#TeaserTuesday: The Bowl

 

I've seen authors argue that beginning a project is the most difficult part, but I'd argue it's finishing one. In the beginning, you're laying down lore and building characters, but sticking the landing takes no small amount of effort and attention to detail.

With Field of Fire, I'm not just ending a book, but a series, and so there are many loose ends to tie up - and hopefully tie up in a satisfying way. 

The scene I'm working on today links back to this scene from Demon of the Dead:

“Then,” Ragnar continued, voice touched with strain, “they brought out this – this bowl.”

Leif lifted his brows.

Ragnar showed his teeth, a quick, unhappy flash that was defensive, rather than aggressive. “It was this massive golden bowl full of black liquid. They made me look into it, and I – I saw things, Leif.” It was the first time he’d said his name in weeks, rather than alpha. “It felt like – like I went somewhere, like I wasn’t inside my body anymore. There was this golden city – it was like nothing I’d ever seen. It made this palace look like a hut, it was so…” He shrank down into himself. “There were drakes. Flying in the air. More than I could count. There were – there were other things. Animals. Maybe? I don’t…”

He shook his head, hard. “When I was standing on my own two feet again, that bastard said, ‘That is the heart of our empire. That is what’s coming for you.’” He deflated. “No one can stand against that. Not even your bloody-minded uncle.” He sighed and wiped both hands down his face, exhausted simply from remembering. 

The fantasy genre offers a chance to explore self-delusion, confusion, and the lies we tell ourselves in a very literal sense. Here's Oliver learning more about the bowl:

“Very well,” Romanus said, and stepped up to the table; gripped its edge and tossed his hair back over his shoulder with a flick of his head. “Come, then.”

“I’m not drinking that.”

“I don’t want you to. Come,” Romanus said again, firmer. “Gaze into the bowl.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Oliver said. “Gaze into the bowl.”

Romanus lifted his brows. “What will you do instead? Return to your shivering, failing body? Lie in fever-wracked misery?”

Oliver could only frown. The last thing he wanted was to return to his physical form; he wanted it even less than he wanted to cooperate with his gods-bedamned grandsire. “What will happen if I gaze into the bowl?” he asked, tightly, but he was already caving, and the flicker of Romanus’s mouth said he knew it.

“You will be shown a truth. It might be the past, and it might be the future. It might be something you want, and it might be something you fear. It’s different for everyone. But it will be true.”

“If it’s a want or a fear, how can it be true? Isn’t that just projection?”

“Is truth not a kind of projection?”

“Gods, you’re insufferable,” Oliver muttered, and stepped up to the table to avoid further semantic discord. “All right. I’m gazing. Now what?” The black liquid—the blood—lay quiet and still in the bowl, not disturbed by the faint breeze that blew in from the balcony. Its surface gleamed, glossy and thick, opaque as midnight. Oliver glimpsed his reflection in it, sunken-eyed and messy-haired. He searched for the now-familiar wink of silver beads in his braids, but there were no braids, and the beads were long gone.

He shuddered. 

If life can calm down for two seconds, I can't wait to get this book finished and into y'all's hands! 

#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. 

On Magic

 “You said Erik gave me to you. That I’m to be your slave.”

“That’s right.” The idea still made Leif’s belly squirm.

Ragnar cocked his head. “Then how can I serve you, my alpha, if I’m locked up in the dark down here?”

A reasonable question, one Leif had been pondering for the past month. What good was a war prize chained to a wall for the rest of his days?

Erik had been the one to suggest they proceed by the old ways, but it had been Náli who’d offered the solution for such an approach. A pure silver, magicked torq, he’d said, would fit around Ragnar’s throat and prevent him from shifting to his wolf form, as well as mark him as Leif’s property to every Northerner. Once it had been applied, Leif could, in theory, bring him into his household and, as a strong alpha wolf himself, never need to worry that Ragnar could overpower him.

A tidy fix. But, still, Leif had hesitated to proceed, uncertain, Ragnar’s betrayal fresh in his mind.

Even as he brought him food, and worried over him, and sat here for hours, his wolf taking comfort in the presence of another of his kind.

Gods.

Leif took a deep breath. “I’ll talk to Náli, then.”

Ragnar grinned nastily. “Your little necromancer going to leash me?”

“Yes,” Leif said. “And if you don’t mind me, I’ll cut your throat.”

A beat passed. Leif swore he could hear the leap of Ragnar’s pulse as his expression slowly smoothed. A low, wolfish chuff. Then: “Yes, alpha.”

Demon of the Dead dropped on Tuesday, and it's the most magic we've seen in the series so far. I won't spoil it for anyone who hasn't started reading yet, but we learn a lot more about the origins of the North's magic through Náli's adventures in the "Between," beyond the veil of the living. Origins that - at least in part - shed some light on his death magic, the Drakes' ability to communicate with dragons, and Leif's newfound - or, er, new-forced-upon-him - shapeshifting abilities. For the most part, it's all magic inspired by that of the Norse gods, most of whom I've named using rare-form, or Danish versions of their names. "Val-Father" for Odin, for instance. Control over weather, and beasts, and death, and shapeshifting can all be found in the Prose Edda, twisted here for our series' universe. 

Drake Verse?

DLU - Drake Literary Universe? 

I'm up for suggestions. 

On Insta earlier this week, I mentioned my love of Tolkien, which has led to my love of Norse mythology, which has thus in turn provided the inspiration for this series (as well as much of what's to come in SoR if I ever get back to that). Middle-Earth is a fantasy realm in which the magic is fading. As the Elves depart for the Grey Havens, as men step forward into the leadership role, magic is shrinking and bleeding away, the landscape studded with old ruins, and ghost stories. We as the audience know that the future of Middle-Earth is a future populated by mortal beings with mortal, non-magical worries. 

I've taken the opposite tack with the DC, one that's common in the fantasy genre: in Aeretoll, magic is returning. In Aquitainia, it's learned that the country's rulers hid the old magics. But with the Sels attempting an invasion, and the drakes appearing, we're seeing a surge of magic across the board. I liked the idea of the series beginning with only the faintest touch of magic, and letting the audience experience its awakening alongside the characters. I'm also dead-set - in this series, and in every fantasy-themed story I write - on depicting magic as having a cost. As taking a toll its users. Just as physical exertion drains a person's energy, so too does magical exertion. Magic is at its most interesting as a story device when it's a challenge for the characters: skills that are ingrained and which much be honed through practice. There's a risk involved. The greater the power wielded, the greater the obstacle it becomes. I want the use of magic to be an integral component of the character's growth and journey, and not merely pretty decoration sprinkled on top of the plot. 

Things will get - you guessed it - even more magical as we continue. Expect Leif and Amelia to step forward with much more page time in book five, Fortunes of War. Oh, and Ragnar. He'll be there too 😏 

New Release: Demon of the Dead

“The blood of the living shall welcome the blood of the dead. I am the keeper of the Fault Lands, and the dead shall keep me.”

For generations, the Corpse Lords of the Fault Lands have watched over the fire mountain of Aeretoll, preventing it from erupting and laying waste to the North. Not yet twenty, Náli is a powerful necromancer in service to his king, a talented swordsman known for his razor-sharp insults…and chained to his destiny as Corpse Lord, doomed since birth to lead a short, painful life; forced to beget an heir so that his essential magic can be passed on to the next Corpse Lord.

War looms on the horizon, but Náli must return to his homeland, to soothe the mountain, and to finally choose a bride. Painfully in love with his Dead Guard captain, Náli sets out to discover the secrets of his power once and for all – to settle the mountain, spare himself a wedding, and finally seize all that he truly wants.

The enemy is lurking, though, and war won’t wait for long. A war in which the heroes of Aeretoll will need the Demon of the Dead on their side.

This is the fourth installment of the Drake Chronicles, an epic fantasy romance series intended for adult audiences. Look for the first three books: Heart of Winter, Edge of the Wild, and Blood of Wolves.

DOTD is live, and you can grab it HERE.

I hope you all enjoy book four of our ongoing Drake saga. I had fun focusing a little more strongly on Náli, and on expanding the lore of the universe. I do want to stress, though, while I have your attention, that, as an ongoing series, and as an ongoing fantasy series, the Drake Chronicles is not formatted as a sequence of standalones meant to exist independently. The books do need to be read in order, and while some books will shift the focus onto certain characters, this is most definitely not a "main couple per book" sort of series. Our characters face challenges, and gain new ground, but the overall story is ongoing, as are their individual stories. Nothing will be "decided," as it were, until the end. Oliver and Erik have much more page time ahead, as does Amelia, teased only in a few chapters so far. The pacing is intentional - I'm writing it as a fantasy series with strong romantic storylines, rather than a romance series with fantasy elements. It's important not to expect tidy resolutions in each book. It's also important not to take what you read on GR as fact. I've seen readers claim they know how many books the series will contain, when I've never given a firm number. I don't have a newsletter, so if someone assures you they "read it in her newsletter," they're lying. Always come straight to the source with questions, y'all!

Book five is titled Fortunes of War, and I'll be working away on it (along with other projects) in the weeks to come.

Happy Tuesday, and happy reading :)

#TeaserTuesday - A History

Demon of the Dead sheds new light on the mythology and history of the fantasy realm in the Drake Chronicles. It's a history Nali, like all his fellow Northmen, thought he knew well, but the truth of which will trouble them all, and further explain their enemy, the Sels. 

It's also great fun to write 😊

First, the fire we rebuilt, which took some time, and even then, the damp wood smoked and spit and filled the longhouse with yet more noxious gray clouds. Then tea was prepared, and poured into two wooden cups. Náli let the heat of his warm his palms, but didn’t sip at it. The shaman bolted one cup down straight away and poured another before he finally settled on the stool opposite and took a long, deep breath. Though his physical features remained unchanged, he seemed to have aged a decade since Náli saw him last. Strained and gaunt. When his gaze lifted to meet Náli’s through the smoke, his eyes had gone that same eerie, timeless blue again; the eyes of a man who had seen too much.

His hands shook on his cup, but his voice was steady. “You must understand: when I speak of ‘the bloodline,’ it’s far older than you have ever imagined. The truth of it is something you might not receive gladly.”

“An upsetting truth is better than never knowing,” Náli said.

“Even if it upsets the balance of all you now know?”

He glanced toward Valgrind, who’d coiled up just outside the open doorway, snoring lightly in the wash of pale sunlight. “I’ve begun to think, lately, that I don’t actually know anything at all.” He met the shaman’s gaze again. “So, yes. It’s better. Even if it’s upsetting.”

The shaman nodded. Took a long sip of tea, eyes closing; then opened them once more, cleared his throat, and began. “It’s fitting that your king is descended of the first wolves – of the Úlfheðnar, the strongest and fiercest of the clans in the Early Days of the North. But the wolf-shirts are not the oldest clan in our history.”

“No, that’s the Dreki clan,” Náli said, impatient. He already knew this. “That’s why it’s Dreki Hörgr, and not Ulf Hörgr.”

“Yes, but what do you know of them save the fact they were the first settlers of the Waste?”

“They…had drakes. They bonded with them. Rode them. Just as Oliver has done, and the Drake lords of the South before him.”

“But where did the drakes come from?”

“I don’t bloody know that. Am I supposed to know when the first leaf unfolded at the dawn of time?” Náli huffed. “Can you not dispose of the questions and just get on with it?”

Unperturbed by his outburst, the shaman said, “There is a cavern beyond the ancestral seat. Up high in the mountain passes, never traversed by the men of the North.”

In an instant, Náli’s aggravation was replaced by a cold lick of fear. He recalled waking in a cold ice cavern, the way sealed by iron bars. The Fangs with their filed teeth, and their arena full of snow-buried dead men. They’d found Valgrind and his mother there. Strange glowing sapphires. And a verse etched in runes on the wall.

“What sort of cavern?” he asked, though he already knew.

“One glistening with ice, its light blue with the breath of cold-drakes.”

DOTD: Mattias

Back writing Demon of the Dead today - 4k words today and counting, let's goooo - and look, what's this? Mattias POV? 👀

This book has that *special* feel to it. I've enjoyed every scene and every sentence so far. Sitting pretty at 52k words so far, and a way to go yet. 

“Mother?” he inquired, but Father kept him from following her; got down on one knee so they were of a height, and gripped him firmly by both shoulders.

“Mattias,” he said, and his voice was oddly tight. “This is Master Sigismund. I want you to listen to him. Do everything he says.”

“But why?”

“He’s your teacher now. You’re to be a member of the Dead Guard.” And though Father’s smile was proud, his eyes glittered in the slanted morning sunlight, tears that he refused to shed.

Mattias went with Master Sigismund to live in a crude timber longhouse on the back side of the fire mountain. The sky was gray, hazy with a constant layer of smoke, and the ground beneath their feet in the training yard was dried magma covered with sand. When you slipped and went down while sparring, you left wide slashes in the white sand, black of the old magma showing through in jagged, cut-off shapes like runes. There were no girls or women. Their beds were low and hard, their meals nutritious, but not rich. They were woken before dawn each morning, and made to run a long, narrow trail that carved its way through the lowlands. Afternoons were for study: military history, tactics, rudimentary first aid; reading, writing, and sums. Then, later, there came the sparring.

That was Mattias’s favorite part. He was the tallest, and the strongest, and graduated quickly from a wooden practice sword to a steel one – even if it did have blunted edges. In the hours before dinner, he put the other boys on their backs in the sand, again and again.

He didn’t tell anyone, though, that sometimes he missed his mother’s lullabies as he tried to fall asleep. That sometimes he pressed his face into the blankets and let the wool drink his silent tears.

His homesickness eased with time, and his prowess in the ring grew. He licked his bowl clean every night and heeded all of Master Sigismund’s instructions.

“You’ll make a fine captain, one day,” he was told, and struggled to keep the smile from his face. Not just a Guard, but a captain. His young mind could think of no higher honor.

But always there was that underlying strain: being apart from his family, from his boyhood friends. Games had been replaced with exercises; flights of fancy for learning well the weight of armor. They wore mail shirts, gods-awful heavy even if they were boy-sized. And after meals, they scrubbed the wooden bowls and spoons, cleared and waxed the long tables where they ate; banked the fires and raked the hard-packed dirt floors. His life was half sword practice and half maid duty, and it became routine. Became normal and inescapable.

But then he turned ten. And the reigning Corpse Lord died.

A coronation day was announced for the heir, newly born. Master Sigismund brought him a new tunic and trousers in fine gray wool, and he shaved his head for him; braided his hair in the single long tail that was the style of proper Dead Guardsmen. Mattias’s pulse beat drum-quick on the long cart ride around the mountain, to the base of the palatial Naus Keep, home of their lord and master.

Mattias was overwhelmed by the crowded, switchback labyrinth of the Keep, studded here and there with pockets of soaring opulence. All in shades of gray. All of it glittering with diamonds. He struggled to keep his gaze level and his mouth shut, filled with a ten-year-old’s amazement. He’d never seen such wonders as this, the palace of his duke.

But then he was led into a room carpeted with furs and kept warm by two roaring fireplaces. And a bundle was lowered into his arms, swaddled all in gray silk and linen. A baby, small and pink, wrinkled and fussy.

“This,” Master Sigismund said, voice gone grave and heavy, “is Náli, Corpse Lord of the Fault Lands. His life is yours to guard and serve, Captain.”

The other boys were named to the Guard: his strong second, Klemens, and Einrih, the cousins Danksi and Darri. All strong, all quick, all loyal and trustworthy. But from that first moment, when a tiny hand batted Mattia’s nose, and newborn blue eyes peeped up at him, it was Mattias who became the steward of the new lord’s every need and want.

Demon of the Dead - The Fault Lands At Last

 In this week's writing, I finally arrived at the Fault Lands. Very excited to bring this locale to life in Demon of the Dead. 

Náli knew the moment he woke that he was home.

Ah, home. That hellish place.

For a while, he hadn’t dreamed; it had been only the peaceful black of true, undisturbed sleep. But then he became aware – that lucid state that meant he had fallen into the crack between dreams and the constant, tugging magic of the well. He’d been made to drink that water, when he was only a little lad; he couldn’t remember much of the first time, save its oily, mineral tang, and spitting it all down his front, so that his mother exclaimed in dismay. He remembered Mattias cupping his chin gently, and bringing the cup back to his lips for a second try. That water, it’s magic, had gotten into his bloodstream. It lived within him still, in the center of each bone, in the coils of his brain, in the roadways of his heart, beating now sluggish and unhappy, as he clawed up through the layers of magic and dream and blinked his eyes open.

Between its natural cloud cover, and the constant curls of dark smoke that trickled up from the peak of the fire mountain, the light was always a dim silver, the same color as his hair. A light that filled his familiar bedchamber, as he turned his head to find that nothing about it had changed in his absence. He lay on the same four-poster, canopied bed, its gray drapes drawn back with silver cord, the feather-tick mattresses, a stack of two, soft and downy beneath him. The same granite floors, walls, and ceiling greeted his blurred gaze, gray flecked with black and white, large, reddish veins running in streaks like claw marks. He saw his trunks, and his writing desk; his table, and chairs, his armoire, and his dressing table and silver-framed looking glass. Lying down, his view through the three, leaded-glass windows was of a bleak sky smudged with smoke.

He'd spent the whole trip back here unconscious. Been washed, and dressed in a soft shirt, and tucked beneath warm blankets and furs all without waking. His stomach rumbled, and his tongue was dry when he flicked it across his lips. The drag of the well was much more concentrated here; it felt as though someone was sitting on his chest; his bones felt weighted down to the mattress.

Perhaps, he thought, if he closed his eyes, he could fall back asleep. But that would only delay the inevitable.

With a groan, and no small amount of effort, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. He wasn’t just sore, but actively in pain, bolts of it shooting up his arms and legs. He gritted his teeth, threw back the covers, and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. His slippers, gray suede lined with lambswool, awaited him on the rug below. He bit his tongue as he stepped down into them, when the pain crackled through his feet and ankles. His body was punishing him for being away so long, and using so much magic.

Each step he took toward the window winnowed what little strength remained, shaved it off slice by slice, until, when he finally reached the glass, he had to catch himself on the granite window ledge and grip, white-knuckled, to keep from toppling over. His head swam, and the floor tilted, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from being sick.

When he felt steadier, he opened them again, and then felt sick all over again when he beheld the view.

Through the fog of his breath on the glass, he could see the sloping plains that led down from the Keep toward the Nár River, edged with ice-slick boulders and half-frozen, too dangerous to cross save for at the black granite bridge that joined Náli’s lands with the Capital Road. The snow was streaked with heavy deposits of dried lava, layers of black coils like a vast snake basking beneath the hidden sun. Náli’s rooms had once been his parents’: the Corpse Lord’s suite. After his father’s death, his mother had moved to the dowager’s suite, leaving him here, alone, in this cold stone space, with its perfect, dreaded view of the fire mountain, in all its jagged, snow-dusted glory. It belched smoke at an alarming rate now, angered by his long absence. The lava rock that marred the hillsides now was evidence of small, regular trickles; a true eruption, had Náli stayed away indefinitely, would sweep the land, fill the river, and melt the shepherd’s crofts on the opposite bank. It was that – the threat of innocent lives and homes lost – that drew him back here, time and again, when all he wanted to do was climb on his horse, ride for the coast and never look back.

He rested his forehead against the cold glass, and let it ground him a moment, willing himself to stop shaking – to move to his bureau, don proper clothes, his diamonds, and go down the many staircases that would take him to the well. He dreaded the thought – nearly as much as he dreaded the thought of encountering his mother. All things in perspective, he supposed.

The door whispered open behind him, and he recognized Mattias’s soft tread across the floor.

“You’re awake.”

“Unfortunately.”

#TeaserTuesday - Lady Amelia

 

Inglewood

 

Amelia was in the process of arranging chairs around the long dining table when she heard the drakes start up a glad cry in the yard. A quick test of the bond left her smiling: the other girls were arriving, which meant the humans they’d been left in charge of were as well.

By the time she made her way down the staircase into the dug-up back garden, Alpha’s other three girls were swooping down to land on the grass beside him. There was much nuzzling, and purring, and happy warbling as they all greeted one another. Then Amelia reached them, and sleek, horned heads shoved into her face; warm snouts pressed at her shoulders, and arms, until she’d given everyone a proper hello.

“Hullo, girls. How are your charges faring? No one got snapped up by lions, did they?”

The snort of a horse drew her attention to the mouth of the road, and the tunnel of interlaced branches that led out of the wood and onto the manor lands. Connor, Reginald, and Edward rode abreast, gray-cloaked Strangers walking ahead, spears on shoulders, soldiers from four duchies walking behind, morning sunlight dappling bright armor.

“They don’t look like the finest army,” she mused aloud to Alpha, who’d moved to stand at her shoulder, “but they’re ours, I suppose.”

Failsafe

 I tend to get in the writing zone, and suddenly it's been two weeks since I've posted anything of substance. So have a look-see at DOTD and the magicked torq "failsafe."

Happy Saturday!

Náli bit back a sigh and produced the torq from beneath his cloak. Gleaming silver, a broken circle with knobbed prongs that would sit against Ragnar’s throat, the latch in front was designed to resemble two wolf heads, one biting the other’s throat. If the spell worked, once the latch was clicked into place, it wouldn’t be able to be opened again by the wearer or any outsider; no blacksmith’s hammer could strike off a magicked torq such as this would be. There was to be a failsafe, however; a weaving of magic that Náli himself had researched at length all of yesterday, and which he felt confident he’d be able to achieve. He’d never performed anything quite like it, but if he could raise entire skeletal armies, he didn’t think this would be all that difficult. 

“Oh,” Tessa said, when she saw it. “It seems to wrong to say that it’s lovely, but it is, really.”

“Somehow, I doubt Ragnar would agree with you,” Oliver said, tone dry. “But the detail is incredible, I’ll give the smith that.”

“Yes, yes, it’s very nice. Here.” With his other hand, Náli fished the two small, diamond pendants he’d promised from his pocket and handed them over. His much larger diamond hung against his chest, outside his leather doublet. Its weight tugged at the back of his neck, rested heavy over his heart.

His mother had picked it up, once, from his dressing table – the sight of it in her hand had left his stomach rolling – and she’d said, “It doesn’t feel as heavy as you say.”

Oh, Mother. If only you knew.

“Put them on,” he told the cousins, and they complied. “Now. Do you remember the failsafe?”

Oliver and Tessa traded a look that he couldn’t interpret: something secret and familiar, the sort of look they’d likely been trading since they were much younger, which could have been reassurance, confirmation, or a shared doubt in Náli and his plan.

“Do you remember?” he pressed, and knew by Oliver’s raised-brow look that he’d been snippy. Oh well.

“We remember,” Oliver said.

Tessa said, a little awed and breathless, “This torq can only be removed for love.” Then she frowned. “Does that mean only by someone who loves him? Or for any reason driven by love?”

“The spell’s not that specific,” Náli said, with a faint inward twinge of doubt, because the spell wasn’t that specific. Love was the release, according to very old, very dead magic scholars. Other emotions could have been used, but given Ragnar’s lack of popularity among his relatives, he’d thought love the best bet. Who could love Ragnar? No chance of an escape from his servitude that way. “Safe to say,” he continued, “no one loves him. It doesn’t matter what type of love the spell requires when you’re a lying, two-faced, sheep-headed wolf-fucker.”

Tessa blushed.

Oliver said, “Eloquent.”

Náli tugged at his cloak. “I like to think so, yes.”

That made both of them laugh.

A door creaked and shut forcefully a few yards away at the palace’s rear façade. A glance proved that the king himself, followed by Bjorn, was stalking their way.

Náli wiped the haughtiness from his face and spoke in a hushed, urgent voice. “Listen to me, both of you. Do not share this with your men. Not with Erik, not with Rune.” Both looked scandalized. “I’m quite serious. Don’t tell them the trigger. Tell no one. If you want to keep Leif safe, then you’ll guard this secret with all you have.” He wouldn’t say with your lives. As someone with one foot in the grave, he couldn’t ask for a friend’s life.

Their eyes widened, and the next look they exchanged was unmistakeable: one of united worry and resolve.

“We promise,” Tessa said.

Oliver added, “We won’t breathe a word.”

Something about his expression gave Náli misgivings – something like I’ll tell someone if it’s necessary. But, well, that was neither Náli’s worry, nor the most pressing issue of the moment.

#TeaserTuesday - Prince Leif

Blood of Wolves was largely action-driven. Between the race back to Aeres, and the siege at the palace, there was less time for the slow beats that I enjoy writing most. While there's still a war on - and one that is unfolding slowly and intricately in true epic fantasy fashion - Demon of the Dead is allowing me a bit more breathing room. There are moments of urgency, but, for the most part, it's giving me time to take those long, slow-beat pauses to explore all sorts of character relationships. We'll see more Erik/Ollie, more Amelia and her gathering forces, and lots and lots of Náli, and his devoted Guard, since the book is, after all, named after him. 

But I'm an absolute sucker for a twisty, complicated relationship, so expect some Leif and Ragnar, too. I've had readers say they like Ragnar, and some say they hate him, and I'm rubbing my hands together gleefully over here. 

The teaser I'm sharing today is the tail end of a much longer scene, one which ended up having - unintentionally - a bit of a "now you see me, brother" vibe to it, and I gotta tell ya, I ain't hatin' it. These two give me a chance to write such delicious tension into the series, and it's become one of my highlights. 

Happy Tuesday. I'm working industriously on this one and hope to have it to you all sooner rather than later. 

From Demon of the Dead

Copyright © 2022 by Lauren Gilley 

They fed Ragnar down in the dungeons, same as they would any prisoner. Erik could be prone to fits of temper – beheaded Sel general as a prime example – but he didn’t believe in cruelty for cruelty’s sake. It was a mindset that had never sat well with their Úlfheðnar cousins. Leif had agreed with Erik…had. Since his turning, he’d known ugly urges toward violence. He hadn’t acted upon them – in fact, he’d gone out of his way to push back against them.