L.L. is having a special this month of December, buy 2 get one free offer in December - the first two books are 99c each and readers can claim the 3rd book free from myself if they mail/pm/post proof of purchase. This is the D2D (wide) link -https://books2read.com/u/47xdvR and this is the Amazon link -https://www.amazon.com/L.-L.-f/e/B07B8K4J6S
Now, how can you pass that up?
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Excerpt 1 -
Solancei swallowed feelings of irony.
She’d tried to oblige Klaas; really she had, but now there was only one way she could possibly stop this mad Zanzierian from laying a hand on her again – and it was not going to involve a diplomatic exchange of sealed parchments and signed charters! Instead, ‘Cheska from New Wood’ had just been given a promotion in skills and motivation – the haitu alone would no longer be enough – and in turn, she wondered what Simaro would choose to throw at her.
With the thought, a surge of apprehension bound her feet to the ground as she considered the limited options. Why he’d not availed himself of more tricks earlier, she didn’t know – didn’t understand – for she knew him highly trained and consequently imagined him surely able to claim Master of Kizano, 3rd Grade.
So why had he held back? It was a worrying question she did not have an immediate answer to and she’d have to assume that he wouldn’t prove as ‘courteous’ a second time. Indeed, since he’d proven unwilling to accept her first win, there was absolutely nothing to indicate that matters would differ now, and this… well, this was tricky!
Lowering her lashes as if to centre herself in preparation of resuming the fight, Solancei kept half her attention on Simaro, simultaneously chancing another surreptitious glance at the guards by the makeshift gate. He was in the way but that needn’t stop her – and in a blink, she’d made her decision. She’d come here to partake in a jackal fight, not to see it escalate into some imbecile situation where her mad opponent – gods curse him to the Beyond – called the shots!
Watching Simaro slash the air experimentally with his blue haitu, she shook her head, cursing under her breath. Right now, the gods might as well take her for the idiot she’d been for allowing herself to be trapped in this situation. And whilst they were at it, let them take Chief Eso Mehadja’s flecking, persuasive tongue as well.
‘Just a light bit of exercise before the call of duty.’ She could recall the Chief’s smoothly-persuasive words without fail. ‘A new challenger has stepped forth – no duel – only sport. It’ll be tricky but a win is not impossible and I expect you’ll do quite well. It should be naught, if not a nice bit of practise.’
Practise? Hah! Solancei knew she’d have to curb her overpowering need to ram those very words right down Klaas’ throat when next they lay eye on each other! That. And more!
Pushing all ideas of strangling Klaas from her mind, she drew a clenching breath and mumbled a small prayer for Kira’Cha to lend her a sliver of good luck. She usually preferred to make her own luck rather than trust in favours bestowed by the capricious goddess, but right now she’d need as much as she could get, and if only the ‘Empress of Games’ would extend her a fraction of goodwill, she should be able to see this through. Should…
As it tallied, the light in her opponent’s eyes could have melted the hoar frost from the walls of her keep back at Ocean’s End but she looked him blandly in the eye.
Someone’s crude comments gripped Simaro’s attention for the briefest of time and in that split moment, where his eye drew towards the joker and his mouth curled up, simulating appreciation, Solancei steeled herself and attacked.
Keeping the dull practice-blade close to her body as the air suddenly seemed to explode with echoes of warning calls for Simaro to ‘beware the witch’ and ‘foul play’, Solancei feinted, swerving hard left.
Up and away – her haitu moved his with perfect intent as she dropped below his defence to ride a tight spin into a crouch that became pebbles-in-the-surf.
Just as she’d hoped, the speed and voracity of her attack saw him briefly disadvantaged and with compliments for perfect timing, the sweeping drop-kick hit the back of his shins, upending his balance, spilling him onto the ground. The notion was breezy, but she hoped he bruised!
Excerpt 2 –
Whispers of shared relief issued from the Circle like a near physical breath.
The dark tendrils retreating to leave their Commander’s fingers unblemished once more, Thessilia slowly exhaled. Spell-weavers! Always too much trouble! Every one of the Upper Circle possessed a measure of Affinity but to step between two 7th Tiers loaded with all of the Maker’s glorious Power…?!
Emara shrugged with displeasure for what had nearly come to be and unlaced her clenched fingers with a soft sigh. She was glad that Malandar had seen sense; glad the incident was over and the peace unbroken, but why did it feel to her as though some very real, but hitherto-undefined limit, had just been hacked to pieces by the two Guardians’ behaviour?
Sensing the touch of golden eyes, she shared a moment of lingering concern with Jonaeus Lucareo and their eyes floated in tandem to the pale-haired Elvern.
One look upon Guardian Mehand’Arun’s form as he slinked back into his ornate seat, challenge rescinded, was enough to assure her that he remained utterly furious, but grouches carried no weight here. He’d have to shake it off!
She smoothed down her curls and refuted Lucareo’s lingering gaze with a reassuring gesture that feigned more personal faith in the Circle than she actually felt. There was nothing they could do, anyway. They both knew the Guardian Speaker would take careful mental note of these proceedings, but that was that. For sure, Mehand’Arun might be foolish enough to challenge their Commander; might even be arrogant enough to break the Peace within the Circle, but when all was said and done, Guardian Denarlin still wasn’t. Mehand’Arun would not win; he never had!
“Good then.” Punctuating and sealing the subject, Guardian Denarlin’s words called her back to the Circle just as he reclaimed his Seat of Heritage with a soft swish of dark robes and subtle leather.
“So with the risk of sounding condescending, I will assume that this settles us all in agreement on the question of magic,” the First Guardian stated with a clear hint that his patience needed no other challenge and the complying silence was telling.
With a quiver of a new wry smile the First Guardian inclined his chin vaguely towards his would-be challenger. “Well and good then. Now, since the ‘esteemed’ Guardian Mehand’Arun appears to be his usual, charming-self yet again, I suggest that we do not offend our allegiance with any more randomly-pointless subjects! Already, we procrastinate while the Veils draw apart! Time waits for no one; nor do the Veils! Try and remember that – or they will surely fall for good this time!”
For mercy, Guardian Mehand’Arun had the grace to look penitent then. It was not much but Thessilia saw their general unclench his jaw, a touch of the carefully-hidden, but still pent-up ferocity leaving him in response.
“The Circle already understands that everything has changed and yet – essentially – it has not.” Leaning slightly forward, Guardian Denarlin made a brief gesture of conciliation towards Sinuhé. “Of course the Guardian Speaker makes an appealing case; one that we must certainly honour…“
The Speaker looked immensely relieved, if only for a blink. Then, with a sidelong glance towards Richarmarlan’s seat, the Commander said, “And so honour it we will – but not to the exclusion of all else! You know, that we could never placate our instincts as completely as the Guardian Speaker would have us do! It is not in our nature – even with stunted Sight and a diminished number, we would not be allowed the peace, the Oath is too strong, too commanding. Still, permit me now to suggest a compromise? Something we can all endure?”
As supportive as they’d just been of the Speaker, several of her fellow Guardians were nevertheless already offering the Commander sage nods of approval and Thessilia Emara gave in to her ever-present Human-nature, and grinned. If Denarlin had cast a spell in their midst to persuade them, he could not have done a better job to win attention – and just like that, everyone got what they wanted. Just like that. Well… more or less, of course.
Her smile widened.
But let the Speaker gather dust in the folds of his voluminous toga! Let him drag Rhindarhlar-pestilence-Mehand’Arun by the scruff of his black-embroidered collar to see the Story-Spinners and pick at the stitches of the Tapestry and old History! Meanwhile, she’d be applying her assets where she was supposed to and unlike Sedjem-Alhath’naar she would not be cowed by the past. Not even if Richarmarlan Envalair’s absence grated upon her state of mind! Not even if it felt like a dull hatchet retching across her heart as though her right to name him Husband had not long since faded!
Guts no – not even then!
Excerpt 3 –
Iambre twirled the usual strand of hair around her middle finger till it throbbed, eyes glaring at the lofty ceiling rising in several arches to form a series of five domes all painted with swirling designs of midnight blue around each central rosette layered with bronze and gold leaf. If she’d had a tail it would have swished…
It was a ridiculous thought; she didn’t know where it had come from but that seemed to be the case with many of her notions these days, and for a moment she wondered if Lance-Captain Bilandro Metavo would have liked her more – or less – had she had a tail. Biting her lip, she released her poor finger, but the damage had been wrought, and there… Bam! Just when you thought yourself beyond capacity to think up more rubbish… ‘Bam’, it caught you by the roots! Rats, but for all she knew, Bilan might not even like her at all anymore!
“My Lady, perhaps we should-“
The Princess rounded on her handmaiden with an expression that must have conveyed her nuisance just perfectly, because Palea cut herself off and shut her pretty rose-bud mouth with a very audible click of teeth.
It was unfair; she was being unfair – rats, obscene even – and Palea did not deserve the ire owed someone else, but death and daffodils…!
Iambre sighed with a shimmer of regret. Trouble was that she’d had a lot of practice with ‘obscene’ recently and she was getting very flipping good at it. Too good, perchance – given the fact that Solancei was definitely late beyond late, and apparently prepared to accept whatever consequences Iambre might mete out, in favour of ignoring her summons. It had happened before – it would happen again, but-
Spinning sharply on her heel to stalk towards the grand fireplace with the carved doves and soaring Zanzierian eagles, Iambre dug another round hollow in the expensive carpet she was abusing beyond reason. She had no intention caring whether she ruined the costly Alahbrodai rug, nor could she currently summon enough compassion for the poor cleaning maid who’d have to comb the weave for several hours before realising it might be a lost cause. Once she might have. Later she definitely would. But not now. Not yet! Yes, obscene indeed…
Eyes drawing to the large water clock above the fireplace’s centrally positioned eagle, she wished that she could slow it down and tried not to flinch as each drop of water trickled with the certainty of time across the twelve hollow lily pads. Time… never enough; always searching for more; always wishing…
She swallowed a hint of unexpected unease and tried to rekindle her suddenly-fading streak of anger. There was something obscene about that clock too, she thought with a sour mien. Something she disliked almost as much as the daunting tapestries hung side-by-side in gilt frames across the long back wall; something that made her want to turn her eyes from the sight, yet it also repeatedly prompted her to return for another look.
Her eyes fluttered back to the clock.
Maybe she should have the ugly thing brought to Lancei’s chambers for the duration of their stay so that the woman would have no excuse for poor timekeeping – but she supposed the clock could not be moved, just as she rather suspected that Lancei would be taking no heed regardless.
Iambre sucked in a deep breath. Had she really been that unreasonable, that she warranted this kind of treatment from her best friend? Had she really been that horrible and was she really such a bad person that she’d lost track of the very answer to those questions?
Exhaling, she felt the answers should make no difference. At least not in respect to people attending their duties. It wasn’t like she herself was particularly ecstatic about ten days of pomp and prattle, but she’d endure and she’d tend to her duty regardless of petty arguments and differing opinions.
Or… at least she would do. Providing her pesky handmaiden could only get over herself and come help her ready before the arrival of her escort! Sure it wasn’t as if she feared that Bilan would mind if he arrived at her door to find her still dressed in a short frilly shift, but-
Cheeks colouring, heart skipping, Iambre tried to steer her imagination away from such a scenario. A look down the front of her lilac silks didn’t help her dispel the notion though and she could jammer on about Lancei’s tardiness and her obstinate absence, but it didn’t change the fact that it was without a doubt the issue of Lance-Captain Bilan Metavo that kept her childhood friend from making a tidy appearance as requested.
Bilan… Lancei. It was so complicated and yet it was roaring simple. If she didn’t exactly need Lancei’s blessing to pursue her feelings for the Captain, she also didn’t need the endless nagging, nor the righteous lectures on right and wrong! Yes, she might be wandering slightly ‘sideways’ with her affections, but she’d never forget about her duty to the realm; never forget about what was right! Why did Lancei fail to comprehend?!
For a moment the spike of anger came back, burrowing deeper into her core, and Iambre lengthened her prowling stride.
Fine! So lately she might have been somewhat unreasonable, but was she not going to make amends for her shortcomings tonight? Did she not intend to do some very un-royal grovelling in private to the very two people she truly cared about?
Reaching the end of her salon, Iambre kicked at a helpless tassel and heard Palea issue an almost inaudible sign. She ignored the handmaiden and wondered if she could also ignore the urge to rip those ghastly tapestries from the walls.
The gory cross-stitch scenes seemed to haunt her, the renditions of the particularly important events of the Chaos Wars hardly something she would have chosen for herself – and in her heightened mood, she had to wonder how these Zanzierians had deemed it suitable for a lady of any stature and name? The priceless Iddian carpet with its beautiful shimmering colours of purple, red and gold were certainly the prettier choice – shame they lay beneath her feet and not the hideous antique wall hangings – but such was her existence it seemed: full of things she’d rather have spun sideways and upside down to suit her dreams and wishes.
Iambre scowled but try as she might not divert her mind from the real source of her misfit anger. Which was idiotic! She was the Princess! The future Queen of Ostravah! And yet she was subjected to this… this waiting game! As though she were the handmaiden…
Kicking at the row of tassels as she staked back down her salon, past Palea in her pretty state of patient concern and pink organza layers; past the seating arrangement of imported Iddian settees of heavily-carved wood and brocade layered to match the rugs; past the heavy table with the flowers; past the pale cream sofas by the fire…
“My Lady?“ Palea tried again, her tone coloured by light anxiety, “I mean only to say that the afternoon is waning, and perhaps…“
Iambre paused her gait. Turning around, she capitulated with a heavy sigh and flopped into a pale-green love-seat to offer her young handmaiden a gesture of resigned compliance.
“Palea dear, I know the afternoon is shrinking,“ she forestalled the other woman, “Drat, I also know I have a banquet to attend and that I have a duty to preen my feathers for all of Zanzier’s best and most worthy to inspect and inspire, but Gods… “
Palea nodded like a sage twice her age. “My Lady, I understand but if you would but permit me to make a start, perhaps My Lady would feel better armoured to wait out Solancei’s arrival in a manner less strenuous to her health and…”
Palea paused. As if embarrassed, she licked her lips, then smoothed her skirts with neatly-gloved hands, before saying, “Well… it’s only…
“That is to say… it is only to remind My Lady, though she is of course well-aware, that the Zanzierians are avid sticklers for-“
“For stuffy, old-fashioned hankerings for what once were?” Iambre cut in with a grim twist to convey the truth of her persuasion. “For pompous lords so far up their own ancestry that it’s a wonder they’ve managed to crawl into town in favour of an event so insignificant as my wonderful little visit!”
“My Lady…“ Palea sighed with sustained goodwill and shrugged helplessly as she shifted as if to come forward.
“Palea I don’t need your comfort,” Iambre forestalled – a little, suppressed guilt seeping into the tone, though she could still not help the nuisance either. “In fact, what I need is Solancei to come as requested, nothing more.”
Sitting forward, she rubbed her eyes. Was she getting a headache? It wasn’t like her. Gaze wandering briefly to the golden wall-sconces where lit tapers burnt in smokeless elegance to illuminate the salon, Iambre wondered if this was the culprit rather than Lancei? There were certainly enough straight candles in sight to supply a large temple for a month and they’d all been lit to compensate for the dreary afternoon light.
She sniffed, fingers going to her temples. One could not argue that the light did serve to spread a warm soft glow throughout, but if it served to displace any discomfort one might otherwise have felt with the bleak day progressing, it was also making the air somewhat stuffy.
The rustle of Palea’s skirts brought her head up. The handmaiden wore a tiny frown, her eyebrows arching with concern, and whether Iambre had wanted it or not, this time the woman did not back off.
Flowing to her knees, Palea said, “My Lady should not make herself ill. Please, I know we did not get a good welcome here but all the more reason not to build on that grief now. You can win these people over, I know this in my heart, but…”
Iambre paused her fingers’ circular movement and snorted with mock derision as she looked at her lady with a first real quiver of mirth. “Oh Palea, you are sweet. Tell me again: how many summons has Solancei Calverhana had now?”
Palea lowered her lashes. “Three, My Lady.”
“Hmm, yes I thought so,” Iambre mused, hard-pushed to stop her mood from deteriorating again.
Solancei. Three times. What was the matter with her stubborn daffodil? It had been days and days since she’d fallen off that stupid horse of hers and last Iambre had seen, there’d been nothing wrong with Lancei’s legs either! This had to be about Metavo…
