A Fistful of Fire

A Fistful of Earth Is Here!

2012-11-01T07:00:00.000-04:00

The sequel to A Fistful of Fire is finally here!

Right now, it costs ~~$4.99 US for the e-book ($14.99 US for the print version). That e-book price won't stay—it'll soon be going up to $6.99, so get it for its low, limited-time price while you can!~~ $6.99 US for the e-book, and $14.99 for the print version.

You can buy the print book from CreateSpace or the e-book from your preferred vendor (though B&N is acting oddly at the moment, so if that's your preferred vendor, I recommend waiting until the cover shows up there):

But note: If you get e-mail updates to this blog, or if you're on a RSS reader, all that is run by FeedBurner, which seems to be dying. So you'll want to update the method you use to keep track of what's going on here, if that's what you use.

Thanks, and enjoy!

A Fistful of Earth Is Almost Here…

2012-01-23T07:59:00.001-05:00

And maybe to be followed by print versions of both books!

I know, I know—I've been saying that awhile, but I have something new, something that'll let me fund the paperbacks (and maybe more?) even if I have another unexpected money drain pop up:

I've set up a Kickstarter fund.

If you've not yet bought A Fistful of Fire in e-book format, head on over to there to pledge $3 and get the e-book for a dollar off when the project funds.

If you're interested in A Fistful of Earth, head over to Kickstarter to pledge $4 and get the e-book for a dollar off, too from what the price will be when it comes out ($4.99).

Other items available include autographed bookmarks based on the book covers (no limits), signed copies of the paperbacks (limit of 10), and a character named after you in book 3 (limit of 1).

The amount I'm needing to raise? $500.

If the project is wildly successful, there's a possibility of hardback editions and audiobook editions, as well. (I've listed the needed amounts to definitely be able to produce each item over on the Kickstarter page.)

So. Whether you're looking for a deal on the e-book form of the stories, or if you're interested in signed copies, or you just would like to help me out, check out my Kickstarter page.

It ends on February 6th, before 8am EST. The project will only happen if I hit the $500 before the project ends. (The way Kickstarter works, if I don't hit that $500 threshold, nobody will be charged, and I won't get any money.)

I appreciate your help, be it by donating or by spreading the word.

Thank you.

—Misti

News Fin.03

2011-12-02T09:19:00.001-05:00

Another Aleyi Short Available!

After enjoying A Fistful of Fire, did you wonder what that Lallie was doing there, and how she'd ended up friends with some of the most powerful people in her realm?

If you did, this story's for you: "Of Her Own." I waited before announcing it just to give it time to distribute to all your favorite e-book vendors:

All young Lallie Nonsire wanted was a quiet life, minding her own business and ignoring what she was by birth.

After her magic betrays her by saving a friend's life, she'll settle for escaping Saf before she's turned into a live torch.

But where can the child of a despised race go?

***A short story of 2,600 words or 11 pages.***

CONTAINS: Some violence.

$0.99 US (or rough equivalent) at the following vendors:

And for those of you waiting for A Fistful of Earth, I've not forgotten! If you're on Twitter, follow the hashtag #afoesnip for snippets, starting tonight!

I hope you enjoy!

—Misti

News Fin.02

2011-09-07T22:33:00.001-04:00

If you've seen my post "Current Release Plans" over on my author blog, then you might've noticed that I'm supposed to be trying to release a story the first week of every month.

Well, I did. I just didn't announce it because… I was curious to see what kind of views it would get as an unannounced freebie. Now, it's announcement time!

"Driven by the Deadline" is about Fael Honovi and why she tied herself to the felven royal family, anyway.

Honovi knows she's going crazy. It's only a matter of time, since she's stuck in a monochromatic land of creepy.
She's a shade, stuck in a plane of reality separate from the primary one—and completely incapable of manifesting a body in the primary plane. With someone killing off the felven royal heirs, Honovi's been asked to play godparent. She'd love it, a distraction from the grayscale monotony that's her life.
But can she get there without her own plane of existence stopping her?
***A short story of 2,300 words.***
ALERT: This title's on the creepy side.

"Driven by the Deadline" is currently $0.99 US on Amazon and free on Smashwords. (I'm trying to get it free on Amazon, too, but… That can take time. Someone at Amazon has to notice and decide to heed the report filed with the "tell us about a lower price" link. In my experience, it can take months.)

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy "Driven by the Deadline"!

News Fin.01

2011-07-16T11:11:00.000-04:00

I'm pulling "Butterfly Boots". You can get the details for why here.

It'll probably show up again in some fashion—it and that pretty cover, please don't panic, Shallon—but not for awhile. I won't say what I have in mind, in case it doesn't work out, but I'm pulling its availability.

If you have "Butterfly Boots", do what you like with it: delete it, share it, print it so you can rip it into teensy shreds. Just don't sell it.

Thanks for your understanding.

7.14

2011-07-07T07:00:00.007-04:00

"Silva Feyim, daughter of Elwyn Elf-friend, prophetess for King Aldrik, come forward," the holy man says, calling her down the aisle.

Cultured gasps arise from the nobility when Silva appears in the simple bright red gown that had been her middle-class mother's. Or so I assume from her grin and wink towards we attendants who stand on her side of the dais as particular witnesses.

Lallie elbows me lightly, and we exchange smiles. I smooth my gown, a bland tan that she almost didn't let me order. She and Geddis wear the same color that I chose for myself for some reason of protocol. If I'd known that would be the case, I would've picked another color. Tan doesn't like Geddis.

The holy man turns to us. "Do you witness the presence of your sister and friend at this altar, free of duress, to wed the man her heart has chosen?"

"We do," Lallie and I say. Geddis only remembers to say it after I surreptitiously kick her. She gives me a quick, nervous smile of apology as she gives her own assent. She's surprisingly anxious for her sister's wedding. Lallie lightly cuffs Geddis's shoulder in a failed attempt to calm her.

Silva has come up the aisle, and she kneels before the holy man. The wreath of small red chrysanthemums droops in Silva's hair. I resist the urge to straighten it. Aidan, standing beside the holy man as representative for Salles, notices my lingering look at the wreath and grins at me. The grin gets smaller but doesn't vanish when I give him a sharp glance for his rudeness.

"Silva Feyim, you have chosen Faed Nirmoh as your husband."

"I have," she declares, facing the holy man.

"You are not your own woman. Has this choice the approval of your king?"

Prophets of the King have great power, true, but that does not free them from accountability. King Aldrik stands from his place the seated audience. "It does, and my son stands as witness."

The holy man nods sagely, his homespun grey robe looking shabby even compared to Silva's intentionally middle-class gown. "Silva Feyim, you give up much to marry. You will leave your friends, your family, your home to make your house with your husband. You know this."

She nods, making her wreath droop even more. "I do."

"Your husband is a faery, not even your own race. His language, his culture will be foreign to you—and faery blood can be treacherous, as you well know. If you have any doubt about this union, yield now, and do not vow this day."

"I vow freely and gladly. Regardless of where life might lead, as long as I have my right mind and life, I will love, cherish, and support to Faed Nirmoh." She turns her head so all can see her grin. "Even when I'm right."

The holy man smiles. "Indeed. Faed Nirmoh, come forward." The faery does swiftly, coming to stand on his side of the aisle. The holy man's smile falls, his expression grim. "Faed Nirmoh, you have chosen Silva Feyim as your bride. You know she is a Hearer."

"I do."

"You know that she will, in due time, lose her sanity. You will have to watch your beloved wife eventually lose her mind. Do you swear to keep and cherish your wife even then?"

"I do. Wherever my life may lead, 'til its end, I will love, cherish, support, and care for Silva Feyim."

I'm not the only one who notices that Faed Nirmoh has bypassed some of the holy man's words. A murmur arises from the audience.

"With the Creator as our witness, we will be faithful to and take proper care of each other, for the duration of our lives," bride and groom vow together, Silva easily accepting her groom's adjustment of the wedding.

"Does anyone have a reason why these two may not be joined? If yes, speak now, else hold your peace forevermore."

"The bride's grandmother was baseborn, the daughter of a whore and a whore herself," Essere Carraway speaks up, standing and offering Faed Nirmoh a slight bow. "Perhaps Faed Nirmoh would reconsider his choice of—"

"Grandmother was—" blurts Geddis, blushing.

"A courtesan," Silva quickly but smoothly interrupts as people stare at the family display. Her lazy tone suggests it's that time of month. Geddis's blush deepens into crimson at everyone's shocked looks. Essere Carraway gapes with surprise. Even the holy man looks startled.

Faed Nirmoh smiles. "I am fully aware of the family into which I am marrying." He winks at Aidan. I draw a sharp breath, realizing that by this wedding, Aidan will have a faery as a cousin. Not that he'll ever likely admit it officially, of course. Children of the court don't get official recognition from their fathers and legitimate siblings. It's… basic etiquette.

Then why, I wonder yet again, why am I stuck with my father's throne and my half sister's betrothal?

I miss the wedding's close in my musings—the holy man lights that candle to indicate the birth of the wedding, and he gets out another. Someone else is evidently getting married, today. Silva hugs her sister first, then Lallie. She pulls me into a firm hug.

And doesn't let go. And moves.

I automatically resist, but then I feel Lallie and Geddis on my arms, also dragging me up—

Up the dais?!

"No!" I yell, digging my heels and weight against them—and slipping on the grass with my slippered feet and falling back into Elwyn Elf-friend's grip.

Now I know what they're trying to do! "Absolutely not!" I writhe, scratch, and yank every which way to try to get away from the dais. I'm not foolish enough to try calling magic to my aid with Faed Nirmoh, Elwyn Elf-friend, and the Prophetess of the King all present.

And then my faery godmother's undoubtedly in the audience, somewhere, as my witness. "By the Creator, I'm not marrying—"

"You are betrothed by treaty," the holy man says, with just enough calm for me to know that he was forewarned that I would be less than willing, and enough relief for me to suspect that he'd been warned that I might be unwilling enough to add a bit of fire to the celebrations. "Your willingness or lack thereof to marry Prince Aidan has no bearing on your wedding."

"It would if Aidan'd just use his sense and agree with me!"

People gasp. Aidan makes a show of considering, then shakes his head with a grin. "No, I think I like this arrangement."

"You were trying so hard to break off the treaty's betrothal not all that long ago, yourself," I remind him as I make myself as hard to push up the dais as possible.

Aidan has apparently decided to take my stubbornness with good cheer. "Carling was a…" He glances at Geddis and the audience. "Well, I won't sully the children here. I'm sure you know more of your sister than I do."

"Half sister."

"Still. Marrying her would not have been very conducive to living to see my next birthday. Marrying you, on the other hand, adds a nice familial linkage to the Crystal-elves' royal line…"

I glare. He doesn't care about the politics. I know he doesn't—

Fine. He does care for the politics, but they're not his primary reasons. He'd insist on marrying me if half his noblemen would declare war on him for it. Not in such a public ceremony, of course, but he'd still yank me into it.

Actually, I know many of his nobles will declare war on him for this. Not with soldiers, but…

Is he really such a fool to think men like Essere Carraway will stand for a child of the court as queen?

I lose my struggle and am brought to the bride's place on the dais. "Halfwit," I mutter, letting my body fall limply to the ground. From the snort of quickly-muffled chuckles that produces, I think it's safe to guess that this will be one of the holy man's more memorable wedding ceremonies.

—No. I'm not marrying Aidan. No, no, no.

My lunge to get off the dais knocks Silva over and is stopped by an angry-looking Faed Nirmoh. "Excuse me, m'lord," I apologize, and try to slip out while I—

Can't.

I fight and kick and struggle and do everything I can short of calling my fire magic on these people. Even the sight of the grass shriveling and dying around me didn't faze the holy man, though I think it does many of the noblewomen. Their screams and faints and fleeing—and their children and spouses' requisite ensuing flurries—make it one empty audience indeed when Faed Nirmoh intentionally tosses me over his shoulder like a bale of hay.

"Faed Nirmoh!" That insults me. I am a queen now, after all, albeit a less than willing one.

Then I notice, upside-down, Aidan's sad little smile. And the holy man lighting the marriage candle that will be kept burning all night as—

Faed Nirmoh flinches beneath me and curses quietly as I heat to a temperature that likely scalds him. "Fool," he whispers sharply. "Brat and fool!"

"I'm a—" I struggle "accursed royal bastard, you—"

"You are a queen who is about to be very, very foolish."

The rebuke stings, and I restrain from insulting the faery. I resent that accusation. Queen Yuoleen was 'very, very foolish.' I'm practical, not hamstrung by ideals of 'Oh, let's marry regardless of what the subjects will think just because he cares for' whoever is unlucky enough to get the bloodsucking fondness of someone more powerful than she is. Or someone who has allies more powerful than she is. I could take Aidan, were it merely my magic against his sword. I know I could!

By the Creator, I'd curse Aidan if there weren't at least three mages poised to stop whatever I try, all of them with more magical training than I have. See if he wouldn't immediately blow out that marriage candle and divorce me then.

Handmaids I don't recognize await me when Faed Nirmoh tosses me in my new antechambers. They don't comment, so they were warned, too. "Get out." I am not looking pretty for Aidan tonight.

I don't bother to bolt for the door as they leave. I know that at least Elwyn Elf-friend would be there stop me, if Fael Honovi isn't. I shiver, remembering the cold rain she brought on me that time I fled from Aidan—fled with reason.

Not that my knowledge has helped me escape this mess. I'm angrier at myself than any of them. I know them. I know Silva, know how devious she can be. This was indubitably her idea.

"It's called a betrothal. The marriage comes if you like it or not. I realize you've not had your life to get used to the idea, but I'd think that you'd be used to being stuck in circumstances you'd rather have nothing to do with, by now."

Aidan's dry voice startles me. I hadn't heard him enter by the door that links this room to our… shared… bedroom. "If you hate me so much, why go through with it?" I snap. I won't look at him! "Divorce me and have done with it!"

"Hate you?!" Aidan's laugh is forcibly cheery. "You foolish girl," he scoffs bitterly. "You young… foolish… girl."

That makes me look at him, eyes narrowed. His smile says he knows precisely how much he's insulting me with that.

He draws a deep breath and returns to his serious, reserved tone, the one he usually reserves for discussion. "You're alive, Evonalé. Your father and siblings are dead. Your mother's people are free."

His tone turns gentle. "You've spent your life refusing to wish for what could never be yours. Well, now you have them, Evonalé. You have a throne. You have a husband." He swallows. "When your hair's brown fades and your eyesight dims, is this really how you want to remember your wedding night?"

Minutes pass as I gape at him.

Minutes more pass before I can cool from my flaming embarrassment, and I think the fire's unnatural vigor has damaged the chimney.

I am a fool.

[FIN]

The sequel, A Fistful of Earth, has been released (see sidebar), and book three will come later this year!

I hope you enjoyed reading A Fistful of Fire! Now that you know how the story goes, please pass along the link to start it to others who would enjoy it (http://bit.ly/startAFoF).

I'd also greatly appreciate it if you would comment about A Fistful of Fire on other sites, to help others find the story. For your convenience, I've included a list of various places where A Fistful of Fire is available, where you can review the book without having to buy it, so you can easily find the book on your preferred review site. (The same comment can be copied and pasted to all locations, too, if you're that eager to help spread the word.)

A rating of 3 stars is generally considered to be "average", so please don't feel like you need to artificially inflate how you feel about the book in order to be "nice".

For those readers interested in further appreciation of the author's work, buy a copy of A Fistful of Fire for yourself or a friend, or make use of the PayPal "Donate" button in the sidebar.

Whether you donate or not, review or not, thank you for reading. I'll update this blog with news posts when I release more in the Aleyi series.

To find out more about me and my writing—including about an urban fantasy series that's also in progress—check out my author blog: Another Author's 2 Pence.

7.13

2011-07-05T07:00:00.001-04:00

It took me nearly a month to free all the gryphons with all the attempts and recovery naps I needed, so I'm looking forward to this. Aidan's quiet as he escorts me out into one of the gardens.

I've missed the plants. And in the center of this garden, a familiar dark mare snorts. "Rowan!"

I hear him chuckle as Rowan nuzzles me. I pat her. "Who's escaped her pen again?" I hope she gets to come with me when I leave. I'm afraid to ask.

The prince watches me. "Do you like it here, Majesty?"

"Evonalé," I correct him. "Of course I do." Rowan sniffs me. "Sorry, girl; I didn't know you were looking for me. I don't have any sugar for you."

She snorts and turns away, pretending to scorn me. I know she's only pretending, because she stops if I get upset from it.

"Would you like to stay?"

I smile regretfully and stroke Rowan's hide. "I cannot impose." I've caused the deaths of more than enough people in his kingdom.

For some reason, my response makes him hesitate. I turn to look at him.

He considers a moment, then steps forward. "That's… not what I meant, Evonalé." He takes my hand. "I mean…" He sighs. "Promise not to try to burn me?"

I blink. This does not bode well, but "Of course!"

"You are your father's daughter, you know, in the legal sense."

"If you ignore every criteria regulating legitimacy that exists."

He shrugs again. "Treaty didn't exactly specify."

Then I realize what he's talking about, and I gape at him for several seconds before shutting my jaw. "I'm not marrying you!"

Aidan laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah, well, you see—"

I'm chuckling, now, and not exactly pleasantly. "No, no, no, no, no," I insist over him. "No."

He sighs. "A treaty by betrothal isn't something you can exactly get out of."

"Sure it is. Mutual consent. Halfway there, already. All you have to do is agree with me."

Aidan's looking at the trees around this garden. "My father would also have to grant his consent."

Rowan sticks her nose into my neck. A stableboy clears his throat. I let him take Rowan. Not sure why she was out here, anyway. "I'll come give you a ride later, girl."

I wait until the stableboy's out of earshot. "Your father's reasonable. He'd side with me."

Aidan snorts. "Not likely."

"He'd rather not lose his only son and heir to… assassination, coups, civil war—"

He laughs. "Civil—"

"That does tend to follow from a child of the court gaining a throne, Aidan." He had the same history lessons I did.

He remembers the cases I'm referring to, tapping his fingers against his thigh as he studies one tree's blossom's. "You mean when the child of the court causes a coup himself or assassinates her lover. This isn't the same kind of situation." He reaches up and plucks a flower. "Your mother?" he adds as an example.

"She never ruled, and elfin kingdoms don't function the same way."

Aidan shrugs, twirling the blossom between his fingers. "That your mother inherited her mother's fiancé makes that fact obvious."

I had liked the Gaylen—when he wasn't making vague prophecies about me, that is—so I don't appreciate how wrong he makes the man's choice of wife sound. "I'm sure they had a good reason for it."

Another shrug. "It's not that hard to figure out. If Queen Yuoleen had married, your mother would have been disinherited. He probably originally agreed to the idea out of a sense of pity or duty."

He offers the flower to me, but I ignore it. "He couldn't have loved her?"

His eyes widen. "Well, I hope he didn't, when she was a baby."

Only then does the age disparity between King Liathen II's parents strike me. I have to think, hard, to come up with a suitable response: "Oh."

Aidan laughs. He eventually settles down and eyes me. "Treaty still says you're marrying me, though."

I pull off my shawl to ball up and throw at him. "I'm not getting you killed!"

That statement startles him. Good. Let him realize that he risks his own life by insisting the treaty stand. I recover my shawl, put it back on, and head back inside.

It's a few seconds before he follows me. "Perhaps you'll change your mind after Silva's wedding."

I give him a long look.

He shrugs. "I know, you're not the sentimental type, but a man can hope, can't he?"

"A man can seek another wife," I reply. "If you're that eager to marry someone with few worthy prospects, what about Geddis? She's my age, has a prophetess for a sister—"

Aidan's expression and laugh say he can't believe I just suggested that. "I'm not marrying her! That's just…" He shakes his head. "Not my cousin. No."

I stare. "Your cousin?"

He cocks his head as he looks at me. "Elwyn Elf-friend is my uncle, born to King Jarvis by his mistress, Lady Fae."

I frown, trying to figure this out. "And Silva's older than you are… but your father's older."

He pauses. "No, which is much of why so many nobles hate him. For two sons, the older illegitimate and the younger legitimate, to get along as my father and uncle do is unusual enough to be considered unnatural, almost… uncouth."

He studies me curiously. "You've lived here all this time without suspecting it? There is something to be said for the discretion of servants over nobles, that's for certain."

Aidan sees my sullen look, grins, and offers a much-flourished courtly bow. "Your Majesty."

I glare.

"What? You mean you haven't been quietly thinking how lovely 'Queen Evonalé' sounds and how marvelous it will be to see the all those formerly-spitting nobles cower by your boots?"

"Queens don't generally wear boots."

His amused glance contains a hint of irritation. "Wouldn't you love to make Marigold do your mending, for once?"

I shudder. "Elves, no! She'd completely destroy it." He's giving me an odd look. "What?"

Aidan smiles slightly and kisses the back of my hand, sending shivers up my arm. "Nothing," he says mildly, "but Her Majesty is still recovering from her recent ordeal and could use her rest."

Refusing to harbor further distraction or protest, he tucks my arm under his and returns me to my rooms.

7.12

2011-07-02T07:00:00.002-04:00

My yawn interrupts the introductions between me and the gryphons. "My apologies." I blink to freshen my eyes and move so I can see more of the leader's awkward attempts to scrawl in the dirt with his claw.

I shiver to be so close to them. They stopped speaking when they noticed that and started their scrawls, instead. After several painstaking minutes of their attempts to write with their misshapen bodies, I think I understand what I need to do.

"Find and unwind the nexus of the spell that Father mastered to bind and control each of you," I mutter. Simple enough. Right.

I sit on a bench and reach inwards to grasp the magic firmly. Once I have that secure, I start my magical probing with the youngest, assuming he's been bound the most recently and therefore any traces of where the problem is will be freshest and easiest to find.

And I'm right. I find the magical bulge in seconds, survive its check that makes sure I'm of the right blood to access it, but I'm dizzy and panting by the time I manage to gently work it out.

I blink and grip my bench for support as I return to reality. "Did that work?" I somehow manage to ask while gasping for breath.

I hear coughing before my eyes focus enough to see the prepubescent owner of that voice. Lallie found a cloak to cover the boy before I recovered enough to witness his nudity. I flush and heat, anyway. "Yie."

Lallie supports me with a hand on my shoulder and checks my forehead with the back of her other hand. "Her Majesty must recover before attempting that, again."

"Lallie…" She looks at me blandly. I sigh and acquiesce. "I'll do the next one after a nap." This is going to take awhile.

7.11

2011-06-30T07:00:00.000-04:00

I finish off the ends on my nightgown, though part of me wonders if others will even let me wear the plain garb now that I'm a queen. The dress I'm wearing now is simple, but even it is of a nice fabric.

After putting the completed nightgown aside, I pull myself up and plod carefully over to the wardrobe to find a robe. Moving hurts my head. I bite my lip against the pain. I have a duty to perform.

There's a bell on my side table. After steeling myself for the pain that will bring my head, I sit on the side of the bed and ring it.

Lallie appears within seconds and curtsies, to my surprise. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Um…"

Thankfully, Lallie shows her usual good sense by smiling widely and flouncing over to sit beside me. "And how is Our Royalness doing today?" she asks, and gives me a large but gentle hug.

"…You're here?"

She releases me and gets up. "Of course! I wasn't going to leave you all by your lonesome with Rees and the head matron to tend you, the horror! I'll fetch some tea for your head," she says, "then we'll see to the gryphons."

I jerk. "What?!"

"The gryphons," Lallie repeats, then purses her lips. "Did Aidan not tell you? That boy…" She sighs and picks up some hours-old dirty dishes left over from breakfast. "They need you to release them back to their natural bodies."

"Their…" The words stick in my throat. I remember the hand, years ago, that showed under the boulder that crushed one gryphon. I gulp. "The monsters," I whisper. "Father made them that way."

Lallie almost ruffles my hair before remembering my headache; then she pokes my shoulder, instead. "Clever girl. Keep that up, and you'll be a queen fit for chronicling."

"If I survive the coups," I mutter. Nobles loathe illegitimate children.

"True," Lallie admits, and I smile at her. At least someone is thinking realistically about this mess.

That she's not refusing to admit to any possibilities but the idealistically optimistic ones is surprisingly comforting. I wish… "Thank you." I reach for her to hug her back. "I've missed you."

"Aw, girl." She nudges my back with her free elbow. "Don't talk like that." Because our places are so different. Because I'll soon be leaving for my kingdom, leaving hers behind.

As she leaves with the dirty dishes, I let my wish speak, for once. "Lallie?"

She stops. "Yes?"

"Do you think…" I swallow, uncertain if I even should ask. Salles is her home. "Do you think, when I go back… you could come with me?"

Lallie just studies me. "If the offer's still open when the time comes, I'd like that."

After she leaves, I lie down to nap until she brings my tea.

7.10

2011-06-28T07:00:00.000-04:00

"Evonalé."

"Your Highness?" I tease. Aidan shrugs, halfheartedly. Something's not right. "What's wrong?" I ask quietly. He's upset.

He sighs, glancing aside. "Drake's dead," he states directly. Aidan looks away and swallows. "Carling, too."

I nod. I remember that, now. Tears begin to form in my eyes. Why did he have to do this?

"Your father killed all his siblings and cousins, so there isn't anyone else left for the succession."

…His point?

"That leaves you queen."

For a long moment, I forget to breathe. I stare. A minute ticks by. "…What?"

"You're the only surviving heir of…" He coughs. "…Grehafen's royal family."

I laugh, convinced he's joking. He must be. Me, a baseborn child, queen. "You play!" My laugh swiftly dies at his still-serious mien. My eyes widen. "…You… don't… play…"

He smiles slyly and shrugs. "I don't know what's so special about it. It's a pain. You have advisors, nobles, and populace to keep happy; have a multitude of outrageous, not to mention illogical, rules you have to follow, else be shunned…"

I bite my lip. "If I'm queen…"

"You are," he assures me, which doesn't help me get the nerve to finish this.

"Then who's ruling Grehafen now?" I wince when the words escape my mouth. So mercenary—not like I meant them.

"His Majesty of Marsdenfel, Liathen the Second," Aidan says promptly. "It'll take some time to remove the integration between Marsdenfel and Grehafen. He's working on restructuring the kingdom, too, so you won't have to figure out and untangle everyone your father, ah, persuaded to join him."

He sighs. "But when you feel up to it, there is a matter that needs your personal attention. Nothing utterly urgent, you understand, but…"

"Right." I swallow. "And Liathen can't handle it?"

Aidan's looking up and to the side when he says "No," in a half amused, half irritated way. His brown eyes twinkle before dimming. "Speaking of acts as queen… Would Her Majesty of Grehafen be willing to ally with Salles?"

I giggle despite myself. I ponder his question, a bit puzzled. "We're already allies; I'm not going to change that. I owe you. And… we're friends, aren't we?" Rulers can be friends with each other, right?

Aidan's answer is quiet. "Of course, Your Majesty." He stands. "I'll let you sleep. Here's your knitting." He moves a basket closer to my seat. I see my not quite complete nightgown inside, with the needles and as-yet unused yarn.

He bows. "Sleep well, Majesty."

He ignores the tongue I stick out at him as he leaves.

7.09

2011-06-25T07:00:00.000-04:00

"Kgh!" I swallow more coughs. I sniffle, clumsily drinking broth before a blazing fire in one of Prince Aidan's guest rooms. I vaguely remember the carriage ride back, but it's a pain-filled haze, the bench too hard and the clatter too loud.

I'm wrapped in blankets. I don't know why I'm here. Or where anyone is. Is Silva all right? I haven't seen her since…

My head swims.

As if from far away, I hear Aidan arguing with some noblemen. He's saying something about a treaty. His father speaks too, but quietly enough that I can't distinguish any words.

After more undertones, I grimace from a yell.

"Carling's dead! Her heiress inherits the terms!"

Before drifting back asleep, I idly wonder what the noblemen have a problem with…

7.08

2011-06-23T07:00:00.000-04:00

My chest hurts. I can barely breathe. I wrack with coughing. My teeth chatter, and I'm shaking.

I cannot calm myself. Whenever I near it, I remember, and I…

My face is covered in ice from my tears. Where am I? I don't know. I don't even remember where I was before this little creek…

"Evonalé!" calls a familiar voice. I sit up, still huddled. The Crystal and Bynd lay against me. Who calls me? Should I…

Aidan comes through the trees, with a redheaded woman I half recognize. Another coughing fit takes me. He immediately enters the creek and scoops me up. "Come, Evonalé. Your people await you."

I stare at him blankly. My… what?

As we pass the woman—Jenna, I remember, though I can't remember from where—swallows and curtsies. "Your Maj…"

I lose the rest of what she says to darkness.

7.07

2011-06-21T07:00:00.001-04:00

Liathen turns left rather than right out in the hall. I hesitate at the fork in the hall. "The exit…"

He glances at me. "Our Crystal."

I freeze for a long moment before I shake it off and quickly follow him further down this hall. "It's here?"

My newly-discovered half-brother moves carefully, leaning against the wall for support. My offer of my arm he either ignores or doesn't notice. "So they have taunted me."

I wince. To be so close, for so long, and unable to do anything about it… "You don't look hungry," I blurt before my mind catches up to my mouth.

He shrugs, slightly enough that I'm sure his back hurts him. "They have to keep me healthy. It would hardly do for them to anger the Bynd by causing the death of its rightful heir."

…If he's who the Bynd wants, and he's from before Father forced Mother, then Father had to sire me so he'd be able to control the Bynd.

But I'm younger than his other children, so he didn't have control of it when he sired them, so—

"Carling and Drake can't control it!" I gasp at my accidental volume. It sounds loud, far too loud in the quiet of the hall. And I know Drake is up the hall.

Liathen sees my horror and understands. I sense him awkwardly pull on air magic to aid him as he quickens his pace towards our goal. "Come!" he snaps in felvish.

After a fear-frozen moment, I yank the fire around me to thaw me so I can continue. I don't fully release the magic as I follow his swift pace—something tells me I'm going to need it.

The door ahead shimmers, inlaid with naril. Liathen looks at me. I stare at him.

"You obviously know more magic than I do."

I flinch at the reminder. Letting my teeth chatter so I can concentrate, I check the magic on the door. It's a ward, which I recognize as identical to the one around the door to Liathen's old cell.

If I'm caught here, if they realize who I am, Aidan will die. I draw a quick breath. Silva will die, too. Faed Nirmoh is letting his fiancée risk her life for… for me?

My head starts hurting. I gather my wits and shove the door open.

I gasp at the view. Scrolls, stones, tools of magecraft fill the room. The far end glows faintly.

Liathen gently pushes me in and enters. He lets the door latch behind us. I stare all around, awestruck by all Father's line has gathered.

Was it only Grandfather who began his family's journey into magery, separating themselves from other men? Or has this family studied magic from far before Grandfather's day?

The source of the glow is under glass. I approach it, following after Liathen.

My breath catches at the sight. It's… beautiful…

The many facets glow with an ethereal light that I feel more than see, for what I see in it is Father's grand hall, where Aidan and Silva per court protocol engage in idle chatter with Father and Carling.

"Beware the theft's fulfillment, for then death will come," murmurs Liathen.

At that quote of one of Gaylen's prophecies, the reality of where I am hits me. I chill, glancing fearfully around. This must be the elf Crystal. The scene it shows centers on the Bynd Father wears.

I edge forward. Liathen nods at the glass lid of the chamber containing the Crystal. I flinch when the lid creaks as I lift it.

Liathen nods again—does he fear to touch it due to his faery blood? Faeries are sensitive to this kind of magic. I tentatively touch the Crystal, the one that the Creator Himself gave to my grandmother's people.

It's warm.

In its center I see Father redden and Carling stiffen at a comment of Aidan's. Gryphons adjust their stances on their perches, which line the walls of Father's hall like plants once did King Aldrik's.

I grab the gem, startled when a light flares behind me at the wards around the door. I blink at its afterimage, then return to studying what I hold.

I stare into the Crystal in shock as the Bynd's light flares grey, consuming its usual orange as flames consume Father like they did Mother. The orange returns, stronger than before and edged by green.

…He's dead?

Something—one—lunges into me. I let out a cry, the gemstone flying from my hands. I hear it skip across the floor.

Drake!

I scratch at him, yank at his hair, struggling to get away. Magic-fueled fire surrounds us, my purple dancing with his orange. Mine destroys the few roughly-aimed curses he manages to fling into his foolish attempts to burn me, a fellow fire mage. The fire smolders my clothing, instead.

Sidelong I can see movement in the view the Crystal provides, but that's all I can see as I fight Drake.

He muzzles me with his arm. I bite it, shoving fire into his eyes to block his vision.

He growls, releasing me. I scramble over to the Crystal and scoop it up. The sight it reveals makes me freeze. Silva is fighting Carling?

I gape. Silva can't fight! Killing drives Hearers mad!

The gryphons aren't helping her, but they aren't coming to the princess's defense, either. One seems to be preening whenever Carling falters, but it's hard to tell with its grotesque form.

Aidan casually reaches in his sleeve, retrieves his knife, and stabs Carling's torso from behind. Surprise is all that shows on her face as she falls, blood pooling on her gown, and I know it does on mine, too, that Aidan could so easily kill—

But then he grimaces and swallows, looking a little green, and I know he's going to have nightmares from that moment. Suddenly, he looks around the hall frantically. He grabs the Bynd from Father's ashes and runs out.

Drake pries my people's Crystal from me. I hit him, sending it across the room once more. He grabs my wrist and twists. The pain makes me scream. I pull the magic around me, try to fight him…

I cannot— He's too strong! Yie! "Fael Honovi!" My screeching petition is useless here. Someone in Father's ancestry had a care to make Grehafen castle so faeries couldn't shift planes here.

Someone topples Drake. Abruptly he and Aidan are in a tangled heap of limbs and grunts, smearing blood on the floor. I hastily stagger to my feet.

The Crystal flies my way. I barely catch it. I clutch the elves' freedom to my chest.

Aidan bites back a cry. Is he hurt?!

He breaks free of Drake for a moment; flings the Bynd at me. "Flee!"

Tears freezing on my cheeks, I immediately obey.

I must get out!

My feet carry me past Liathen restraining the willing but unfortunately bespelled Jenna, out of the castle, out into the forest…

I splash through a creek, slipping and falling hard against the stepping stones. I taste blood.

Seeing my tattered and burned gown's reflection, the welts on my arms, my hanging wrist, I realize just how close Drake came to subduing me. I gasp, curl up in the frigid water, and sob uncontrollably, clasping the now freed Crystal and Bynd…

7.06

2011-06-18T07:00:00.000-04:00

Someone shakes me.

My eyes snap open. A pretty redhead leans over the bed I lay on.

…Bed?

I sit up. I gasp, hastily quitting His Highness's sleeping chamber. Jenna follows me. "Nallé!"

I rub my face, trying to remember how I'd gotten in Prince Aidan's bed. I fell asleep by the fire, my knitting in my lap. I have a vague impression of His Highness entering…

Ah. He must've moved me.

My face burns. That must've been why he'd directed that I not be bothered. Others would've assumed I was sleeping in because we'd…

Jenna grabs my arm from behind. "Nallé!"

I start, remembering that's my name. "Yes?"

She's tense and glaring at me a little, but she releases me and curtsies slightly in respect to the guest, me. "I thought you'd want breakfast."

I blink, surprised that she would bother. Then I remember that most of the visitors to Grehafen are kingdoms under Father's rule, and therefore visitors that are peers to Jenna in her position as mistress to the Crown Prince are few and far between.

After what has probably been too long a pause to be fully polite, I copy her slight curtsy. "I'm honored by your attentions, Lady Jenna."

Jenna snorts, confirming my suspicion that she isn't well-bred—or if she is, she isn't fond of etiquette. "I'm no lady, and I never was one." She studies me. "I think you are, though."

The freezing sensation travels through me. My tongue sticks in my throat. Reminding myself what she and Drake probably did last night promptly relieves that problem. "Oh?" I step towards the door, inclining my head for her to go first. "What makes you think that?"

"You're a child of the court, aren't you?"

Ah, so she's a smart one, too. If she's smart enough to hide it, Drake might even bother to marry her if he gets peeved enough at Father. He'll kill her eventually, either way. I nod graciously. "So I've been told," I murmur as we traverse the halls towards the kitchens.

"Have you been with Prince Aidan long?"

I intentionally misinterpret her question so I can answer "Years. You?"

Jenna laughs and feigns innocence. "Oh, I've never been with Prince Aidan."

"Prince Drake, then."

She shrugs. "Awhile," she answers vaguely, and I get the impression that Jenna herself can't remember. It wouldn't be unlike Carling to find an intelligent lowborn woman to strike her brother's fancy for spying purposes, I realize. I tentatively reach into the magic around me to see.

My stomach lurches as I identify traces of memory-and-loyalty affecting magic use, some of it delicate and precise enough that only Carling could have worked it. A noticeable chunk is brutishly done with Drake's overly rough style, sickening me further. I doubt she was willing when Drake first took her. Nowhere do I glimpse anything that I can identify as Father's.

I withdraw my magic cautiously so I don't brush against anyone else's tendrils and leave my own traces in the magic. But I pay for my magical concentration with my physical—I slip on some water that I've neglected to notice.

Jenna catches me, but despite her extra head of height over me, I nearly topple her over. "P—pardon," I sputter, caught off-guard.

The woman catches herself before anything rash escapes her lips. She frowns and carefully says, "It was nothing." Rather than resume walking towards the kitchen, though, she stops beside the forbidden hallway that I try not to think about. An orange glow encircles the entrance, just like it did when I was small.

I entered it once, as a child, making it down a few feet before Father caught me. It was a month before I could walk, again.

This corridor is still empty for the time being. I itch to continue, not wanting to be found here.

"They've changed me, haven't they?"

I jerk, startled by Jenna's blurt. "I, I—" I stop, and collect myself so I can speak clearly. "How would I know? I never knew you, before…"

Her bland expression makes me stop. Jenna glances around; the hall is still empty. She steps closer to me and says quietly, "You were surprised to be in his bed." So I'm not who or what I pretend to be, she omits. "My memory may be garbled, but there's nothing wrong with me, otherwise." She furrows her brow and frowns. "I hope."

I swallow, reigning in fear's ice enough to ask, "What do they say happened?"

"That I caught a brain fever," Jenna says frankly, "but I'd remember having that. I can't say how I know that, but I should remember having it if that's what's wrong with me." She pauses. "I think I was an herbalist."

I nod slowly, shuffling back so I can lean against the wall beside the forbidden hall. An herbalist with the habit of tasting the herbs she worked with probably also ate linashor, which would explain why the alteration spells have failed enough for Jenna to realize they're there without Drake or Carling noticing her knowledge.

This could be a trap, but something inclines me to believe her. Something…

The realization hits me abruptly, stopping me midbreath. Carling would never think to pretend that one of her spells were slipping. She's far too proud.

Drake's not nearly duplicitous enough for it, either. And when Father wants to trap someone, he does it himself, not through his children's toys. They have likely changed in the years since I've known them, but I doubt that significantly.

I reach into the folds of my skirt, into a little pouch where I'd hidden my personal safeguard against my family: linashor. I give her a strand. "It's nasty raw," I tell her softly, "but it'll keep any of them from pulling information from your mind for now."

Jenna takes it, looks at it, looks at me, and looks down the forbidden hallway. "Drake's there, now." She sticks the whole bit of linashor in her mouth, stumbling and grabbing the wall for support at the taste. "Ick." She swallows a few times and wipes her mouth. "I'll distract him. You go do what you need to."

I pause, at first in surprise but then eyeing the odd glow around the entrance. "I don't—"

"They aren't fools," she snaps. "Wait for them to realize you and Prince Aidan have lied to them if you like, but you'll not get a better chance to do what you came here for than I'm giving you now."

"…Why am I here?" I ask weakly.

Jenna scowls. "To find just cause to free Prince Aidan from his betrothal. And as someone who lives here, I can swear to you that your search will find nothing except down that hall." She turns about and strides down the forbidden hall before I can respond, much less protest.

I gulp. Most of me wants to flee back to my rooms, to find Aidan and Silva and ask them for help. But most of me also recognizes that by the time I collected them, this opportunity would be passed, and if I fail here, I'd rather not kill the two of them, too.

Carling will kill Aidan, I remind myself. I must try to save him.

And Silva. I stiffen, realizing what I've been trying to keep myself from noticing. This castle isn't faery-friendly, to keep out Fael Honovi. Silva risks her tenuous sanity by being here, as well as her life.

I force myself to take the first step, directly into the ring. Fire-based magic flares to life around me, but it doesn't even attempt to burn me, letting me through.

I'm part of the family. Just like Jenna, who has shared her body with Drake, is part of the family.

It's slow going, ensuring that I make very little sound without letting myself fall. I'm most careful in passing the doorway behind which I hear Drake and Jenna making noises that I really don't want to think about.

Several yards in, the light vanishes except for a faint glimmer of a nearby torch fastened to the wall. I stumble, gasping as I recognize the odd hazy vision from the nightmares I've had since my sixteenth birthday.

If this haze is true, what does that say for the man in my dreams, Liathen?

I remember the nightmare with Drake's attempt to shove me into a torch's flame, and I decide I'd rather have that advantage, myself. I stand still for a few seconds, hear nothing, then reach up for the torch. I remove my veil and wrap it around the handle, and I release the torch from its perch with more caution than speed. Thus armed with my own external supply of light and fire, I resume my travel.

Soon, I glimpse on the left a short adjacent tunnel with a door at the end. I turn for a better view and notice a line of runes encircle the tunnel a few paces ahead. The runes look strange, translated, transformed into a language I do not know nor recognize.

Crossing lines of magic I cannot read could cause anything: death, poisoning, raising of an alarm, nothing. I shouldn't…

But it's hardly less foolhardy than anything else I've done so far, today. That hall may be where I need to go. The Bynd might be there.

I lift my torch to examine the runes more closely, but they are still unrecognizable. My arm shakes, the torch sputters, and I reach my left hand towards the runes.

Nothing happens to my fingers. I edge forward and offer my wrist.

Nothing.

I step swiftly through the rune circle.

Through the runes. Nothing happens. Why would Father make useless runes? Why would anyone?

The door.

I still hear nothing; I'm still alone down here. Carefully, I unlatch the door and slowly open it, wincing as it creaks.

An oddly frail male of Aidan's age leans against the wall in long chains. Oddly frail, for his frame is similar to my mostly-human one, and he seems unusually well-fed for a prisoner.

He looks up only slightly, as if the torchlight is too bright for him to adapt to directly. I'm reminded of my own mild sensitivity to light.

"Who are you?"

After a minute, he squints directly at me. His puzzlement shifts into a glare. "Who am—" A cough interrupts his hoarse question, as if he's not used to often speaking or having enough water to keep his throat moist. "Who are you? Only Grehafen's royal blood can pass the runes."

Is the Crystal, is the Bynd behind similar magic? Is that why I must be the one to free it?

I jerk my torch up as I shiver from the fear-induced cold. A swallow wets my dry mouth a little. "I'm Evonalé Yunan," I manage to say. Something about his narrow features strikes me as familiar.

"Be my daughter," he murmurs, glancing away before his eyes lock on my face and he studies me. Their intense grey by torchlight reminds me of Gaylen's vibrant blue.

The man from my dreams.

After a good minute of his examination, he quietly states, "I am Liathen the Second, son of Gaylen and…" he pauses. "His wife."

"Gaylen had a wife?" Who would give the son a king's name? Did Queen Yuoleen give her crown to her prophet Gaylen?

Liathen smiles slightly, intense eyes glancing towards the door before returning to me. He moves his arms, chains clanking. "I don't suppose you have the key?"

"No…" But I do know that unlocking spell that Faed Nirmoh taught me. Might it work?

No, not might. It will work. I concentrate, thinking only of the chains unlocking themselves, falling from the wrists of Liathen to the floor to free him as I draw the runes Faed Nirmoh taught me to summon the magic and focus it at the chains.

A stray thought jerks me as the chains slip to the floor. "But the runes! How can you leave?"

Liathen offers a slight rueful smile. "We share a mother," he said quietly.

What?!

In my shock, I dimly realize he has taken my torch and held the door open for me. I recoil when he gently touches my shoulder.

"Come," he says, still with the quiet that suits the prince he is—with faery blood, no less!

My mother's legitimate son leads the way out.

7.05

2011-06-16T07:00:00.000-04:00

Though Prince Aidan sprawls on an armchair, the only sound comes from my knitting.

Clickety-clack-click!

The fire is out. I shiver from a draft. Aidan doesn't seem to notice. He doesn't seem to notice anything, right now, not even his awry brown locks or royal garb, or the steaming teapot awaiting pouring. It unnerves me. I almost like when he stares at me better.

Clickety—

My needles' clacking pauses as I take a moment to smooth out the fabric. The soft white nightgown already takes shape. Since that ugly sweater incident, I've bothered to pay the more for the nicer yarns. "With the work I managed today, this might be done by the end of the week," I comment, wanting the silence to end.

Instead of replying, he starts stealing glances at me. It discomfits me even more. I squirm in my chair. Minutes pass.

Suddenly, he stirs in his seat. "Carling is obscene."

I nod, focusing intensely on my knitting, on the white yarn and oaken needles, struggling to keep my hands from shaking. She's keen and cruel, too.

His sigh sounds frustrated. I turn towards him. He looks frustrated, too.

He abruptly gets up, stance tense with anger. He stiffly walks to the window, sticking his head out into the fresh air.

"What are gryphons, anyway?"

My jerk yanks the fabric, causing the stitch I drop to unravel down several rows. "Your Highness?"

It doesn't distract him. "You heard me."

I swallow hard. "Th—" My voice squeaks. "They enforce Father's rule, Highness." His look orders me to continue. "Th… they can siphon someone's life…"

"What of the fire curse? Can they set that, too?"

I cough. "N—no, Highness." My shrill voice hurts my own ears. "But they can activate it if you've been cursed—"

He shifts and interrupts with "Is Carling a hussy?"

I blink. Why does he ask that? The queries concerning gryphons are strange enough. "Your Highness?"

This time, he shoots me an irritated glance at the attempt to distract him. "Is my fiancée like her father and brother?"

I gulp. "Not that I'm aware of, Highness."

Aidan frowns. He returns to his former position; his broad hand grips the back of my chair. I hunch forward over my knitting so his hand won't touch my back, watching him sidelong.

"She always was too keen on her magery to show interest in much else," I add, I hope helpfully. Aidan shouldn't be so upset over this. "She spends much of her time in the forbidden hallway."

"Forbidden…?"

I nod. "Only the family can enter it. We think it's for learning about magecraft, the Bynd…"

"The Bynd?" comes the sharp response.

Now that I've riveted his attention, I regret it. Cold rushes to my face. "I… It…" My throat sticks. "…No matter, Your Highness."

I quiver under that brown stare.

He glances away, for once accepting my intentional tease. "So the hall holds their power?"

I don't answer, because I don't know.

He peruses me for several stitches, returns to slouch in his chair. Silence reigns for several more minutes while I carefully recover the dropped stitch. The silence isn't nearly as discomfiting as I found it earlier, since I now know it's better than whatever questions he's considering.

I hear Aidan slowly straighten in his chair. He leans towards the dead fireplace. "Have you ever thought about what you would like to happen, rather than merely what you don't want to happen?" He absentmindedly gets up sets about restarting the fire.

Yet another odd question. "What do you mean?"

"What…" He sighs, looking around the pale grey marble room. It chills easily, but Father probably figured that we wouldn't mind that. The prince takes the poker and stokes the teeny flame the kindling brings forth. "What are your dreams?"

I'm confused. "At night?" He knows what I am; doesn't he know elves don't have them?

He shakes his head. "For the future."

The question puzzles me, even now that I understand it. "…I don't believe I've thought about it."

Aidan nods slowly, unperturbed even by my attempt to tease him as he stares into the steadily-growing fire he crouches before. "I thought not."

"What does that mean?" I accidentally wonder aloud.

He doesn't move. "You're too worried about what's about to happen to consider what you want." Aidan shrugs. "Comes with your… inordinate fear, I guess."

"Inordinate?"

"Inordinate." His head turns so he can give me a sharp look—I almost think he looks hurt. "You know I'm not like Drake. You also know that Silva and I are here to help you. Why can't you trust us, trust the Creator, that you can survive this?"

I laugh. I can't help it.

But the laugh ringing off the marble surrounding us reminds me of other laughs I've heard, here, of Carling and Drake and Father…

I swallow self-consciously and focus on forming the twin rib-pattern bodice. What am I on, again? An eyeing of the fabric tells me to do another knit stitch before purling three for the row's end.

Clickety-click-click! My work resumes.

I steal a glance at him. Aidan's eyes are closed, his finely-chiseled face drawn. My knitting drops. Could my distrust hurt him?

My body chills at the thought. Of course it hurts him, even if I dare not consciously consider why.

Oh, why lie? He's often reasonable; maybe a direct explanation will help him get over his foolish fondness for me. I set my knitting aside. "In case you haven't noticed, we're surrounded by three, well-trained lethal mages with their magical guards, and I'm supposed to somehow cause their power over Marsdenfel to topple. I'm not even certain how the magic worked to give them that control to begin with.

"Add that whatever magic gives them that control almost certainly doesn't apply to me," I add, referencing my illegitimacy but for some reason remembering Liathen in my dreams, "and my likelihood of surviving drops from 'improbable' to 'miraculous'."

"The Creator can work miracles."

I ignore that overly hopeful point. The Creator can, certainly. He actually does very rarely.

"Anyone who tries to manipulate the Bynd, the spell commanding the elves' Crystal, without being of the proper family, dies. It's part of the spell."

He gives me a frowning look. "You are of the proper family."

I'd laugh if the memories my prior laughing had brought weren't quite so clear in my mind. "I'm a child of the court, Aidan! The only thing I'm 'proper' for is being a courtesan.

"Besides," I continue, before he can insist, again, that my illicit heritage means nothing, "Carling is far from stupid. Drake and Father may be convinced that I can't be elfin, but she already knows your father took me in. We're going to slip sometime, and she will notice. And that won't bode well for either of us."

I pick my knitting back up and eye my place in the fabric. "I'll do what I can to see you spared, but by the Creator, don't seek to save me. I'm not worth saving." I hear him breathe in sharply at my frankness, but I ignore it and focus on my knitting. Knit three, purl—

"Why don't we try it?"

I actually manage to stick myself with my knitting needle from my jerk at his unexpected and inexplicable question. My "Ow!?" is not the 'What?' I hoped to ask, but he answers it, anyway.

"The blood test. See how you would respond." He pours a bit of still-hot water from the unused teapot and finds a sewing needle in my bag. Without asking, he takes my small hand, examining the fingers closely before pricking one. I flinch, staring at him blankly.

"Forgive me." He squeezes my fingertip slightly over the glass. A drop of my blood falls in.

It dips from the momentum of its fall—then floats.

I shiver from the room's chill as the wind outside shifts enough to catch a crack, causing a draft. He puts another log on the fire and finds a quilt to give me. He insists on tucking it around me, though I glare. He's a bit old to be so foolish.

When he persists in his attentions, I make myself freeze as if he frightens me. Aidan notices my stiffening almost immediately and lets go. His cheek twitches.

"Stay here. I'll direct that you're not to be bothered. Get some sleep, if you can."

And, hurt by what he assumes is fear, he leaves.

I think over our past conversation and pale. Did I really call him Aidan'?

News 7.02

2011-06-14T13:03:00.001-04:00

News:

The proof copy for A Fistful of Fire is in my lap as I type this. I've already found a typesetting-induced typo, though, so I'll be modifying that, and after seeing this, I want to make a wraparound cover. I'm not sure I like what avoiding widows & orphans has done to some of the line spacing, either.

I have my bright pink pen ready to mark up the book when I have a few hours to devote to it. Any typos I find while doing that (because there's always another typo) will likewise be fixed in the e-book version.

I think CreateSpace will require me to go through another proof copy round before I can approve a new version. Still, this 5.25x8" copy is a comfortable size. The binding is nice, too.

So. I'm a step closer to having A Fistful of Fire ready for print release.

Also, The Great INDIE Summer Giveaway starts tomorrow (6/15/11)! Dozens of indie authors are participating, and I'll even be doing a guest post. I've seen a list of the books to be offered, and if I weren't one of the giveaway authors, I'd try to win some of those titles, myself!

Check it out for a chance to win some of the many titles being offered—including an e-book copy each of A Fistful of Fire and of Destiny's Kiss, my urban fantasy novel to be released the first week of July!

7.04

2011-06-14T07:00:00.000-04:00

I'm reminded of Dwaline-Het while I eat this meal, served beside Prince Aidan just like Drake's current mistress is served beside her master. She's a lovely veil-less redhead with hands rough enough that she may have been peasant-born. Her name, Jenna, suggests origins on the higher end of low middle class, but low is low. I wonder how Drake found her.

Father, Carling, and Prince Aidan chat, with the occasional additions from Silva or Jenna. Jenna's ability to make intelligent observations on the court gossip conversation surprises me. Drake had always boasted that he'd only take a woman without much brain in her head, admittedly with a pointed stare at his sister. Carling's attempts to kill him, the elder of the two, haven't precisely been few.

I say nothing. Drake doesn't, either, but his bleary blinking and grimaces at loud noises suggest his silence is due mostly to a hangover.

Carling eyes Silva curiously. "I am surprised you look so well-dressed after such a long journey."

The prophetess nods politely. "Thank you. It is Nallé's doing."

"She must have the gift of beauty, then." Carling looks at me. "And you must also be beautiful to have your position. Are you elfin?"

Yie! Hardly am I here for an hour before that question arises! I draw a deep breath, struggling against my freezing. I cannot afford to let myself take fright. The ivy growing everywhere helps. "I cannot say, Princess." My voice comes out as a murmur as I misleadingly phrase that truth.

"A simple test can determine that." Father waves at one of the elf-maid 'servants', who immediately leaves and promptly returns with a glass of steaming clear liquid. I stare at her, wondering if she's anyone I should recognize. She looks half-familiar, but so do most of the slaves here, even some of the small children who I know I never met.

Father holds up the glass. My blood chills.

"We have discovered that elfin blood sinks in hot water. Do you mind, Aidan?"

Aidan hesitates before shaking his head. Ice creeps over my body. I stare at him. How can he? I may only be a quarter elf, but if my blood sinks—

Abruptly, I strangle the fear, thawing myself so I don't panic. I must trust in my father's blood to save me—the very one who now seeks to enslave me. How ironic.

The slave lass reluctantly brings the demanded needle. She hates this. I swallow.

Aidan himself takes the sharp object. His other hand takes mine. He holds it well, then pokes—

His own hand?

Clenching his hand in a fist over mine, he hands Carling the glass. She lifts it gracefully to study its contents. The blood floats, as is normal.

Even though it's been years since I last saw Carling, I recognize the flicker of disappointment in her eyes as she dramatically returns the glass to Aidan. "An even rarer catch, then." Her lips curve into a self-assured smile. "She must please you well."

Despite my veil, I cannot bring myself to watch her directly. My face burns. After all this time of worrying about Drake, I'd forgotten her poor taste, too.

She could hardly be expected to lack it, given our family history and her preference for a great deal of free time to work her magic in peace. Encouraging the men she knows to take their pleasure would only further her goal of out-studying Father.

Aidan hides his discomfort, but I see his knuckles whiten on the hand gripping the napkin in his lap. "Very well," he returns with a mimickry of her smile. He moves my unpricked hand under the table to his lap. "I only take the best."

Only his pressure on my hand reminds me that I must play along. I fight the bile rising in my throat.

Carling primly slices a thin bit of fine cake and takes a bite. "I would think the noble women of Salles castle would fight over who would get her aid for affairs, with her gift of beauty."

Aidan has to think before he responds to that. "We don't exactly publicize it."

"Ah." Carling smiles. "I understand. Perhaps I could borrow her beautifying services for the wedding, or would that impose on your time with her overmuch?"

I shiver at the idea. Drake may be brutal like Father, but Carling is devious and cruel. She wouldn't mind seeing what I look like to know how Aidan's tastes run, and she's smart enough that she could guess my identity if she saw me. She knows I was in Salles, and she's already tried to kill me once while she knew I was there.

That I suspect she'd be willing to find another of Aidan's presumed tastes to replace me after she disposed of me keeps me embarrassed enough to not freeze.

Aidan glances at me, hesitates, then carefully responds, "I'd rather have her company."

Carling nods graciously. She has no jealousy, only a greedy interest. The she-mage likes this rake of a betrothed she thinks she has. The less he desires to bother her, the more time she will have for herself.

I cannot finish my meal. I've lost my appetite.

7.03

2011-06-11T07:00:00.000-04:00

We make good time to Grehafen, since we can't put it off any longer. I spot the elf-small slaves first, tending the fields under gryphons' beady gaze. My mouth goes try.

"Try to calm down."

I start at Prince Aidan's voice. I turn towards him slightly, preferring to keep what little space we have between us in the carriage. "Your Highness?"

He raises his hand as if to pat my shoulder, but Silva glares at him. He lowers it. "You're on edge."

I set my jaw, not bothering to reply as the carriage clatters over the drawbridge. On the other side, male elves, slaves, pull up the bridge by rope, sweat pouring down them in the summer heat. Younger ones come to guide our horses to the stable. Father's deepened the moat since I fled.

Prince Aidan helps Silva step down from the carriage, then comes around to assist me. I keep my head bowed, despite my veil. Father and Carling greet us. I restrain myself from pondering what Drake is probably doing.

I keep a little behind His Highness, more out of fear than for respect of my supposed station. Aidan presents Silva first, letting her be ahead of him by right of her rank.

"You remember Silva Feyim, Prophetess of the King my father, of course." His smile's sweetness is false enough that I'm sure Father and Carling have noticed. He moves forward himself, offering to take Carling's arm.

Carling dodges it gracefully, waving towards me. "What of Lady…?" she asks, obviously knowing full well that I'm no lady, but as obviously wanting me to not be exempt from the political maneuvering.

Aidan frowns, confused for a moment. "Lady—" He glances at me, realizes what Carling's doing, and immediately turns his voice frank. He laughs a little, nervously. "That's not a lady."

"And she would be?"

"My… girl."

Carling smiles. "At least you had something to enjoy in your delay."

Aidan's frozen smile lasts a few seconds as he wonders how he's supposed to respond to that. Then he spots Drake squinting out the massive oak door that someone's holding open for us. "Drake! You remember Nallé, of course?" he calls.

Introductions duly made, Aidan carelessly takes Carling's arm with his right, mine with his left and starts walking us towards the castle.

"You must be famished." Father completely ignores me. He doesn't comment on our lateness, either. "This way."

News 7.01

2011-06-09T23:31:00.001-04:00

News:

I've been saying the end is in sight for awhile now, so new topic.

I've ordered the CreateSpace proof for A Fistful of Fire. I've gone with the smallest book size I can produce: 5.25"x8". So the print version should be coming soon!

I've released an urban fantasy short story, "The Corpse Cat", for $0.99. If you read the story, I'd appreciate it any reviews you'd want to leave on Amazon, GoodReads, Smashwords, etc.

Any writers among my readers might want to check out the new Myth Breakers forums. It's brand new, still pretty empty, but it's a nice environment so far.

Thanks!

7.02

2011-06-09T07:00:00.000-04:00

After an annoying few hours of study that were surprisingly less draining than expected, I drag myself up the stairs. With our task done, we'll be resuming our journey towards Grehafen soon. Getting it over with will be such a relief.

I lean against my door to open it, stumble in—stumble over something on the floor that I can still see somewhat despite the dark. My attempt to catch myself catches on something else in the darkened room, and I land, hard, on a few things that weren't there this morning. Whatever they are, they blend with the floor.

I only realize I've bitten my lip when I taste blood. It's not a bad injury, I find when I test it with my tongue.

The racket brings Silva with a lantern. I blink at it, shielding my eyes from the unwelcome light.

"Evonalé?" she asks after a few attempts that get interrupted by yawns. "Are you…?" She lifts her lantern to find some large rocks on the floor and moved furniture. "This wasn't here when I went to bed."

Aidan finally saunters in, yawning and stretching. "Problem?"

Even when I thought her a mere maid, I knew better than to think Silva stupid. She scowls at him and picks up one of the rocks. "You know Evonalé can't navigate a mess like this in the dark." She puts it away as best as she can, up against the wall out of the way.

He merely gives her and me a bland look. "I trust that will bruise?"

"You were trying to bruise her?!"

"I asked him to," I quickly interrupt, recognizing Silva's tone as tired and irritable enough to possibly do something more drastic than her standard calm scoldings. I still think she caused those hiccups Aidan couldn't get rid of two weeks ago after 'innocently' asking if she and Master Oscar shared a (giant) cousin.

With her apparent sensitivity to the question, I can't help but wonder if she is at least a little giant. That ancestry would explain why no one ever got mad at Lord Elwyn for marrying a cook. From the legends that I now know not to discount entirely, giants have clan structures that tend to be very problematic for anyone who insults one member of the clan.

"You asked him to give you bruises?"

"So I look abused," I explain, too tired to fully feel the surprise I should that Aidan remembered the promise he'd made me a month ago to give me bruises one night. I'd forgotten it, myself.

"Bruising you is abuse."

I'm too tired for this. "Just go back to bed."

"Yes, Silva, do. We have an early morning, tomorrow." Aidan's far too alert and cheerful for the middle of the night—a time when I'm supposed to be the alert one. "If we leave early and set a quick enough pace, we should reach Grehafen in time for supper."

"Thank you," I say before Silva can put words to her weary sigh.

"You're awfully eager for something you're convinced will kill you," she snipes.

"I've waited with this looming over my head long enough. Now, I just want it over with." And honestly, learning to burn spells makes me feel a lot better about my ability to defend myself. That is something even Carling won't expect me to know. I think.

Aidan takes Silva by the arm and guides her to the door to her room. "Go. To. Bed." He gently pushes her in, then turns to me. I step back to his step towards me. "That goes for you, too."

I probably look more sullen than I intend to in my exhaustion, but I nod and plod to my room. Aidan catches me as I trip and sees me safely through my door. Then he goes back to his own room.

That reminds me that with our renewed travel comes the renewed pretense that I'm his unwilling mistress. Fun.

7.01

2011-06-07T07:00:00.000-04:00

Year 250 of the Bynding

En Route to
the Kingdom of Grehafen

Early Summer

Spells leave traces behind, prints. A practiced mage can easily identify when magic has been used.

No matter how carefully a spell is worked, how well it is hidden, it can still be found.

Magic is never anonymous.

—Endellion

"Ulk." I swipe chunks of mud from my face and clothing. Silva wasn't kidding when she called kobolds 'nimble', and nimble I most definitely am not. Silva's faster and more sure-footed than I am, and she's easily twice my size.

The kobolds might not be sentient, but they do have a knack for realizing who in our threesome is the easiest to unfoot. The little pink critters have tripped me up many times, with their pointed ears up and stick-tails crooked in mischief. Mud seeps and rocks tear through veils with depressing ease.

On the bright side, individuals aren't smart enough to realize that I've caught each of their brethren magically after that. Each time I use my magic to catch a kobold, I lower my ability to catch one with my hands, but I never had much chance of pulling that off, anyway.

I pick my way carefully over to Aidan and Silva. Aidan holds this last kobold hostage by pinning it to the ground by a knife through the ear while Silva pries the naril earring from the little four-fingered hands. The kobold alternates between squealing at Aidan and chittering at her.

Silva finally gets the earring and straightens, one hand on her back. "Last one," she says with a grim smile and a wince. "Only took what, a month?"

"Near enough. At least we had the coachman to alert my dear fiancée that we'd be late." Aidan sounds flippant, but I notice him glance over me to ensure my veil's secure.

Father sent one gryphon to check on us that he noticed; I haven't told him about the others. Even Silva neglects to mention the magical tension and feeling of being watched when they come. I doubt Aidan is keen enough in magic to recognize the sensation as any more than a chill.

Aidan frees the kobold, which immediately takes off. He cleans his knife and sticks it back in his sleeve.

"Boot would be more comfortable," I mutter.

He glances at me. "Sleeve is easier to reach without raising suspicions," he replies in a similar tone. "Besides, you're hardly an expert in knives."

I ignore that point. "What are you going to do, kill Father with it? It's hardly—"

"We should return to Master Oscar," Silva interrupts.

More lessons. Wonderful. I yawn. As if learning to burn spells like I can physical things hasn't been exhausting enough every evening; now he wants to teach me how to examine a static spell.

"Static spells are a lot easier to identify than dynamic ones." It's not that time of month for Silva; I've just grumbled overmuch. Her hearing isn't as bad as she sometimes wishes it were; a detail I've picked up from her own grumbling.

I scowl and snap my jaw shut against a yawn. "You don't need to know what something is to burn it; you just need to know the type, intensity, and trajectory."

Silva won't let it rest. "A technique that would be difficult enough against one hostile opponent, much less three." Interesting how contagious depression and pessimism can be.

Aidan ignores my dark look. "As I've been saying."

"Can we discuss something other than our pending deaths for daring to withstand three powerful mages?" Silva asks mildly.

Aidan immediately starts a monologue on his most recent batch of pups and which stud he told the servants to pair with each bitch in his absence.

I dig some mud out from behind my ear and flick it at him. "Oh, shut up."

6.10

2011-06-04T07:00:00.001-04:00

"So…" Silva asks, a gentleness softening the sharp tone of her curiosity. "What's this I hear about us taking a detour south?"

I give her a blank look while I knit on my nightgown. Grehafen is northwest. From Dwaline-Het, due north and south are only more of the Dwaline Mountains; Salles is southeast. Southwest is the Redskin Plain, named such due to the 'skin' of red earth that covers it, and for the reddish color of its famous horses.

She reads my silence correctly as cluelessness. "Charla congratulated me on Prince Aidan having promised to help the most notorious hermit around. He evidently relishes making people miss their appointments."

I flinch. That doesn't sound good. "South as in back to Salles or south as in the Redskin Plains?"

Silva pauses. "South as in 'nearing Breidentel'." That name sounds familiar. She explains, "Small kingdom on some of the uppermost Dwalines."

Elves. I stiffen. That's why I recognized it: it's an elvish construction.

…Actually, isn't that the kingdom whose royal bastard gossip purports me to be?

"From what I've heard of him, the hermit himself might even be elfin, at least in part—"

"He isn't," interrupts Aidan as he enters. "Some kobolds stole some naril he had; he's not as young or limber as he used to be, so he needs a bit of help getting it back."

He pauses. Silva watches him with an odd expression on her face. "Honestly, by the looks of him, I'm not sure he ever was limber, but that's irrelevant. If he's part anything other than dwarf, it's part giant."

A minority kind that grows unusually large. But… "Kobolds?"

Aidan nods sharply. "Yep."

I give him a long, blank stare. He doesn't get it. Of course he doesn't—I've forgotten the veil I'm wearing. "What's a kobold?"

Silva chuckles, suddenly more relaxed than she's been since my state as Aidan's presumed mistress started. "Little nimble creatures that like shiny things for their nests. Often take valuables. Some people even train the critters as thieves."

"So they're animals."

Aidan pauses. "Yes." He swallows noisily, and when I look at him I notice that he's just barely restraining himself from laughing at me.

I just look at him over my knitting.

"Why are we helping him?" Silva asks.

Again, a pause; then he shrugs and goes to a nearby table and pours himself some rakshi from the carafe there into one of the provided cups. "He needs it."

Silva frowns. "I'll rephrase that: what is he going to give that's going to help you against King Darnell and his legitimate heirs?"

I stare at her, thankful for the veil and its ability to hide that I'm staring. Unfortunately, Aidan loses his composure at that. He gapes. "Y… I thought you thought… I mean…"

"I did so think, up until, oh, two minutes ago." She glances between us. "You converse far too easily."

My fault. "Yie."

"And you may want to watch your elvish interjections."

Sound sticks in my throat. I swallow and nod.

"He says fire mages can burn spells, including curses," Aidan blurts. "When I said I knew a fire mage, he said he'd be willing to teach my friend if I did him a favor. Per popular gossip, he's disinclined to admit to others what he does for those who help him."

Silva's look at him is mild. "I heard that he likes making people miss appointments."

Aidan shrugs. "That, too, but that should help. A standard lack of eagerness for the wedding, to be expected in a situation like mine."

"Will he provide separate rooms for the two of you?"

He chokes on a gulp of mead. "If it comes to that, she's bunking with you."

Silva grins, looking happier than she has in awhile. "No argument here."

News 6.02

2011-06-02T08:41:00.002-04:00

We're only about a month away from getting to the end of A Fistful of Fire, and everything's silent. I'm getting nervous. Is the silence good? Bad? Indicative that readers want to throw rotten tomatoes at me? (Yes, my tongue's in my cheek.)

If anyone wants to buy a convenience e-copy of A Fistful of Fire, it's on sale for $2.99 US and will be for the month of June. Come July, price will go back to $3.99. Lord willing, I'll also be releasing book 1 of a completely different series that's young adult urban fantasy at the $2.99 price.

Thanks to everyone who participated in the poll. I often hear quoted that the preferred paperback size is trade paperback. I prefer mass market, myself, but I wanted to at least get an idea of what my readers preferred. I don't know the details about how that general preference for trade paperback was determined—for all I know, researchers only asked readers of literary fiction who live in a particular city.

So. I'll start with mass market paperback (ETA: if I can—I just realized I'd missed something on CreateSpace that means I may not be able to release as standard size mass market *headdesk*). I intend to create a trade paperback, too, for those who prefer it, and a large type version, but I don't want to move too quickly and shoot myself in the foot.

As things stand, I refuse to charge more than standard trade publishers, and I want to be able to get into bookstores (once I have a large enough backlist), which means I have to stick within a certain page count. That means the mass market version of A Fistful of Fire will have to be kinda… compressed. Size 10 font, for example. I've been tweaking, trying to make give it a layout that's as easy to read as possible despite the limitations.

Between my experience as a proofreader and my old hobby identifying margin sizes, fonts, and font sizes in a book to look at 'em, the end result should look professional without having to go through a series of proof copies.

Now, to finish converting and tweaking the cover for print publication on my old slow computer. *sigh* At least it's a Mac.

6.09

2011-06-02T07:00:00.001-04:00

Aidan reclines on the couch. "Nice people, the elders of Dwaline-Het."

I fight the internal chill as I draw the water for Aidan's bath for him. It doesn't leave much energy for replying. "Mm."

He looks at me sharply. "Evonalé, are you—" Aidan stops suddenly, comprehension flashing over his face, and he laughs long and hard. "Charla?" he asks, when he gathers the breath to manage it.

I frown, irritated that he couldn't have warned me if he already knew of this. I pour the water into the basin. "She speaks elvish."

"Constantly." He takes a few deep breaths. "She is elfin. Even felfin, I believe. Her father was a refugee who died back when the Shadow first broke out in Salles a few years ago. Her mother is a halfling, human and dwarf, so she's more elf than anything else and likes emphasizing that for certain visitors."

"Like you."

He shrugs. "Salles is notoriously accepting of other kinds." His eyes shine as he struggles not to smirk. "And she's made more likely to use it with… encouragement."

I stare at him, trying to figure out what he's not telling me. He pointedly winks.

I scowl at him, not that he can see it behind my veil. "Thanks." I take up my knitting.

"Where are you going?" he asks as I turn the door handle.

I curtsy with mock politeness. "I'll be sitting outside while you bathe, Your Highness."

He looks from me to the water and back. "Oh," he says. "I thought…" Aidan shakes his head and comes my way, not finishing that sentence. "You go ahead. I'll check the market; maybe they'll have something for sale that we can use."

"Me?" I ask with enough incredulity in my tone to remind him of my station. "You're—"

"Someone with skin a great deal less sensitive than yours. Use the cursed bath." He gives a quick, false smile, and goes around me, removes the door handle from my hand, and closes the door in my face before I can frame a coherent reply.

6.08

2011-05-31T07:00:00.003-04:00

Silva awakens with a restrained moan, which wakes me up. She stretches a little, hampered by the confines of the carriage, though she has more space than we do, since she has a full side to herself. In my grogginess, it's not hard to pretend I don't see her keen examination of me by early morning light.

My teeth chatter, aggravating my headache. Making myself cold while traveling through a mountain pass probably wasn't one of my better ideas.

"Good morning," she says finally.

I look at her dully. She shivers from the cold and continues with the depressingly cheery front, reaching over me to mock-punch Aidan in the upper arm. "Morning, Highness. Let's enjoy the sunrise while stretching the kinks from our backs!" She reaches for the rope to alert the driver that we desire his attention.

"No," Aidan says softly.

Silva narrows her eyes at him. "Aidan…" she warns.

He lazily meets her gaze. "If you wanted space, you should have taken your own coach." He shifts and wraps his arm around mine; I flinch at his unexpected touch. "We'll enter Dwaline-Het within a few hours. We'll spend the rest of the day and the night there."

I flinch again. Dwarves. And I never have been able to remember which of the Dwarfdoms is which, even to know which ones are on rock and which are in it. I'm a bit better acclimated to climate extremes than a normal human—or even dwarf—thanks to elves' tendency to live in wastelands. A dwarf might notice that. They're used to living between where humans prefer and where only elves can thrive.

My chattering teeth bite my tongue, reminding me that I'm too cold. Maybe I could make myself sick; that would keep anyone from thinking that I can handle the cold a little overwell.

But in less than a week, I'll need all my faculties in my family's presence. I should warm myself.

I know enough about dwarves to know that using magic is a bad idea. Even dwarf sages are uncommonly skilled at detecting the residual traces magic leaves after use. That Aidan's new mistress can use fire magic is not a rumor I want to reach Father. Or Carling.

That leaves the natural methods for warming myself up. It'll be a few hours before we reach a fire, and I'm cold enough that waiting would be unwise. That leaves embarrassment as means for making my temperature rise naturally.

Embarrassment. I'm stuck in a carriage across from my magic tutor and beside my prince. What could I…

Oh. I start to warm even from the idea, but thankfully I'm cold enough not to blush easily. I bite my lip, hoping Aidan won't notice as I eye him sidelong. I'm a good enough seamstress to guess how he has to be shaped for his clothing to fit as it does—I've mended it enough to know it well. And I made those trousers.

I abruptly gulp down a squeak and flush, extremely warm, body shaking and teeth chattering thanks to the abrupt temperature change. The others give me odd looks; Aidan even reaches for my forehead. I jerk away from his hand, eyes shut against the too-vivid imagination I didn't realize I had.

Considering how Aidan must look beneath the clothing I've made and mended for him wasn't such a bright idea. Men of Salles don't wear undergarments.

[***NEW POST***]

"Rakshi, Mistress?" asks the dwarf-maid who's serving us breakfast.

I shake my head. I'm having millet enough in the porridge and bread to want to try it fermented.

That King Aldrik gets along well with dwarves and their candor doesn't surprise me. What does is that the other nobles of Salles do well enough that the Dwaline Dwarfdoms and Salles have long had a good relationship. And part of dwarves' candor is calling people as they are—or in my particular case at present, presumed to be.

Those presumptions also mean that I'm to be treated fairly and well, but if I speak while Aidan's talking, I'm to be ignored. Or so the precedent from earlier this morning suggests.

I don't quite understand all the nuances, but evidently that the concept behind the terms mistress and its dwarven equivalent don't quite connect. That Aidan and I have been assigned different rooms lends to that impression.

A small young serving maid, slightly less stocky than most and her skimpy ear hair neatly braided and tied with ribbons not nearly as garish as most dwarves prefer, refills my glass with water. I decide to try to use some of the very limited dwarven that I can read. "What is mistress?" I ask quietly, no doubt slaughtering the pronunciation.

She's startled at my addressing her, startled still more by my undoubtedly horrid attempt to speak her language, and stares at me for a few seconds before bursting into a smile. "The mistress is the lord's personal… maid," she explains and quickly refills Aidan's glass of water, too.

"Thank you." That much, at least, I've been able to pick up in properly-pronounced dwarven this morning.

I watch the young maid, unusually small-framed and tall for a dwarf though still stocky, as she fills everyone's water. She moves with an odd awkwardness, too; not clumsy, but she concentrates as she moves.

She smiles often and offers cheery comments, heedless of the differences in class between her and those she serves. Charla, I hear her called. I'm a surprised that I understood enough dwarven to understand her answer.

But then I recall her answer, and I chill. Her reply hadn't been in dwarven. She'd spoken elvish.

A Fistful of Fire

A Fistful of Earth Is Here!

A Fistful of Earth Is Almost Here…

News Fin.03

Another Aleyi Short Available!

$0.99 US (or rough equivalent) at the following vendors:

News Fin.02

News Fin.01

7.14

7.13

7.12

7.11

7.10

7.09

7.08

7.07

7.06

7.05

News 7.02

News:

7.04

7.03

News 7.01

News:

7.02

7.01

Year 250 of the Bynding

En Route to the Kingdom of Grehafen

Early Summer

6.10

News 6.02

6.09

6.08

En Route to
the Kingdom of Grehafen