#DrakeChronicles - Looking Back

Each time I start a new manuscript, I ask myself why I don't write standalone books. It's an artform, truly, creating a story that is perfectly self-contained, a complete character journey without need of addendum. Standalones enable readers to pick any book from an author's catalogue at random, without having to have read any previous volumes. In that sense, they're simpler to market, and you have a greater chance of reaching a whole new audience with each book. I've told myself time and time again that I need to shift my creative process and work toward writing those sorts of self-contained stories. 

But then I reflect back on a character's beginning, and I think about where they're going, and even if it's a long slog, and it seems to take forever, writing a series is worth it. The character journeys are so rich when you have the time and space to play things out at your leisure. 

It feels like the Drake Chronicles have only just begun, but book 1 came out in 2020, and it's wild to see how the characters all started this journey. 

She looped her arm through his, and together they walked up to the makeshift gangplank the crew had fashioned of a few loose boards. They were slick and shiny with ice, as was the dock beyond, but the porters who’d come to collect their trunks didn’t seem to be troubled by this – probably thanks to the metal cleats Oliver glimpsed strapped over their boots.

He and Tessa, though, despite the heavy wool and fur cloaks they’d purchased before their trip, wore boots with soft, leather soles. Please don’t let us fall, he prayed, and took the first step.

He managed all five steps across the plank, Tessa clutching at him the whole time. Then they hit the dock, and a patch of invisible ice, and Oliver’s right foot slipped out from under him.

“Oh, bollocks–”

A hand grabbed his free arm. A large hand – a strong one. Somehow, miraculously, he didn’t fall and drag his poor cousin down with him. He was picked up, and set back on his feet, and a deep voice with an unfamiliar accent said, “You all right there, lad?”

He glanced up, startled, a little afraid, he could admit, and laid eyes on the largest man he’d ever seen. Tall, and broad-shouldered, and draped in layers of fur that made him look more bear than man, his hair a long, wild tangle, save for where it was braided down the sides, and, at his temples, shaved in long, thin lines.

“Shit,” Oliver said, before he could think better of it.

The man grinned, revealing one gold canine tooth. “Well. There’s a welcome.”

“Oh, no, no, I didn’t–”

“Are you from Drakewell? The Drakes?”

“I…”

“I am Tessa Drake,” Tessa said. “Lord William’s daughter. And this is my cousin, Oliver.”

And then the boys...

Belatedly, Oliver remembered his manners. “This is the Lady Tessa.” He hooked his arm through hers in a show of support. “I’m her cousin, Oliver.”

Rune’s brows shot up. “The bastard? The one who didn’t want to go to war?”

His brother elbowed him in the ribs. “What did I say about that?” he asked from the corner of his mouth. To Oliver: “Ignore him. Mum dropped him on his head as a baby.”

“Hey!”

“Lord Alfred’s son, right?” Leif asked.

“Um.” Oliver had faced any number of insults about his bastardy from courtiers of both sexes; snide comments and veiled looks. But though the word would always carry a sting, Rune hadn’t sounded rude – and now his face had fallen, his dark eyes guileless and defensive.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, half to his brother and half to Oliver. He mumbled, “Sorry, my lord.”

Oliver took a breath. He’d expected savagery in this strange land, and doubtless it was here, but so far there was nothing coy and cutting in evidence – an unexpected, but refreshing change from home. “No, no, not a lord. I am a bastard. But,” he added, feeling his face heat, “I was ill when the war started, and then encouraged not to come to the front.”

Rune’s nose wrinkled. “Really?”

“Rune,” his brother hissed, “stop asking awkward questions.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m not exactly a soldier,” Oliver said, lifting his arm in helpless invitation for them to examine his absolute lack of a soldier’s physique.

“So?” Rune said, shrugging. “You could learn.”

Leif stepped on his foot.

“Ow!”

Then he bowed to Tessa, the beads in his hair clicking together as it fell in gold waves over his shoulder. “My lady.”

And Erik...

Bjorn fired off a command to one of the men lounging against the wall – who nodded and left – then his hand was back on Oliver’s shoulder, pushing him forward again.

Right to the base of the dais, close enough to see that King Erik’s eyes were blue, but nothing at all like’s Leif’s, with their warm, quiet amusement. The king’s were hard, and flat, and unreadable – the nearest emotion seemed to be disdain.

Oliver gulped, quite against his will.

“These are the Southerners?” the king asked.

“Aye,” Bjorn said, and shook Oliver. He felt like a puppy in a giant’s grip. “Cousins! Lord Oliver and Lady Tessa.” Oliver was tired of correcting him, at this point. Bjorn laughed. “Say hello to your bride, Erik!”

Echoing laughter rippled through the crowd of bystanders, and Oliver bristled on his cousin’s behalf.

But Erik lifted a ringed hand and the laughter cut off suddenly, and completely. He stared at them – Oliver struggled to keep his shoulders back, and his spine rigid beneath the cold, judgmental weight of that stare – and then finally curled a single finger and said, “Approach.”

The princes stepped apart, their gazes watchful, and Oliver wasn’t going to let Tessa – now trembling – approach on her own. He covered her hand with his own where it rested on his arm, and they walked forward – up the three steps to the dais itself when that finger crooked again.

“Your majesty.”

“Your majesty,” Tessa echoed, softly, and executed a perfect, one-handed curtsy, though she shivered all over with nerves.

The king studied them each in turn, cold blue eyes moving impersonally over them, head to toe. When it was his turn, Oliver felt sure Erik could see how nervous he was – how afraid.

Watery sunlight pierced a high window, a single, white shaft that caught the silver of the heavy ring on the king’s first finger: it was shaped like a stag’s head, antlers and all, Oliver noted.

Finally, King Erik nodded. “Yes, fine. You’ll suit.”

“Beg pardon?” Oliver asked, as Tessa’s hand closed vice-tight below his elbow.

Erik met his gaze, finally, managing to be both disinterested, and piercing. “She’ll do. We can draw up the contract after supper.”

“Contract – your majesty,” Oliver said, trying to keep the desperation from his voice. “I’d thought you might like to get to know Tessa a little, before you agreed to marry her.” The king was certainly as handsome – gorgeous, his brain supplied, unhelpfully – as his nephews, but lacked all their charm.

Erik tipped his head back a fraction, so he managed to look down his nose at Oliver, despite being the one seated. He snorted. “I won’t be marrying her, Mr. Meacham.”

“But…the letter…” Oh, Gods, had there been some horrible miscommunication? Did Erik not know?

Another snort, this one accompanied by the faintest ghost of a mocking smile. “Do I look like I’m in want of a teenage virgin bride? No. She’ll be marrying my nephew.”

The statement should have been a relief – Tessa certainly relaxed with a sudden exhale – but it was said like a threat, and Oliver could sense nothing like a welcome.

Oh, how far they've come. And oh, how far there is left go. 

Whether it's books, movies, shows, comics, manga...my favorite part of a long, serialized story is getting to watch the cast grow and evolve, or sometimes devolve, whatever the case may be. Gimme the angst, and the revelations, and the hard-won bonds of love or friendship. When I'm writing, that's what I find most rewarding: getting to craft those long-form, hard-earned stories that take a long time, and a lot of obstacles and interactions, to develop. It's a little bit shocking to go back to the first chapters of Heart of Winter as I start Fortunes of War. Everyone's changed - Leif most of all. Poor Leif. I have such plans for him. He started as the stalwart, boring older brother, and now, well...you'll see. 

Big casts are my jam, so it has been - and will continue to be - fun to hear from readers about which character they're most interested in. The beauty of an ensemble, despite its challenges, is the chance for everybody to form a favorite. 

If you haven't snagged Demon of the Dead yet, it's available now! Working on book 5 as we speak.