t walls at all, but a series of arches, save where a man-high fireplace blazed along one five-foot stretch. Beyond the arches it was dark, and all was silent save the crackle and shift of the logs in the fire.

A round table sat just to his left, in the center of the solarium – that’s what it was. He’d not seen one in person, but had pored over architecture books in the library at Drakewell. Accordingly, the table was littered with star charts, and maps. Aquitainia, he saw.

By the fire was a chair, and in it sat Romanus Tyrsbane.

Friday Reads 4/28

The Currently Reading stack, as it stands, minus the TBR, and everything on my Kindle. 

I'm still working on my Tana French reread - I started, for some reason, with Broken Harbor, and am now partway through The Witch Elm. French has this magical ability to create the most vivid, human of characters, many of whom I actively dislike, but whose stories I love reading. I love, love Cassie, and Frank, and Mick, and Steve, and Antoinette from her Dublin Murder Squad series (note that I left out Rob; I wasn't a Rob fan, though his book is a stellar intro to the series) but the MC of The Witch Elm, Toby, definitely falls into the "you're awful, but love the book!" realm of French characters. I love the way she does something a little different with each novel; plays with the prose in a different way and clearly tries something new, but is such a stellar talent that she pulls it off each time. The dread she conjures in this book, that sense of sliding, all your perceptions skewed as Toby deals with the aftermath of his head injury, is such a subtle, creeping sensation, like fingers down the back of your neck. I'd forgotten how unsettling this book is, and it's just what I need to be reading as I tackle my new WIP.

I'm starting a reread of Dorothy Dunnett's Lymond Chronicles - all the great discussion of it online in the midst of the Centenary gathering have broken my resolve and now I must return to Francis's world. The first time around was more of a passive experience, soaking up the story for the first time. On the reread, I want to approach it in a more active way, so I imagine I'll be posting about The Game of Kings a good deal more than I did a few years ago during my initial read. 

Then I've got a Dorothy Dunnett society Twitter rec in The Forsyte Saga. I picked up a really affordable paperback copy of the complete trilogy, so that was a lucky break. I'm not in deep enough to have much to share yet, but I imagine the twisted family drama aspect will be excellent background reading for the family drama I'm writing now.

Finally, Dan Jones's first foray into historical fiction, Essex Dogs. I've really enjoyed his non-fiction about the Plantagenets, the Templars, and the Crusaders, so I'm hopeful for an enjoyable read here. 

On my Kindle, I'm still inching my way through Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time, and just finished my first ever read of Dune. I decided I wanted to read the book before I watched the movie; also, it's one of those modern sci-fi classics that's constantly used as a reference in discussions of newer sci-fi releases, and I wanted the frame of reference. I can now see just how much the novel, and its sequels, have affected the current landscape of the genre. I enjoyed it; I'm a sucker for a good people-at-war-with-their-empire story, and I'm now really looking forward to watching the film. I will say that this book was a perfect example of reading being a very personal endeavor: Is Dune a "good book?" Yes. Imaginative, inventive, ground-breaking, epic, all of those things. But as far as my personal, emotional engagement goes, I wasn't in love with the book. I hate seeing reviews in which this happens, and then a reader turns around and says the author was somehow at fault; blames a lack of love on a "lack of editing," or some such. That's not the case here, nor is it the case in most reviews for other books. A novel is a very specific sampling of an individual's imagination, and we don't always "click" perfectly with the inside of someone's mind. With his or her voice. I liked it, but don't envision rereading it. That bit of cool distance in the characterization - especially of Paul - reinforced my enjoyment of writing characters in a really hot-blooded, visceral way to facilitate a more intimate connection between hero and reader. 

As I write this, books three and four of Sanderson's Stormlight Archive are screaming, "Lauren, what about us?? When will you finally read us???" They're a bit muffled by the winter coats, though. Sorry, guys. Perhaps next reading stack. 

Another One in the Books

 Since I captured it for an Insta story, I know it was exactly 8:59 this morning when I typed "The End" on Fortunes of War. 🎉 It ended up being 163,000 words - pre-edits, of course - and 430 pages in paperback form. Speaking of paperbacks: since I have my new laptop, finally - 🎊🎊🎊 - I've already uploaded and ordered a physical proof copy so I can get started on editing ASAP. 

I'll have much more to say about it in the weeks to come, with teasers, visuals, and, once it's released, debrief posts. For now, I'll say this: the title for this installment refers to the unpredictable nature of war; the ways its participants are subject to its fate, the future uncertain. It's a character-driven book: as the armies move toward more direct run-ins with the enemy, some characters will face their demons, and others will spot demons lurking in the shadows they never suspected. It's important to remember that though there is a lot of relationship development happening here, nothing is settled; the story is still very much ongoing. So I will say: wait and see. This is a middle volume, in-the-thick-of-it book, with lots of good advancement, but no clear ending in sight, yet, for the readers or the characters. 

If you've not started the series yet, you can do so here, with book one, Heart of Winter, and then hold on tight! Fortunes of War releases soon! You can find the blurb below. 

War looms on the horizon for the kingdoms of Aeretoll and Aquitainia, a war they’ll fight together, as the allies begin to plan their cooperative marches through missives sent via falcon. But in Aeres, Náli arrives with news of the enemy: he’s met the emperor of Seles, Romanus Tyrsbane, beyond the veil in the Between, and the emperor, it seems, is searching for Oliver. With Náli’s help, the three Drakes must now learn how to go walking between worlds, guarding their minds and their magic from an enemy who can reach out and touch them from afar.

Restless in a way he’s never been before, confused by his anger and his new instincts, Leif takes his wolfpack and departs early, traveling quickly and in secret toward the Southern camp in Inglewood. At his side, urging him to let his wolf take charge, is Ragnar. Cousin, war prize, thrall, wearing Leif’s torq, and testing all of Leif’s patience. He knows it’s foolish to trust him, but Leif cleaves to him regardless, distrustful and resentful of everyone who cannot understand the man – the wolf – he’s become.

Leading a ragged army of Southerners and woodland outlaws, Amelia spends her days planning their next move, and her nights walking in a world of dreams, visited by a pair of wolves with blue eyes and an irresistible allure. A letter from Oliver forewarned of Leif’s arrival, but nothing could have prepared her for the way her first glimpse of the prince rattles her to the bone.

For Oliver, the long march South is full of sword lessons, saddle sores – and clandestine meetings in the Between with the emperor himself. He’s only spying, he reasons, and he can stop anytime he wishes…can’t he?

Fortunes of War is the fifth installment of the ongoing high fantasy Drake Chronicles series, which is intended for adult audiences. It is not a standalone, and the series must be read in order. Dragons, shapeshifters, family drama, and romance abound as our heroes march toward a terrifying enemy, at the mercy of the fortunes of war.  

#TeaserTuesday - 4/25

 

As today’s post about Nothing More proves, my main takeaway from a book is different after I’ve completed, versus while I’m writing it. But it’s a safe bet that Ragnar will continue to fascinate and delight me throughout the rest of this series. I’ve got to put a wildcard in every series, and Ragnar provides all the good, angsty Loki energy for the Drake Chronicles. 

From Fortunes of War

“Say what you like, but I don’t believe that being king is your great dream. That you were willing to kill us for that.”

He held still another moment, then his head turned a fraction, so Leif could see the suggestion of his profile; the edge of cheekbone and jaw, the bristle of his short beard, a rich golden brown in the candlelight. “I didn’t kill you, though, obviously.”

“You weren’t successful at it, no. But you were ready to allow us to be killed. By others.” A twitch at the side of his face. “Ormr handling Rune was your idea, wasn’t it?”

“Ormr was a fool I could stand to lose.”

“He wasn’t a wolf?”

“No.”

“And Rune was drunk and being an idiot,” Leif guessed. 

“Erik would think it was an accident. And if he thought Ormr did it intentionally–”

“Which he did.”

“Then I could say he was a bastard and let him face the chopping block.”

“A fine line of thinking, for a responsible clan chief,” Leif said, dryly, and Ragnar flinched. 

“You try it some time,” Ragnar spat. “You try leading that rabble across the Wastes and holding onto a single shred of control.” He turned far enough for Leif to see one flashing, furious blue eye. 

He held up a hand, asking for peace. “All right. Ormr failed with Rune. So you rode with us to the Festival.”

Ragnar heaved another deep exhale, and turned his head, so Leif could see nothing save the tangled spill of his hair over his shoulders. “The bloody drake was supposed to finish you off, plus a few lords for good measure.”

Every time he looked at Percy, or Alpha, or any of them, he was transported back to that night outside Redcliff, across a plain of moon-silvered snow, fighting Úlfheðnar dressed as Beserkirs, men screaming and dying…and then the roar, the shriek, the hurricane of wind snapping off white leather wings, as Percy touched down in their midst.

And Oliver came riding out from the fortress, yelling for them all to wait. The night Oliver had thrown himself between a wild, fantastical beast and Erik, and broken the shamans’ hold over Percy, and spared them all a violent, gory demise. 

“But that didn’t work,” Leif said. “Thanks to Oliver.”

“God. That bugger,” Ragnar scoffed. “Who’d have dreamed he could communicate with the beast? That he couldride the bloody thing?”

“He’s a Drake.”

“But that’s just legend!” 

“So are skinwalkers, but here we both are.”

Ragnar subsided…but didn’t speak further. 

Leif prompted him. “When we made it to Dreki Hörgr in one piece, you decided to get us up into the mountains.”

Ragnar gave a long-suffering sigh. “Little Lord Death was with you, and I thought, ‘Why not take the chance to get rid of him as well?’ More the fool me. If not for him, the Fangs would have surely finished you off.”

“Percy helped.” 

Ragnar turned, a whole twist of his upper body, this time, frowning. 

“Oliver’s drake,” Leif explained. 

The frown deepened, accompanied by a curl of his upper lip. “He named it Percy?”

“We’ve all judged him harshly for it, rest assured.”

Four Week Check-In: Nothing More

 

He wanted to walk up behind her; rest his hands on her waist, and slide them lower. Lean in until he felt the silk of her hair on his face, and could smell the Chanel she’d dabbed on her neck that morning. Press in close, until she could feel him all down the length of her back; until she shuddered, and let out a little unbidden sound, and leaned back into him, encouraging. It was easy to imagine all that would follow, the ways it was already familiar, but would be new, still, because everything with them was still new. 

But he wanted to approach her from the side, too. Tuck back the strand of hair that was already trying to slip past her ear again. Stroke her cheek, and offer her a soft expression, when she turned her head to look at him. He didn’t know how to do soft, really, but he thought he could look like a welcome place, if he tried. Like someone it was safe for her to be around, to show her uncertainty and fatigue to. 

He'd never been “safe” for any woman before. For anyone, really. 

The thought that he could be – that he wanted to be – held him rooted in the threshold, indecisive. In the end, he decided to simply walk forward, and let proximity determine his course of action when he was close enough to touch her.

Nothing More is four weeks old today! I say that like I’m remarking on the growth of a baby, and really, a book is a kind of baby. Brought into the world with mental pain, rather than physical, granted - unless you count eye strain and keyboard spine. But she’s four weeks! And time is flying! *wipes nervous sweat from my brow*

In the past four weeks, I’ve set a blistering pace working on the next Drake book, and story mapping for the next Dartmoor adventure. As always, each book in the series provides opportunity and inspiration for the next story, and the next. It’s the beauty and curse of creating a “world” with writing, and I hope to blog about that tomorrow for Workshop Wednesday. But for now, I’m reflecting back on Raven and Toly.

Usually, once I’ve finished a book, published it, put it to bed, so to speak, and left it for a few weeks, it looks different when I examine it again after a break. This is the case with NM. In the lead-up to release, most of my posts were about Raven. Her journey was what jumped out at me the most. But now, I’m struck by how terribly lonely Toly was before her. Lonely, and so emotionally underdeveloped that he didn’t even recognize that he was lonely. Ouch. Poor man. And it’s not the first time I’ve explored the inner workings of a Dog who feel like an outsider among his brothers. I love playing with that theme: yes, they’re all part of a counterculture, and share some key values, but they’re individuals first and foremost, and therein lies wonderful tension. It makes sense Toly would wind up with a woman who’s part of a big family - no matter how odd or dysfunctional. An unacknowledged craving for the security and love-you-no-matter-what aspects of family life he’s never had.

You can grab Nothing More on Amazon if you haven’t already, and also check out my full debrief post from a couple weeks ago. 

King Hereafter: Additional Thoughts

 It’s been a week and I find that I’m still, despite reading other books, reflecting back on Dorothy Dunnett’s King Hereafter. I’d love to write a post focused on the women of Dunnett’s novels, but I’ll save that for another day, when I’ve had more coffee (and hopefully once I’m no longer blogging from my phone). This post is dedicated to all the ways the book continues to inspire me a week after turning the last page. Mostly, I’m thinking of all the things Dunnett doesn’t say, and how they impact characterization.

Speaking of the women, Groa specifically in this case, Dunnett’s gift for understatement shines most especially in her depiction of Lady Macbeth. 

For me, the beauty of Dunnett’s work lies not in the story itself - though her stories are rich, and sprawling, and encompass every aspect of her characters’ lives - but in her prose. The blend of absurdity, tragedy, and triumph would be clumsy and disjointed in lesser hands. I think the secret of her success - her memorable impact on the reader - lies in the careful dovetailing of the lyrical and the understated. The tiny diction choices that paint a scene to best effect. 

For instance: she sets scenes before the reader in richly-layered oils. The glow and flicker of sunlight on water; the bustle of a crowded wharf; the sumptuous receiving rooms of a palace. And the close, dark moments when devastating news is delivered; I will never look at a candle flame again without thinking of Lymond’s “coin-bright head” bowed in silent reception of said devastating news. And therein lie the moments of magic: we watch the physical restraint of emotion, and either know or can guess how the character is feeling. Sometimes it’s an incorrect guess - an intentional misdirect in which the reader is as frustrated as the character’s friends - and the truth is revealed in due time. 

With Groa, we see her fear and anguish as a very young widow as coldness, indifference. No doubt she hates Thorfinn, though there was certainly no love for her first, dead husband. She is a war prize and a tool used for ruling, and she knows this, and holds herself with poise, but of a cutting sort. That tension between them in the early days is all bristling undercurrents, a silent reader’s fear that disaster lies ahead. 

We meet Groa as a widow, and that’s how we leave her. Dunnett doesn’t wax poetic over her sorrow: 

“Of course,” she says, but we know her pain because we’ve watched her love for Thorfinn take root, and unfurl, and thrive over the course of the novel. Understatement, again; emotion rendered more poignant because we admire Groa’s steel backbone, and can only marvel at her reaction, as we imagine ourselves falling apart upon hearing such news. 

For me, the success of a novel - and by that I mean “its resonance with me as a reader” - is fumbled or fostered line by line, in the unglamorous turning of each sentence. The drama of Dunnett’s prose - the ebb and surge of action and stillness, the dynamic shifts in imagery, and the restraint to allow characters their inner privacy in key moments, is what sets her work apart. You can have the most dynamic and intriguing concept in history, and flub it on the page. Dunnett’s work is always suggested as instructional for writers and would-be writers, and the prose itself is, to my mind, the aspect most worth studying. 

Talking about it now makes me want to embark on a Lymond reread. I have other books to read, books I’ve never read; should I spend that time retreading old ground? But with books like hers, the reread is where most of the learning occurs...so can I really afford not to do it? 

A Look Back: Heart of Winter

 

Oliver glanced down at the red leather cover, with its gold embossing. His stomach twisted, and it had nothing to do with his present company. “Nice bit of fiction, this,” he said, hearing the sharp edge in his voice. “You had it filed in the wrong place. I’ll put it back with the children’s stories, shall I?”

When he glanced up, Erik had his head cocked at a curious angle. “Fiction?”

“Well, there aren’t dragons in Drakewell, are there?”

“Not anymore.”

“What do you mean anymore?” he snapped. It was happening again: he was being stroppy with the king. He’d left his self-control back home in Drakewell, apparently. 

Erik didn’t react to his tone, though. His gaze narrowed, and he kept staring at him – staring right through him, a penetrating gaze that wasn’t…altogether unpleasant. “Do you really think the Drakes of Drakewell are named for ducks?”

“It’s on our banner,” Oliver said, stupidly, more than a little helpless. He felt as if the flags were tilting beneath his feet. 

One corner of Erik’s mouth flicked upward. He held out a hand. “Let me see the book.”

Oliver handed it over readily, telling himself it was only his imagination that the cover burned his fingers.

Erik paged through it a moment, nodding to himself. When he reached one of the more spectacular illustrations, one of an armored warrior astride a harnessed dragon, he lifted his head and said, “Right, so, the Drakes were dragon riders, originally.”

“No, they weren’t.”

“Yes,” Erik said, patiently. He tapped the page. “The Drakes were the only ones brave enough to settle Drakewell – it was crawling with fire-drakes. They learned to live with them – they tamed them. Rode them into battle. Most were lost in the First Great War with the Sels. The others, for whatever reason, failed to reproduce. There’s legends that a few slunk down into deep, hidden caves, and live still, waiting to be awakened by Drake descendants – but you’re from Drakewell. Surely you’ve read about this before?”

Oliver’s throat was so dry it was hard to swallow. “You’re pulling my chain,” he gritted out. “This is a joke.”

Erik spread his hands. “It’s not.” When Oliver continued to glare at him, he said, “Do you think I’m the sort who’d use children’s books if I wanted to make a fool of someone?”

He had a point. “No, I suppose you’d bludgeon them to death with a blunt sword and have done with it.”

That earned a tweak of the smile, before Erik grew serious again. “Sit down, Mr. Meacham.”

Oliver dropped down onto the bench across from him, and he was not sulky about it.

As Fortunes of War draws nearer to completion, I thought it would be fun to revisit the series from the beginning. FOW is the largest and longest of the books so far, and deals with some complex interpersonal dilemmas, mostly thanks to Leif. We learn yet more about the magic of this world, and the frightening Emperor Undying who was terrorizing Nali at the end of DOTD. It’s a big book, wrestling with big developments, but the series began much, much smaller.

By comparison, Heart of Winter is a very sweet story. I had such fun writing it, and I loved having the chance to introduce the series, and the characters, this way. The war is there - it’s the whole reason the Drakes are in Aeretoll - but it’s back burner at the moment, especially for the Northerners. The action is quieter here, with enough downtime to worry more about lingering looks and snappy retorts than mortal wounds and enemy trebuchet fire. It’s a love story, first and foremost, but one that launches an epic, continent-spanning adventure.

The series began as an antidote to the usual fantasy romantic pitfall: typically, a fantasy novel, no matter how thrilling the plot and creative the magic, treats the romantic storylines as slapdash afterthoughts. Oh yeah, by the way, these two people got married. As I slooowly work my way through the Wheel of Time saga (started it eons ago and never finished, so I’m determined to read the whole dang thing, finally) I can’t help but scratch my head over the romances. Two characters meet one another ONCE, and five books later opine about their deep love. Instead, The Drake Chronicles are a romance series that doesn’t skimp on the fantasy elements. 

It’s also the sort of fantasy series in which magic is returning to the world, as opposed to fading. HOW has been accused of being “not a fantasy book at all,” and anyone who stopped reading there missed the dragons, the animated skeletons, skinwalkers, and dream walking. *shrugs* It’s most definitely a fantasy. It’s also not a series about just one character or just one couple. The focus shifts from group to group, as the story necessitates. Leif and Amelia (and Ragnar) get the lion’s share of page time in FOW, but all the others still have very important parts to play. It’s an ongoing, big story, rather than a chain of standalones. 

As far as faves go, I typically latch on to guilty pleasure picks, and boy do I love Nali and Ragnar here. But my favorite Drake Chronicles character is Oliver. I love his journey. I love that he’s stubborn, and chafes under Erik’s imperious demeanor starts first. I love that he finds a place for himself, coming into his own in his new role. From bastard to dragon rider. There’s so much in store for him in the books ahead. 

FOW is coming soon! If you like family dramas draped in dragon magic, with plenty of romance, start the series with book one. 

Painting Ruminations

 

There’s something so immediately satisfying about painting. I won’t call it a “fun” job, per se, but it’s both fiddly and mindless: there’s lots of good thinking time in painting, which I’ve had this afternoon, ruminating on the Drake Chronicles while I put a fresh, spring coat on the barn. Y’all should know by now that I can turn anything into a writing metaphor, so, uh, brace yourselves.

Like painting, writing is about both the big picture, and the fine details right under your nose, moment to moment. Today, I was working around some light switches and electrical conduits, using a brush to get into the tiny grooves on the stall paneling, and the individual brush strokes were immensely satisfying. Red dust, spider poop, and old, flaking paint disappeared beneath each pass of the brush. What progress! It must look so much better! But when I stepped back a few minutes later, and I saw how much wall remained to cover, the big picture became monumental, my progress infinitesimal.

That’s how it feels to write a big, honking book; or a big, honking book series. I can spend an afternoon tinkering with language, tweaking a loaded conversation between two characters until it hits all the right notes, and feel as if I’ve accomplished something for the day. But when I consider how much is left to write, how much story still needs to unfold, the workload becomes daunting.

The Drake Chronicles were never supposed to *be* daunting. Initially, I envisioned a trilogy, nice and tidy like Hell Theory. I’d not ever written epic fantasy before, and wasn’t sure I wanted to commit to my very own GOT. But somewhere in the early days of drafting Edge of the Wild, I started thinking bigger. Barn time - whether mucking, grooming, painting, sweeping, etc. - is when I let my imagination spin out the Big Ideas. When I go down rabbit holes and explore the grand scheme of each serie’s overarching plot, and how it weaves in all the characters and subplots. I was doing that again today, while I was painting: thinking about magic systems, and alliances, and pitched battles, and showdowns, and coming into one’s own. No, I didn’t set out to turn the Drakes into something sprawling...but it’s happening. Two paths life before me: 1) wrapping it up quickly, 2) seeing where it can take us. I’m going with path 2 - c’mon, you knew I would. It means I can’t set a firm number of books, or release a whole series at once, with only a week or two between books. But when the world you’re working in offers a chance for awesomeness, you take it. Right now to readers, it looks like my partially painted wall: the end isn’t in sight, and some have fun theorizing, others want to know how it ends already. I can’t promise to do what anyone expects; I have to take each character through the journey I’ve laid out for them; I have to stay true to that vision. 

But I can promise a positive ending, and a wild ride getting there. And I can promise I’m putting every ounce of love and care possible into all the little details that will make this painting shine when it’s finally complete.

Have an iris since that first pic is so boring 😄

#TeaserTuesday - 4/18

 

A date was picked, and tasks were divvied out – Leif’s wolves would come in valuable for spying and for sneaking, and for fighting, when it came to that. Everything rubbed along well, and Leif was feeling positive about the path that lay ahead…

But then something he’d feared finally happened. Chairs were beginning to slide back, and there were murmurs of lunch, when Leif glanced up, and caught Edward’s gaze. The man was staring right at him, meaningfully, and Leif released the arms of his chair and stayed rooted, staring back. 

The rest of the table quieted, as the others noticed their locked gazes. 

Amelia said, “Edward?” A prompt. 

He continued to match Leif, stare for stare – but then his gaze cut over, slowly and deliberately, to Ragnar, and back again. “He is a thrall? Your thrall?”

It was one thing to deal with his family’s disapproval over Ragnar – but they were Ragnar’s family, too, and even if they now all thought Leif should have laid his neck on the chopping block weeks ago, they knew well the charm and temptation of him. These people here, though, knew him only as the wild man wearing a collar, who’d dared to climb aboard Amelia’s temperamental stallion. He’d expected a fight, once the truth came out. 

He hadn’t expected a Southerner to know the old Northern ways in which Ragnar was bound to him, now.

He said, “You know what a thrall is?” And let his surprise color his voice. 

Edward said, “My family is not originally from Aquitainia. I have made it my business to study the ways and customs of this continent, new and old, and those of their neighbors to the north. You have said this man is your cousin and ‘beta.’” Hint of distaste on the word. “But if he is your thrall, then he is your war prize, also.”

There was no sense lying; the torq was damning, irrefutable evidence. 

“He is, yes.”

To his right, he heard the rustling of Ragnar’s hair as he shivered. Where their arms bumped together, he felt the goosebumps on Ragnar’s skin, and the tremors moving beneath it. The sharp scent of fear-sweat filled the narrow space between them, and Leif didn’t have to meet his gaze or ask a question to know exactly what it was he feared: a cage. Being thrown in irons and tossed in a wine cellar somewhere. Traveling in a locked trunk cut with ventilation holes, because the Southerners didn’t trust him, and thought him a liability. 

New alliances and pretty words be damned: Leif would gather his pack and march straight back home if anyone insisted on separating Ragnar from him, or confining him in any way. Only he could collar him, and anyone else who tried would lose a hand for the effort. 

Still, he would try to use diplomacy. 

He said, “Northern politics are as intricate and hot-blooded as those in the South, and as difficult for Southerners to grasp as it is for me to comprehend the sheer amount of plaster in this house.”

Someone – he thought it was Connor – snorted across the table, and was shushed. 

“Ragnar is my thrall, yes,” Leif continued, and eased his arm over so the whole length of shoulder and biceps was pressed flush to Ragnar in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “He wears an enchanted torq that cannot be released by him, nor by accident. He owes me a debt, and so he will pay it, as my war prize.” A slight nod to Edward, for knowing the correct terminology. “But his presence here, at my side, as my second in command, is not something I’m willing to negotiate. If you want me as part of your army, you shall have Ragnar as well.”

The last he said with a ring of finality, and a lowering of his brows in challenge. Try and take him from me, he thought. I dare you.

King Hereafter - Or, My Last “New” Dunnett Read

 

 “He’s called Thorfinn,” agreed Thorkel shortly. A pagan name, like his own, but that was not why he didn’t use it. With a boy like that, you had to watch your back as well as your front. Attaching a name to him wouldn’t improve your authority.

I’ve spent the last few years working my way through first the Lymond Chronicles, then the House of Niccolo series, and now, finally, the last of the new-to-me historical Dorothy Dunnett novels, the standalone tale of the man more popularly known as Macbeth, King Hereafter. Sipping and savoring them, rather than binging, taking breaks in the middle when I felt more in the mood for a potato chip read than the filet mignon feast that is a Dunnett novel. Layered, at times dense, brimming with weighty emotion, brave in its tackling of unlovely subjects using lovely prose, her work is unmatched. Startlingly funny in moments, heartbreaking in others, she manages absurd, swashbuckling adventures alongside devastating tragedy, and an attention for historical detail that focuses not merely on the country at hand, but the world as a whole in that time period. 

Gosh, that sounds like a blurb, doesn’t it? I always feel like I owe her something of a polished, proper review, when it feels impossible to ever encapsulate the scope of what she accomplished with each book. 

This book in particular was unique for me because I found that, as I went through, I never doubted Thorfinn in the ways I did Francis and Nicholas. Thorfinn could be called charmless by comparison, I suppose. Francis is the most mercurial, the most fascinating...and infuriating leading man of her tales. Nicholas the most complex, his transformation from Claes to the Nicholas with whom we walk in Gemini a thing of wonder. Thorfinn, however, is stoic from the first. We don’t see him transform so much as we see him learn to love, and love passionately; his still waters run very deep, and we see his grief, and his joy, and his hope - for his family, his people, his kingdom - in all that he doesn’t say. His silences, and thoughtful gazes convey his great wealth of quiet emotion in eloquent Dunnett fashion. He’s stalwart, King Thorfinn, and though I love Francis and Nicholas, and treasure their books, on a purely personal level, Thorfinn is my favorite. 

I’m not a Dunnett scholar, and so I don’t offer any new insight to the discussion of her works, but there is one thing I keep coming back to. The thing for which I think she might be most beloved. From the postmodern era onward, the goal of fiction far too often is to revel in the ruin and debasement of seemingly great men. To build sandcastles with the express purpose of kicking them apart. To savage, slowly and with great relish, a character’s morality, sanity, and standing, until all that’s left is the wreckage, and we are spectators at the Colosseum, dazzled by the blood, swatting the flies, hollow inside. I won’t say that sort of fiction doesn’t have its place, it’s purpose, its audience. But the reason I *love* Dorothy Dunnett is because she wrote of great men. Flawed, challenged and challenging, bereaved, bold...and prideful, and foolish, and as mortal as all of us. But theirs are stories about achieving greatness; fulfilling their greatest potential. Their journeys reward us in this way, and the moment we’ve turned the last page, we want to go back to the beginning, and walk with them once more.

No one writes of great men like Dorothy Dunnett, and we’re all made greater writers for having read her. 

“You have everything there is of me, save a little I gave to my people. Now you hold that as well.”

The Cutting Garden

 

Strider helping, as always, noble in his trailer of sh—

Earlier in the year, my mom and I decided to create a cutting garden. After 17 years of habitation, love and care, the farm’s house garden has reached a state of English cottage-inspired maturity, filled mostly with roses, iris, hydrangeas, and hearty perennial plants. We don’t generally cut more than a vase or two per season, so this year, we’re adding a garden just for cut flowers. 

Because, apparently, there wasn’t enough to do already 🤪

We talked about building raised beds, like the ones in the veggie garden, but ultimately decided to plant directly in the ground instead. Given our long, hot summers in Georgia, raised beds dry out quickly, and require expensive, bagged gardening soil to fill them. So we’ve hand-dug each bed, edged them with brick, and using free, well-rotted horse manure to amend the soil. It’s been a long process, waiting on weather, and doing all the work by hand. Work harder not smarter around here 😂 But now we’re ready to plant dahlias! We’ve got 70 tubers to put in the ground this week, and hopefully some beautiful photos and arrangements later this year. 

When I’m not writing or stall-mucking, you can find me here. 

 

Debrief: Nothing More

 

It’s time: it’s spoilery Nothing More debrief time! If you’ve not read it yet, you can grab it here, and then turn back if you want to read it spoiler-free, and return to this post later. I’m going to put up a break, so the spoilers won’t appear on the main blog home page straight-off the bat. If you have read it, let’s dive right in: 

A Walk in the Woods

 

A slow-dawning, silver morning, sky thick and low with the promise of rain. The chitter and warble of birds sharp and a little frantic, as they feel the shift in pressure; as they flit from branch to branch, anxious to feed before the first, pinprick raindrops rattle down through the leaves and shiver between the tree trunks. A path lies ahead, a lane carpeted in last year's leaf mold. How easy to imagine your horse coming to a halt, ears swiveling, nostrils flaring. He smells something, off through the trees, a whiff of threat, but he trusts you, and so he steps forward, knees stepping high as he crunches down the lane between your steady, reassuring heels. Down that path, time falls away; you could be a Crusader with shield and lance strapped to your saddle; could be a homesteader, wagon trundling and jolting over roots; could be a girl and her dog, snapping photos. 

The light and the vibrancy of the leaves against it this morning put me immediately in a historical mindset. I mentioned "Crusader" because I thought of Rob, and his merry men, perched in the crooks of trees, bows slung over their backs. I could imagine the whine of an arrow passing close, the whisper in its wake, the thunk of it lodging in a tree trunk, quivering, goose feather fletching dip-dyed red, so its archer could find it later, when he came along, whistling. 

Writers need notebooks in which to jot sudden bursts of inspiration, plot and character notes, and to make a record of the lines that appear suddenly in the mind, perfect and crystal-clear, but which will fade when you say to yourself, I'll remember it later. You won't. You have to put it to paper. But imagery is vital for me as well. Pinterest is a good resource, sure, a good way to create vision boards and build aesthetics - but I'm constantly snapping photos, too. Sometimes with a specific project in mind, but often just for my collection; images that might prove inspiring later. One of my favorite sights is that of the view from below of branches overhead; the dark trunks against the colorful leaves, whether spring green or autumn gold. The gnarled shapes, and serpentine lines. Forest views of all sorts are endlessly inspiring to me. 

A Southern forest isn't like a Northern forest, isn't like a British forest, or the Black Forest, but all are lovely, dark, and deep in their own ways. Just yards away from the barn, and the house, and everything modern, I love the way a forest path can utterly transport me. 

Vampire Hopes and Dreams

One item on my (overly) ambitious list of writing goals this year is to release something in the Sons of Rome universe. I was having Nik and Sasha thoughts last night while I was at the barn, and remembered all over again that I haven't put out a book in that series since Golden Eagle in December of 2019. It's been almost four years 😭 I've got other projects waiting, but I would love, love, love to squeeze in The Winter Palace. 

Book five is going to be Lionheart, which I've done some work on, and which will require more research, more time at the computer, and more effort than any book I've ever written. It's one-third ongoing, contemporary storyline, one-third ode to Sir Robin of Locksley, one-third Richard I docu-drama. It's a big project, so big that thinking about it overwhelms me at times. One storyline I was going to include catches us up with Nik and his pack in Buffalo - but I decided it was a storyline better suited to its own, separate novella, which I have started, and will be inspired by a series of vignettes posted on the blog, filled out by new action. It's called The Winter Palace, and will address several major shifts within the pack. It won't follow the vignettes exactly, and some will be entirely rewritten, but the action of it will play out at Trina's family compound in upstate New York, and lead us straight into the action of Lionheart. 

Below is a sample of chapter one, but you can read the inspiring vignettes under the Scenes From Buffalo tag here on the blog. Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6.

Fingers crossed we get more vamps before the year's out! 

From The Winter Palace, Sons of Rome Book 4.5
Copyright © 2023 by Lauren Gilley 

Nikita lit a fresh cigarette off the butt of the old one. He dropped the last bit of the filter and crushed it beneath his bootheel. Took a long, long drag off the fresh one, and blew the smoke in a hard plume up into the air. The wind swirled it into tattered gray ribbons, carrying them off between the trees.

The familiar, acrid stink of Marlboros couldn’t cover the scents that clung to the sable collar of his coat: blood, old and new; wolf musk, Sasha’s. He imagined he could smell Dima’s cologne, and pastry flakes from a pirozhki someone had tried to press on him. Fancied Moscow still clung to this coat…that coat. The long black leather one that had kept him warm when he’d worked for men he’d hated; the coat he’d then hated in turn; the coat that Sasha loved, and that Nik himself was, slowly, embracing again.  

#TeaserTuesday - 4/11

Leif and Ragnar finally make it to Inglewood in Fortunes of War, and things immediately go sideways 😊 

 From Fortunes of War, Drake Chronicles Book V
Copyright © 2023 by Lauren Gilley 

“Leif!” she shouted, as she reached him, and went down on her knees beside him. Touched his shoulder and tried to roll him toward her – but he was heavy. She settled for shaking him instead. “Leif?” She scanned his body, and saw that his clothes were ripped, lacerations winking blood through the tears in the leather, but nothing that looked too nasty. There was no puddle of blood beneath him, no obvious mortal damage. “Leif, can you hear me?”

He coughed, and groaned, and rolled toward her on his own power, finally, cracking his eyes open and reached to shade them with a hand. “Lady Amelia?”

“Thank the gods.” She didn’t know how she would have explained the Aeretolleans arriving and getting killed all within twelve hours. “Are you hurt? Can you stand? It’s not safe here.” A wet splat to the side signaled a chunk of meat from one of the drakes Alpha was currently savaging, and she fought not to grimace.

In answer, Leif sat up, rubbing briefly at the back of his head as though it pained him. Then he shook his head, waved off her attempt to help him, and got to his feet. He surveyed the scene while Amelia stood as well.

“Did I hit my head harder than I thought, or is Ragnar riding your horse?”

“And wielding my sword. I take it he didn’t appreciate you getting thrown across the road and knocked unconscious.”

Leif massaged at his ribs with a wince, and his sigh sounded both frustrated…and fond. “Idiot,” he muttered. Then: “That’s some sort of gateway, and we need to close it.”

“My thoughts exactly. I’ve just been to the Between and talked with Náli.”

He glanced toward her, brows lifting in surprise.

“He says the blood opened it – the girl – and that it’ll take blood to close it. The blood of a magic user. He didn’t specify how much.”

Leif considered a moment, glancing toward Ragnar, who thrust his sword through a soldier’s visor with a shout of triumphant laughter.

Connor and Reggie, she saw, were fighting back-to-back, an efficient unit that did more repelling of attacks than advancing, but on their feet, alive, Reggie’s busted lip the only sign of injury.

“I’ll do it.”

She blinked, and returned her attention to Leif, whose expression had gone grim with resolve. He’d stood up straighter, too, and pushed his shoulders back, thrust his chest out. Like a painting of a hero from a fable.

“And what will you do? Dive through the hole?” she asked.

“If I have to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll do it. Alpha can fly me in close–”

“Alpha” – his lip curled on the name – “is tied up at the moment.”

And he was.