Category: The Writing

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Making Mistakes

Nobody likes to make mistakes.  For one thing, it’s pretty damned embarrassing, especially when it takes someone else to correct your mistake.  But I tell you now that there’s nothing that’ll open your eyes quicker than a humiliating mistake — if you’re willing to learn from it. 

It’s like the joke that Jeff Foxworthy tells:  When he was a kid and stuck his finger in a light socket, his dad said, “Hurt like hell, didn’t it?  Won’t do that again!”

Making writing mistakes hurts like hell too.  And yeah, I won’t be making this mistake again.

So what’d I do? 

Because of my lack of rules, boundaries, and limitations (see yesterday’s post), I didn’t make good choices from the beginning with the Maya story.  Remember all my posts about Revision Xibalba?  All that work?  Wasted.  Because I didn’t know what my genre was, and I didn’t stay within the lines.

To correct my mistake, I had to:

  • delete two subplots that convoluted and detracted from the main romance line.  Painful, because I loved these two stories.  Clue: I loved them enough, I should have given them their OWN book!
  • axe 25K
  • kill over a dozen characters.  Can you say too many characters?
  • rewrite the ending

Was all that work worth a little jaunt on the wildside?  In the end, I have to say yes, because it opened my eyes to the path I’d chosen.  I had to make a choice about whether to keep going and ignore the mistake, or correct it.  I chose to correct it, and I learned a lot from it too.  I can’t tell you how much better this ms is now, but I’m much happier with it.

And the real sign that I’ve made the right choice?  Before, I was blocked about what the next book would be in that series.  I jotted a few ideas, but I really had nothing beyond a general “I need to do this” sort of feeling.  As soon as I committed to the changes above, I immediately started getting excited about more things I could do — now that I had opened up the stable door and stepped inside.

So I guess I’m glad I made the mistake, but geez, I wish my head was a little less thick.

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Rules, Boundaries, and Limitations

The title sounds familiar to anyone who watches Cesar Milan, the Dog Whisperer.  Dog problems are usually their OWNER’S problems first, and it’s amazing how many annoying and dangerous dog issues he can solve simply by applying a little discipline.

My post yesterday about a twisted version of Black Beauty probably gave you the hint that I’ve been thinking a lot about boundaries — harnesses and stables — this past month.  People have said that I’m disciplined, but all it really takes is a quick glance at my book list to see that it couldn’t be further from the truth. 

My interests are varied and wide.  I’ve written everything  from romance to horror and science fiction, with a bunch of flavors of fantasy mixed in.  I’ve even written a Civil War story!  I adore a challenge, and each time I see a new submission call, it can be dangerous.  I get an idea.  Sometimes it’s a burning hole in my mind until I write it. 

Even if it doesn’t go with anything else I’ve written.

My sixth year anniversary has come and gone, and I think it’s time I toughened up on myself.  I need to focus.  The freedom of writing whatever I wanted on a whim was fine for awhile, but if I want to take my writing to the next level, I need some discipline.

Rules, boundaries, and limitations.

I was talking with a sooper-duper writing friend yesterday and we talked about my unreasonable fear of limiting myself to one genre.  Or even one MIX of genres — not this mishmash of everything.  Deep down, I have a very great fear that if I enforce rules on myself, the writing will just shrivel up and die.  That I’ll lose the part of my writing that makes it special and unique (at least to me).  I’ve been in bad places before where I seriously doubted that I’d ever finish another book again, and I do NOT want to EVER go there again.

But if I want to go to the next level, I need to focus.  I need some limitations.  I need to face this fear.  Plus I’ve been receiving feedback on various stories, and it’s made me rethink what I’ve written and what I want to continue writing.

Conn and Victor both helped, but they weren’t quite enough.  See, one of my weaknesses as a writer is throwing stuff into a story that amuses ME, not necessarily the general reader.  It amused me to have Miss Belle solve a minor murder mystery in Dear Sir.  Her kooky antics with Colonel Healy put a smile on my face.  However, a few readers commented that the paranormal aspects were annoying.  I could have told Conn and Rae’s story without a ghost.

Focus.

The Witch once told me that I need to think about romance as a coloring book, and I need to learn how to color within the lines.  Meanwhile, I’ve been taking a marker and scribbling huge swatches of color all over the page, totally ignoring the lines in deliberate defiance.

So that’s an exercise I’m going to work on after Victor’s revisions are completed.  While I worldbuild the SFR world of Deathright and get back on track with it, I’m going to take a little time and write a simple, wonderful romance.  Only two crucial characters.  No paranormal, no fantasy, no violence, no horror, no mythology, not even erotic elements to detract from the relationship.

Just two people focused on each other and falling in love. 

If I can’t do it, then I need to rethink the SFR because the R means romance, and if I can’t get a simple, straightforward romance right, then what I want to do ultimately in Deathright won’t happen.

If you hear some squealing and stamping and crashing, it’s my horse totem throwing a fit in its stall.  Gregar is laughing so hard he fell off said horse and is rolling around on the ground.  Thank Vulkar he’s wearing something beneath his memsha this time.

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A Horse Called Beauty

Once upon a time, a foal was born on the farm, so pretty that the farmer called her Beauty.  Beauty grew up with green meadows and sparkling streams with the azure sky over head perfectly clear and sunny.  She was never afraid; in fact, she had no idea what FEAR was.   She could run and kick up her heels all day and it was the best fun she’d ever hoped to have.

Even when the farmer introduced a halter, bit, and saddle, it was still all good fun.  Now she could go places!  She could see the world outside the secluded meadow.  Besides, she loved the farmer, and if he told her this was the right and proper way to go outside, then she believed him.

She did not know that she was to be sold.

At first, she didn’t understand why the farmer left her in the middle of the bustling town.  The noises hurt her ears and she shied and whinnied for him to come back, but he never once turned his head at her desperate clamor.

People came to look at her.  They pried open her mouth.  They jerked at her ears and sniffed with disdain at the size of her haunches.  “Too pretty for work,” one person said, and another, “Too plain for my carriage.”

There are many, many pretty horses, you see, and Beauty was quite ashamed to be left standing in the once-crowded market place with a droopy-eared mule and a broken-down hack.  She was relieved when a man laid a kind hand on her neck. 

“Don’t you worry, Beauty,” he said, stroking her gently.  “I’ll train you to harness.  I’ll teach you how to work.  Then they’ll be beating down the stable door to acquire you.  You’ll see.”

He led Beauty into a dark barn and put her in a stall with walls so high she couldn’t see over the tops.  Gone were the days of grazing in the meadow and running with her mother and the other young foals.  Now, she learned to work.  The man buckled and pinched and prodded her into a heavy leather harness.  It chaffed and rubbed her raw, but she accepted it.  After all, this is how things were done, and if she wanted to be taken away from this dreadful market and be loved, then this is what she must learn.

The work itself was not hard.  At first.  The man taught her to pull her weight, and then even more, loading the wagon down with goods.  She tried to keep her head high and her tail cocked with a jaunty air, but soon it was all she could do to pull that weight.  Her head came down so she could lean into the harness.  Her hooves slipped on the cobblestones, hard and cruel after the sweet green grass of the meadow.  Her rear hoof cracked, and she began to limp.  Just a little.  But now, even though she was pretty and knew how to work, no one would take her home from the market.

“Lame,” said a man, shaking his head, and another, “Poor broken-down dear.”

Broken down?  No, Beauty, shook her head and snorted.  She would show them.  She would pull more crates and barrels than ever.  She would master the steepest, most brutal hill in town.  She threw herself against the harness, straining and sweating, laboring up that hill with a mountain of cargo behind her.  Impatient, the man lashed her sides with the whip.  She strained for him, trying to please him, trying to show how much she could do, and she felt something tear inside her chest.

She slipped, slamming her knees against the cobblestones.  Wet and shaking, she could not rise.  Something had broken inside her.  Beauty knew a cold, suffocating fear, then, that she might never get up.  She might never run in a green meadow with love and joy bubbling up in her heart ever again. 

“What a failure,” the man said bitterly.  In disgust, he struck her one last time with that whip, and then he threw down the leather reins.  “If anyone wants her, she’s yours.”

Another man picked up her reins and coaxed her to her feet.  She followed him, head down and weary, for what else was she to do?  The drudgery continued.  Beauty worked for each owner, but she no longer loved them.  She couldn’t.  The once great heart within her was broken.  She came to hate the harness and the cramped stalls.  The hay was moldy and stank of rot and manure.  She couldn’t even turn around!  She couldn’t run, or see the stars, or feel the breeze ruffling her mane.  

With every exhausted beat of her heart, she yearned.  She yearned to be free.

Work, work, work, day in and day out, more loads because she couldn’t haul as much as the magnificent Belgians and Clydesdales.  Sometimes she passed the pretty carriage horses on the street, tails and heads high, but instead of envying them, now she sneered with a show of yellowed, mean teeth.  

What do you think of that bearing rein that holds your heads so high?  What do you think of waiting in the rain and snow outside the grand mansion for hours and hours, shivering and miserable?  At least I’m working!

But she couldn’t help but snap at the man who came to throw the harness on her.  She tried to kick the stableboy in the head.  She pounded her hooves against the tight walls and screamed out her rage.  If I am ever free, I shall run for the green pastures and never ever come back!

Then one night her prayers were answered, for the man came on unsteady feet, wavering back and forth down the aisle to check the angry, trapped horses one last time.  He tripped over a rake and fell, slinging the lantern against the wall.  It exploded with hungry, crackling flames.  Fire engulfed the stable, and he ran from stall to stall, slinging open the barred doors and waving his arms at the frightened horses.

Some of them were frozen with terror, but not Beauty.  She bolted for the door and ran as fast and hard as her sore hooves would take her.  She heard the screaming, dying horses behind her and the shouts from the firemen, but she ran on without looking back, just as her once beloved farmer had abandoned her to a lingering death in the city.

She ran.  Through cramped streets, leaping over crates, knocking people out of her way.  When she found the green meadows, she was tempted to stop and rest, but she remembered how the farmer had come and taken her away, so she kept running despite the foam flecking on her shoulders.  She ran to the mountains, the most barren and forlorn place she could imagine.

But she was free.  Here there were no people to throw a harness over her back.  No miserable little cell of a stable.  No one to sell her away from everything she loved. 

So what if she did have to move constantly, always looking for food.  What was a little hunger for a free creature?  Her ribs might show in stark relief beneath her ragged hide that had once been sleek and shiny with health, but she’d rather be hungry than suffer the harness again.  She’d rather her hooves crack and ache from the sharp rocks of the mountain than the hard punishing flagstones of the city.  And so what if she were lonely?  At least there was no man with a whip to beat her into submission.

Sometimes when she was especially hungry or the night was bitterly cold, she would stand on the cliff and look down at the valley below.  Sheltered by a line of sentinel pines, a snug litle cabin and stable were tucked up against the side of the mountain.  A man lived there; she often saw him shading his eyes, staring up at her if she lingered too long.

He had horses too, and sometimes she whinnied to them, tempting them to break down their stalls and come race the mountain with her in freedom.  Silly horses, though, they wouldn’t leave their stalls.

Their warm, safe stalls. 

In howling blizzard winds, Beauty was tempted enough to creep closer to the stable.  A chestnut nickered through the stout log walls.  “The man made us a warm mash tonight and I have a lovely blanket.  Let yourself be caught, wild thing, and eat your fill.  Our work is easy, there’s plenty of food, and the master is kind and wise.”

Beauty could smell sweet hay and rich grains inside.  Warm lights glowed from the cabin window.  She’d never heard the man speak harshly to his horses or lift a hand against them in anger.  Once she’d even see the barn door wide open and the chestnut loose and free, but the mare didn’t gallop for the hills, despite Beauty’s frantic call.

Warmth, food, shelter from the snow.  It would be ridiculously easy to allow the man to throw a rope over her neck and lead her inside.  Inside to stalls and harnesses and chains and whips.  She snorted and backed away.  

Snow stung her eyes and chilled her legs up past her hocks.  There would be no food to be found.  She’d already nibbled the tips of the trees as high as she could reach, and pawed a small patch of ice and snow away to find the dead grass beneath.  Free she may be, but she couldn’t help but remind herself that it had been a great many years since she’d felt lush green grass beneath her hooves and the joy she remembered in the meadow. 

How much longer can I survive free…flitting here and there in search of food?   Do I refuse the safety of the stable out of spite?  Was working beneath the harness always drudgery?  Would carrying a man with a light, sure hand and good seat be such a travesty?

Where is my place?  Where can I be safe and happy?  Where can I work and yet love, too?

Beauty clamped her tail tight and shivered.  Maybe if she survived this blizzard, she could make a decision.  Tomorrow.

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Friday Snippet: My Clockwork Heart

So far this month, I’ve written a whopping 3,700 new words (although I’ve been editing other completed manuscripts).  I’m pretty proud of those words, even though the count is so small.  What, you say?  How can less than 4K be an accomplishment when I’ve written that much in a single day?  

Because it’s a new short story and interesting, engrossing shorts can be so difficult to write.

I saw a horror anthology call a month or so ago and immediately got an idea for it.  However, as I worked through the storybuilding process, the idea fell apart on me, tattered beyond recognition.  The fire burned out.  As of two weeks ago, I wasn’t going to write anything for the antho after all. 

As soon as I said nevermind, my Muse snickered and hit me with the REAL idea, laughing with wicked glee that I only had 10-14 days to write a 2-6K story by the deadline (today).

I finished the story last night.  The first several sections have been polished several times, but I need to edit the last section today over lunch, and then I can fire it off to the editor.  If it’s not accepted for the antho, you’ll get it as a freebie next month, which has particular significance in the story.  *winks*

So here is the opening section of a horror (creepy not gory) story:  MY CLOCKWORK HEART.

A gentleman took note of Mary’s dishabille, peering down his long aristocratic nose with a cruel, sensual curl to his lip. Then he noticed the splatters on her nightgown: mud, no, surely not blood… and his top hat fell into the gutter.

Yet he did nothing to help her. No one did.

She ran through thick, suffocating fog from island to island of dirty gaslight, muttering out loud, “One more light. One more step.”

Even the street urchins who typically jostled for a passerby’s attention by waving the latest news could only stare at her with a knowing horror in their eyes. Too many women had ended this way, especially in this part of London. They would be shocked to know that she was Lady Aurum, wealthy enough to purchase each and every ragged shack on this crooked narrow lane. The only building that had managed to obtain her notice, however, had been the large abandoned factory in the deepest, darkest warren of streets just off the wharf. Her laboratory; her refuge.

Her heart gave a weak stutter. The knife had sliced deeply, surely more injury than a bloodletting doctor could ever hope to mend. She laughed, a wet cough of blood in her mouth. I have no more blood to let.

Her leaden arms were numb, but she kept her left fist buried hard in the gaping wound in her chest to staunch the flow. Perhaps she could use her fingers to manually pump the damaged organ if her heart ceased beating before she reached the laboratory.

Barefoot, she staggered onward. The loud clang of her left foot echoed eerily in the endless night. A particularly vicious case of gout had crippled her father, until she’d managed to construct a new golden foot for him. Then she’d contracted the same debilitating illness, giving her incentive to improve on the prototype.

Despite the failing weakness of her injured heart, the foot of delicate gears and gleaming metal still worked to balance her weight perfectly, arching and pushing against the treacherous cobblestones to propel her another pace closer to her sanctuary. If she died on this filthy street, she daren’t guess how long it might take for one of the poor to gain the courage to cut off that golden limb.

She shoved the door open so hard the wood rebounded on the wall. Her assistant, Mr. Moreland, whirled around with a copperwhirl in one hand and a magnifying glass in his other. “My lady! Anne, come quickly!”

With a swipe of his arm, he cleared the high table, heedless of his project. Mary glimpsed only bits of wire and cogs before the construct shattered on the floor. He scooped her into his arms and gently lay her on the table.

“Heart,” she gasped out through frozen lips.

With a comforting squeeze to her shoulder, he smiled. “Never fear, my lady; I know exactly what to do. How fortuitous that you were already experimenting on a replacement!”

The clockwork heart had been the natural progression of her work. After she’d accomplished foot replacements on her father and herself, she’d returned precious music to a violinist whose hand had been crushed in a carriage accident. His tearful gratitude and charm had been so considerable that she’d married that handsome young—but extremely poor—Italian. Not only had she returned his music, but she’d also gifted him with her heart.

She’d never intended to make the latter a physical exchange.

As calmly as though his mistress stumbled through the door every day requiring massive surgery to preserve her life, Mr. Moreland strode to the cabinets and began selecting the tools he would need. She heard the muted, frightened questions from Anne, the maid-of-all-works they were training to be an assistant, and his soothing response, although their words made little sense.

Fog still enfolded her, cold and heavy. Too heavy to breathe. Too cold to ever be warm again. Her heart beat out a ponderous dying waltz. She counted a slow twenty, chest aching with agony, until the next beat.

Tears trickled down her cheeks. Love had blinded her. Love had killed her.

Her heart gave one last desperate painful thump in her chest and she sank into the billowing fog.

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Lying in a Ditch

I could watch Walk the Line with Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon over and over (and have), but it’s the one scene before John’s break with the record guy that always sticks with me.

If you was hit by a truck and you was lying out there in that gutter dying, and you had time to sing *one* song. Huh? One song that people would remember before you’re dirt. One song that would let God know how you felt about your time here on Earth. One song that would sum you up.

This is what I ask myself before I begin any project.  Is this really the story I want to work on?  What am I going to be able to say in it that hasn’t been said a hundred times already? 

But more, I’ve been using this to help me make choices about what else I do, both here online and in my personal life. 

For instance, last year (or maybe even the year before) a well-published author I’d been following for awhile really got into online marketing.  I joined a bunch of lists at her recommendation, and downloaded some stuff about building lists and targeting audience. 

But in the end, I didn’t use any of it.  As a consumer and reader myself, that kind of advertising turns me off quicker than Data’s sleep switch in his neck.  Do I want people to find me because of some marketing gimmick I used, or because of my stories?  That was easy for me to answer.

As Lynn Viehl has said, don’t do any promo that you don’t ENJOY doing.  I don’t enjoy all the online marketing ploys, and so I will not do them.  If I’m lying in a ditch dying, I don’t want people to remember that I scammed them into joining all sorts of “buy me!!” lists.  I’d rather people remember that I sent them a free book, or wrote a funny tale about the monsters, or better yet, wrote a damned good story that kept them up all night. 

I had a project a few weeks ago that I was working on for an anthology call.  I thought it was hitting all my buttons.  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it didn’t fit me.  It wasn’t a “lying in a ditch dying” sort of project.  So, I cut it.  I hate giving up on a project, but I don’t have the time to work on things that don’t really, really move me.

If you were lying in a ditch and could only show your current project, whatever it is, does it truly say what you want to be remembered for?  Do your resolutions or goals for this year back that statement up?

For me, this means I’m working on Return to Shanhasson (nearly ready to submit), Victor, and the new SFR world that’s been building in my head.  They are stories that move me, and hopefully they’ll move you too.

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Project Management: Cleaning the Desk

Hope you’re all having a wonderful New Year!

Today is a day of planning and thinking for me while we watch movies.  (The monsters are watching Forrest Gump yet again – I think I may scream.)  This is the time to look back over the past year, see what projects were finished, what went well and what didn’t, and decide how to proceed into 2010.

Rather like cleaning off my desk and preparing for a new year.

2009 was the year of Revision Hell, including major revisions to the Maya story, Arcana, and Return to Shanhasson.  Arcana didn’t go so well, and I shelved it again (I hit 50K and hadn’t even touched 25% of my outline.  Ooops!)  The Maya story was arguably one of the toughest projects I’ve ever tackled, and I’m hoping for good news on it in 2010.  *crosses fingers, prays, throws salt over shoulder, knocks on wood* 

Return to Shanhasson is in the final stages of submission and will go to Deena in the next few days.  Arcana?  Not sure yet.  I’ve done so much work on that story it would be a crying shame not to finish it in some manner.  I just can’t figure out what to do with it.  It *may* end up in the SFR world of Deathright.  Perhaps.  Possibly.

Along with Arcana, I’ve had a few other projects I had to clear off my desk.  One of the hardest things of project management for me personally is eliminating a project.  I wish I could do everything, but it’s just not humanly possible.  I had planned to write a Christmas novella set at Beulah Land over the summer, and I just couldn’t pull it off.  I wanted to write a short story in December, but just didn’t have time.  I’d love to write something for the erotic fairy tale antho at Samhain, but ditto. 

I *have* to finish Victor’s revisions in January.  I just don’t have time to pull off a 20K novella at the same time.  I had a pretty cool idea for it, though, set in the same SFR world as Deathright.  Perhaps I’ll write it anyway, later in the year.  Victor is my #1 priority in 2010, followed by Deathright.  Anything else will be gravy.

So what are you planning to work on this year?  Any major projects?

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Revision Hell: Like an Onion

Last night after work, I finished the last revision to Return to Shanhasson, at least until my beta readers sign in with any confusion or holes they find.

Hopefully I’ve conveyed to you that for me, revisions are all about the layers, and so I stole that reference from Shrek where he says ogres are like onions.  I’ve read Holly Lisle’s one-pass revision article, but that just doesn’t work for me.  I do some of her techniques, but I need more than one pass.

Each book requires a different amount of work.  Return to Shanhasson really didn’t have that many significant issues that I needed to resolve.  I had two major scenes I wanted to rework, and I thought the end was a little rushed, but otherwise, I thought the story was pretty solid.

In this case, my first pass was smoothing; watching sentence and paragraph structure; correcting typos, run-on sentences, and fragments; expanding emotional and non-verbal communication; and fleshing out the easier [notes to myself]. 

I made note of a few things I wanted to resolve or address, and I fixed those things as I went.  However, if those things had been significant enough — like a new subplot, as I did for the Maya story — then I would have done a revision pass just for that change.

After that first pass, I went back through the manuscript searching for the last [notes].  These required me to pull up not just the first two books in the series, but also the two Keldari novellas.  I had character names I couldn’t remember, and I also needed to name a ruined city on the edge of Far Illione.  That required googling and research to find just the right name.

Yesterday, I made another full pass.  This one was more delicate.  I savored some passages, rewording key phrases to make sure they sounded right and had the rhythm I was looking for. 

I also watched for any dischordant words.  The right word is so important.  In this fantasy, no character should ever say okay.  Mykal would never say pool, but he would say well.  A Sha’Kae al’dan warrior will say “Forgive me” but never “I’m sorry.”  Rhaekhar always gripped Shannari’s chin, but Gregar always danced his ivory rahke up her neck and cheek. 

These are all little things, little layers, but they’re so important.  It’s part of my voice, and part of each character’s voice.  It’s the little phrases that tie Rose to Road to Return.  Remember when Rhaekhar says “run to me” in effort to get Shannari to ride straight to him near the endof Rose?  That phrase is significant.  Reusing it not once but several times helped me bring the entire story arc through nearly 1000 pages full circle.

Finally, I had to remember the theme song, Faith of the Heart, and make sure it rang true and strong throughout the story.  I believe it does.

It’s been a long, long road, but what an incredible journey.

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Call for Beta Readers

If you’ve read The Rose of Shanhasson and The Road to Shanhasson, and have some spare time on your hands this week, I’d love to have a couple of beta readers grind through the third and final book of the trilogy, Return to Shanhasson, before I send it to my editor.  I have one more dream sequence to write, but then I’ll be ready to let new eyes take a look. 

NO ONE HAS READ THIS MANUSCRIPT YET. 

I’ve deliberately kept it very private.  Not even my Beloved Sis has read it yet.  Needless to say, I’m a bit nervous.  If you’ve read Road, you know how evil I can be, and this book is no different.  It might even be worse.  However, I promise a wondrously happy ending that brings the trilogy full circle.

Warnings: Explicit sex, violence, torture, dragons, bad guys who won’t stay dead, and menage a trois quatre neuf oh hell I lost count.

Of course I’ll be sending it to my Beloved Sis and my dear friend Wanda, but I don’t know that they’ll have time to respond before the end of the year when I plan to submit the story.  If you have the time and interest and could possibly read and get back to me quickly (by 12/31), I’ll be forever in your debt. 

I’m not looking for a critique, but general responses and feelings.  Did any part seem confusing?  Did anything seem too contrived (Vulkar I pray not)?  Are there any major holes that never made it from my head onto the page?  Is the emotion powerful enough?

If you’re a writer, I’ll exchange a full read of your manuscript, or I’ll ensure you receive a finished free copy of the e-book when it’s released.

Drop me a note in comments or to joelysueburkhart AT gmail DOT com if you’re interested, and I’ll get back to you in a day or so once this last scene has been added.  Thank you!

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Return to Shanhasson Chapter One

Merry Christmas!  My gift to you this year is Chapter One of the third Shanhasson book.   Deena hasn’t gotten her hands on this yet, so all mistakes are mine.  Warning:  there are inevitable spoilers to the first two books.

CHAPTER ONE

Blessed Lady above, if these vipers are my allies, then I am already doomed to Shadow.

Masking her disgust and impatience, Shannari struggled to keep silent while her advisers argued. After three years of ruling afar from the Plains, she felt less the High Queen than ever.

She watched the tells her father had trained her to notice: the tiny glances between King Phillip of Maston and Royce, the new Duke of Pella who’d replaced Stephan after his own peasants revolted; the deference every single one of these arguing idiots paid to King Challon, who sat silently at the opposite end of the table; and the utter disregard for her presence.

Her father, King Valche of Allandor, met her gaze and gave her a brief nod of encouragement.

Silently, she stood. The raised voices continued about her, the majority of her Council oblivious to her displeasure. King Challon noticed her signal but did nothing to alert the other men at the table, confirming his power at this table and his silent refusal to assist her. It’d been a mistake to include him on her Council. She knew that now. The others were powerful men in their own right but not threats.

King Challon appeared to be one of her closest allies—and had saved her life years ago when Theo would have murdered her outright–but she could sense the silent, invisible undercurrents eddying about him. He had his finger in the current and knew exactly which way the waters flowed, and it certainly wasn’t to the High Queen, Rose Crown or not.

Refusing to give any sign of her displeasure, she waited in silence until the elderly King of Taza noticed that she stood. Of an age that had long ago passed, he feebly pushed to his feet in respect. “Your Majesty!”

The raised voices slowly tapered off into an awkward silence. Royce, a very young cousin of Stephan’s and so a distant nephew to King Challon, actually blushed. Phillip refused to meet her gaze, but he’d possessed a rather weak stomach with respect to her ever since he’d seen how she opened the Gates of Shanhasson with the help of her Blood.

At the thought of them, their bonds suddenly filled her mind, gleaming so brightly that her vision tinged red.

As always, Dharman stood behind her, one hand on her person nearly every minute of the day. Most of the time, she honestly forgot his presence, until some small thought made her realize how close he was, how attached and attentive. Nothing passed him; no one approached her but through him.

Sal and Jorah crouched on either side of her. She’d tried to persuade them to stand, or at least allow her to provide them with chairs, but they both refused. They wanted to be ready to grab her and carry her to the floor beneath them at a moment’s notice. Each of them occasionally touched her, just a brush of a hand, their shoulder against her hip, some small assurance that she was well and they were near. It had become so constant and engrained that she forgot them.

Until they purposely reminded her.

:Let us clear this room for you, Khul’lanna.: Sal purred in her mind, the rich pelt and smug arrogance of an adored cat winding through her mind. :Allow me to slice off that one’s ears and the rest will listen to you.:

She knew he meant Phillip, the King of Maston. As if the man knew they were thinking of him, he flushed a dull red and averted his gaze. Sal gave a little rub with his head, a quick feline brush against her waist, begging not for attention, but for permission to gut the outlander who’d insulted her years ago.

Her stomach fluttered, an uneasy and unwanted response to the glide of that incredible auburn hair gliding across her. She couldn’t feel the soft heaviness of Sal’s hair through her armor, but she knew its weight and texture, and especially its scent. Sal smelled like one yummy gingerbread cookie that simply begged to be devoured.

She’d managed to avoid devouring him for years–a feat indeed.

He rumbled softly, very much a purr of satisfaction. The damned bond told them all entirely too much. Keeping a secret from one of them was next to impossible.

:You keep secrets only from yourself, Khul’lanna.: Dharman’s mental voice was slow, thick and sweet, the dark amber of honey. He might smell sweet and innocent like honeycakes, but over the years, he’d managed to lose most of his innocence.

Thanks to me. The thought pained her. The Blood had killed numerous times to protect her, and the body counts always increased when they were in the Green Lands. Her own countrymen made the Death Rider assassins appear lazy. A Plains assassin hadn’t tried for her in over a year.

Forcing her attention back to the table of expectant men, she let a small smile curve her lips. Benton, the Steward of Far Illione who had proven instrumental in Allandor’s acquisition of swift Keldari mounts for her army, immediately relaxed and smiled in return. The poor man was inept at politics, hence his post in the very far reaches of her kingdom. The others thought little of him, but she’d placed him on her Council for a reason.

She never forgot a favor or a gesture of good faith. That trust had been ill-placed in King Challon. Hopefully Benton was more worthy of her trust.

She reached up to remove the gold crown from her head and placed it on the gleaming mahogany table before her. Intricately carved roses wound about the crown with long spiked thorns sharp enough to make her scalp bleed if she didn’t place the crown carefully.

Silence deepened in the room. The nobles stared at the symbol of her right to rule this land as if the deadliest serpent uncoiled in preparation of a vicious strike.

Keeping her voice low, soft, and pleasant, she said, “Would any of you like to wear this crown?”

Royce made a small sound very much like a whimper, Benton blanched, averting his gaze and shaking his head so hard he lost his quizzing glass, while Phillip turned green as though he might vomit beneath the table.

“It’s very heavy,” she continued, keeping her manner casual. “Every day that I’m here in Shanhasson, I hesitate before putting it on my head. You see, when I’m here so very close to the Great Seal, He stirs.”

She didn’t mention His name, but every Green Lander in the room shuddered and muttered a quick prayer to Our Blessed Lady.

Lygon, the Blackest Heart of Darkness, had walked her Dreams for years, trying night after night to lure her into Shadow. She didn’t try to hide the quiver in her voice or the dread thickening her voice.

Dharman pressed fully against her back and dropped both hands to her shoulders. He held her against him, the heat of his body solid and protective.

“He knows when I’m here and strains harder to break free of His prison. Each day the chains weaken and thin. Each year, He touches the world easier. Someday He will stretch out his hand…” She met King Challon’s light blue gaze, so similar to his dead nephew’s eyes. “…And simply throttle us all.”

“Not unless you die, Your Majesty,” King Challon replied, thoroughly unruffled by her grim prediction. “As long as you live, your blood bars Him away from Our Blessed Lady’s Green and Beautiful Lands.”

Somehow, she thought he meant those words as a curse instead of a blessing. “So why are there so many attempts on my life each time I return to Shanhasson?”

None of them dared answer. Even King Challon broke and glanced down, avoiding the question. Someone in this room wanted her dead very badly.

Perhaps all of them.

:You know that is far from the truth.: Sal touched her again, deliberately nudging her thigh harder, a playful attempt to distract her from such grim thoughts. :I want something very badly, and I assure you, Khul’lanna, it is not your death.:

Heat crept across her cheeks, but she carefully kept her gaze up instead of looking down at the young man rubbing himself against her side. At least most of what he did was hidden beneath the table so her Council didn’t know.

“Enough.” Directed at Sal, the word came out harsher than she intended. King Challon’s gaze jerked back to her face, narrowed in consideration. If a sharper tone got her Council’s attention, all the better. “Am I High Queen? Do you want my protection against Lygon’s foulness, or shall I allow His Shadow to taint you all until Our Lady’s Green Lands are destroyed utterly?”

They hesitated. They actually had to think about it.

She was losing them. Inch by inch, day by day, her Council plotted more openly against her. She lost another acre of her country to Shadow. She couldn’t be here every single day. Lady help her, the few days she managed to travel such distance from the Plains was already difficult enough. She and Rhaekhar both had extensive responsibilities to the Nine Camps of the Sha’Kae al’Dan. At least they treated her with some amount of respect.

Most of them, she amended. Even after three years, not all of her husband’s people welcomed an outlander in their midst.

I’m losing, she thought sadly, shaking her head. Blessed Lady, forgive me for failing you.

Sadness and guilt, regret and heartache, another brick stacked on her heart, another weight she had to carry. So many deaths lay along her path to the Rose Crown and the High Throne of the Green Lands, only to be mistrusted, doubted, and betrayed. The unfairness of it strangled her.

Without another glance, she turned away and strode toward the door. Dharman glided at her back, Sal and Jorah each at her side without a single command from her. They knew her thoughts before she did. Two Blood proceeded her; the rest trailed to protect her back from the roomful of outlanders they knew would eliminate her without a second glance.

“Your Majesty! Your Crown!”

Bitterly, she replied over her shoulder, “Wear it if you dare.”

Her threat carried little weight. No one would touch it. Legends said that any man who dared lay a single finger on Our Blessed Lady’s Rose Crown would instantly fall dead. If only her enemies would dare such a foolhardy attempt then they’d all be eliminated effortlessly.

#

By the pale, tight look on her face, Rhaekhar knew her meeting had not gone well. He suppressed a sigh. If she felt his impatience to return to the Plains, then she would only feel more guilt and frustration that she kept him from his duties as Khul.

Muttering, Varne shook his head. “Why doesn’t Dharman simply gut them all?”

Amused, Rhaekhar agreed, noting the grim slant to her First Blood’s mouth and his white-knuckled grip on his rahke. Each of her Blood glowered at any and all outlanders, frustrated by their inability to punish those who didn’t support their Khul’lanna wholeheartedly. That so many of them plotted to murder her infuriated them all.

Even when Khul approached his mate they were slow to make way and allow him to touch her. As soon as she stepped foot on Green Land soil, the assassins attacked each and every day. Rhaekhar could forgive her Blood much as long as they kept her alive and well.

“A tough kae’don, my heart?” Rhaekhar cupped her cheek in his hand, stroking his thumb tenderly over her lip. “May I challenge any of your Council this day?”

“No,” she grumbled, burying her face against him. He felt her breathe deeply and immediately some of the tension eased from her shoulders. “If I let you kill everyone who disagreed with me, they’d all be dead.”

“Perhaps you need a change in strategy.”

She raised her face, her gaze narrowed in thought.

“You have tried well-reasoned arguments and bargains with men who have no honor.” Rhaekhar couldn’t keep the distaste out of his voice and didn’t try to hide it. She knew very well what each trip to the Green Lands meant to him, to her Blood, to any warrior used to wearing his honor and pride for all to see. These people had no understanding of honor. How could they, when they wished their own Queen dead? “You are a warrior at heart, Shannari dal’Dainari. Challenge them in a way they don’t expect.”

“I can’t whip out my rahke and cut them into agreeing with me.” Mouth quirked, she shook her head. “They’re not warriors. They wouldn’t understand it, and certainly couldn’t meet me likewise.”

“I didn’t mean a kae’rahke, na’lanna, although I admit I find the thought amusing.” His warrior woman was fierce with a blade. He proudly bore many scars from her rahke, as did her Blood. “You attempt a Market Day with curs who simply shred and gnaw your hides, oblivious to the goods you offer.”

“When you bargain with Shadow, all are compromised.” At Rhaekhar’s surprised glance, Varne flushed. His nearest Blood had always been most vocal in his disapproval of an outlander Khul’lanna, so any word of wisdom was most unexpected. “Toss a bone among them, and they tear each other apart. It’s folly to linger among them.”

Dharman gave Khul’s nearest Blood a gruff nod. “I agree. Give us the word, Khul’lanna, and we shall eliminate them all.”

“You cannot force them to respect me.” Shoulders drooping, she rubbed her eyes. “I must win this kae’don myself, but Lady help me, I’m losing.” Bitterly, she sharpened her voice. “I hate losing.”

Rhaekhar’s heart went out to her. All day she hid her emotions and fears, constantly wearing that proud mask he had come to despise. He dreaded each trip to the Green Lands. Not because of the time away from his homeland, but for the cost she paid in pride. It was a constant drain on her spirit to be here among her own people, and that saddened him more than he could say.

“Let us return to your room, my heart.” Rhaekhar threaded her fingers in his and led her down the hallway. The twins would put a smile on her face when nothing else could. “You have neglected to join me for a Green Land bath this trip.”

She squeezed his hand and the heat in her eyes squeezed his heart in turn. He had made love to her countless times, but he would never weary of her passion. “I get to give you a massage this time.”

“Your wish is my desire. However, whatever you do to me, I–”

“Get to do to me, I know.” She laughed softly and leaned into him, rising on her tiptoes. He obliged by leaning down so she could whisper in his ear. “I bet I can make you lose control.”

“You challenge me, na’lanna.” The rumble in his voice made her eyes darken, her lush mouth softening as she dropped her gaze to his lips. “I accept.”

Dharman bumped into her, smashing her fully against Rhaekhar. Thinking the lad meant to insinuate himself into their challenge, he growled a challenge. If she had invited her Blood, Rhaekhar would accept him without question, but he refused to tolerate a warrior’s interruption, not even one as close and loved by her.

Turning toward Dharman, she opened her mouth to take the lad to task, but the harsh look on his face stalled her retort. He gripped her close, tucking her against him while backing them both tightly against Rhaekhar. Someone cried out and the Blood didn’t hesitate. He took her to the ground and covered her protectively with his body.

Rhaekhar let her go else find himself on the cold tile as well. His own Blood pressed closer but Varne’s manner of protection was much different. Rahke in hand, he took up stance shoulder to shoulder with Khul and the other eight Blood, wary but not alarmed. They all knew to whom any threat would be aimed, and she was safe beneath her nearest Blood.

A crossbow bolt quivered in the wooden doorframe, not a hand’s span from where her head and been moments ago. Immediately, he glanced down at her, but he couldn’t see anything but her Blood’s broad back covering her.

“Great Vulkar,” Rhaekhar ground out, gripping his rahke but not drawing it. There was no need: her golden-haired Blood, Jorah, charged after the assassin. “Will she never have any peace?”

Varne shook his head. “Not while she returns to these Green Lands.”

Listening to her na’lanna bond, Rhaekhar searched for any hint of pain to make sure she hadn’t been wounded. He trusted her Blood implicitly, and they would take any wound to her body, no matter how small, as a grave failure. All Blood possessed a fierce sense of honor, but Khul’lanna’s Blood extremely so. Only lads when Vulkar had sent them to her side, they had never worn their own kae’valda and never would.

Until she dies.

Rhaekhar pushed that horrible fear away. He’d already sworn to die before her. If Vulkar called her home to His Clouds early, Khul would ride at her side.

He felt a wrenching in her bond, an unexpected emotion. At first, he thought she had picked up on his grim thoughts of death, but Dharman jerked his attention down to her. Whatever he saw, the lad dropped his body fully against hers instead of politely hovering above her.

There was no mistaking the surge of physical response through her bond. Rhaekhar hold his breath a moment, and then let it out, slow and steady. He’d known this day would come eventually. She was too close to her young Blood to ever deny them her heart and body for long. That she’d made it so many years since she claimed them had astounded him.

He still didn’t like the thought. She was his, his na’lanna and Khul’lanna. She carried his honor and had borne him two children. That another warrior encroached on Khul’s woman sent a rush of…

Rhaekhar breathed deeply again. Not jealousy or rage, not exactly. If she loved another, he would see to her need, as he’d done with Gregar, but he’d been different. The laughing Shadowed Blood had been his friend and protector for years before they even set eyes on the outlander who would own their hearts.

Gregar had been his; Dharman would only ever be hers.

A sense of finality washed over Rhaekhar, and he felt a moment of weakness. His knees trembled enough that he leaned his weight against the wall. He suddenly felt as old as his nearly forty years, every kae’don and kae’rahke he’d battled, the scars he carried, the sheer weight of honor he carried weighing him, dragging him.

Great Vulkar, he prayed silently. I beg you, don’t call me home yet.

#

After years of agony and yearning, the untouchable mated woman Dharman had loved since the first moment he met her looked upon him as a warrior and not a lad. Her lips pressed against his chest, her breathing ragged, her heart pounding so hard in his head through the Blood bond that he couldn’t hear. He managed to give a quick signal to Sal, alerting him to his own incapacitation as her First Blood.

How could he think to protect her with his blood pounding so hard his skull threatened to crack open? She arched beneath him, and Dharman nearly died at her soft cry of desire. Tightening his arms around her, he breathed the words against her lips. “At last.”

She shuddered, her fingers digging into his back. Emotions tore through her, no secret to him through the bond. She was shocked, afraid, guilty, her first thought of Khul and how he might feel. All these emotions Dharman knew and expected. Yet overpowering it all was the fierce ache in her body. That she would need him so much…

Him.

After all these years.

He couldn’t resist a slow rock of his hips, giving her his weight, the grind of his hips against hers. She made a low sound of need that rocked through his mind. Thick, sultry roses, heated by her desire, clogged his nostrils. She wants me.

Sal placed his palm on Dharman’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to help break through his physical instinct that demanded a quick, hard thrust to claim her as his before she changed her mind. He remembered their location, and most of all, the extremely close presence of her mate. Before he could do anything, he must request permission else find himself challenged by the greatest warrior on the Plains.

“All clear,” Sal murmured, his low voice aching with yearning. Would she respond to him the same way?

As lads, they had sworn an oath in blood, deeper than brothers, deeper than Camp loyalty, deeper, even than honor, for at the time, they’d possessed none. With Khul’lanna bleeding and close to death on the ground between them, Dharman had known one thing and sworn it to Sal.

Where he went, so too, did Sal. If she didn’t want the red-haired Blood, Dharman would not go to Khul’s blankets, either, no matter how much he wanted to love her.

Deliberately, Dharman rolled off to the side and allowed the other Blood to assist her. Of course, Sal–as wicked and salacious as Gregar had ever thought to be–took advantage of her rather dazed and needy state. Sal backed her into the wall, shielding her with his body with admirable determination that no assassin steel should touch her without first sliding through his flesh.

Without even seeing her face, Dharman knew the way her breath caught in her chest, her throat tight, the scent of spice in her nose that felt as familiar to her as his own scent. Unerringly, her mouth found the mark on Sal’s throat that she’d placed an eternity ago, her teeth in his throat, his blood hers to command.

Dharman stood and met Khul’s fierce gaze. Squaring his shoulders with determination, he strode to him, ignoring the glower of Khul’s Blood. He knew Khul had felt her response. No thought or need passed through her mind and heart that her bonded warriors didn’t feel, whether Blood or na’lanna or both. She simply didn’t know it yet.

“Khul, may I challenge for right as co-mate?”

“As soon as we return to the Plains.” Khul replied curtly. “Sal, too?”

“Aye.” Despite his confidence, Dharman felt a twinge of…not fear exactly, but wary respect. Khul would make him earn the right to come to his blankets. The kae’rahke between Khul and Gregar before she’d accepted the Shadowed Blood was burned into Dharman’s mind. “Where I go, he goes.”

Khul glanced at her. Relieved and reassured that she would want him as much as his friend, Sal had backed off and allowed her to push away from the wall. She stared at Khul, pale, her midnight blue eyes large and dark with her emotions. Khul’lanna was not a woman to run from any battle, no matter how grim, but this kae’don threatened to tear her apart. She gripped the rahke on her hip and thought seriously about challenging both of her Blood.

Dharman sent some of his eagerness through her bond and her eyes widened even more with alarm. A little blood would only inflame them all the more.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, dropping her gaze. Misery filled her, regret and anger and unwanted need wrenching her heart, tangling her bonds into knots in her mind. After all these years of serving as nearest Blood, Dharman had yet to understand her reluctance to admit any love, let alone the love she felt for anyone but Khul.

“I will not pressure her this time,” Khul said, drawing Dharman’s attention. At least Khul’s face had softened with acceptance, touched with wry sympathy. “I forced her to admit her feelings for Gregar, only because he swore he would not live long. I chose to bear her anger rather than any long-held regrets that she’d never loved him as he deserved. I won’t do it again.”

Dharman hadn’t expected any assistance. He certainly knew Khul’lanna well enough to accept that simply because she’d felt desire for him and Sal that she would not immediately ask them both to Khul’s blankets. In fact, he expected the reverse. Her reluctance to hurt Khul in any way was too great. “How much leeway do I have to convince her myself?”

Khul grinned widely and slapped him on the back. “As much as you dare, lad.” He paused, ignoring Khul’lanna’s sharp inhale and fierce surge of ire through their bonds. “Nay, you’re a lad no longer. If you desire to win your way to my blankets, warrior, then you are welcome to try through any means you deem necessary.”

“Over my dead body.” Khul’lanna advanced on Khul and shoved him in the chest. The mighty warrior didn’t even budge. “You’re not going to simply stand there and let them…”

“Nag you?” Sal asked brightly.

Her cheeks flooded with color. She whirled, but froze. A flood of nausea swamped her bond.

Dharman immediately stepped up to her, his senses alert. Sal took her other side, all thoughts of co-mates and finally making love to her wiped from their minds. They scanned the hallway, seeking any shadow or threat that would clutch her stomach with such fierce cramps of sickness reserved for the darkest, most tainted Shadow, but all they saw were the twins.

Nearly three years old, Rhyra and Anya ran toward their mother, hair sungold and dark sable respectively. No one questioned the stamp of each child’s parentage. Both as lovely as their mother with dark-blue eyes, Rhyra was obviously Khul’s daughter, while Anya was the Shadowed Blood’s. Khul’lanna might have only taken Gregar to Khul’s blankets the one time before he died, but his gift lived on his daughter.

Both girls had sticky faces and hands, as though they’d been eating a special sweet, and Rhyra held a small china plate.

Whatever was on that plate made Khul’lanna stagger. Lunging forward, she smacked it out of her daughter’s hands and fell to her knees, retching and crying.

“Mama, Mama,” the girls cried, clutching her.

“You didn’t eat that, did you?” She cupped Rhyra’s face and stared deeply into her eyes. Dharman felt a wash of cold spring water fill their bond, the Lady’s power rushing through her blood. She turned to Anya. “Did you?”

“Nay, Mama, but Sara’s sick. She fell down.”

“Oh, Lady.” Khul’lanna wrapped her arms around the girls and hugged them tight. She looked up at Dharman, desperate horror shadowing her eyes despite the gleam of her tears. “Someone tried to poison my babies.”

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Happy Birthday, Year 6 (late)

I can’t believe that I forgot my writing birthday this past September (2008).  I remembered in October or so, but then I was so deep into projects that I didn’t sit down and write up the annual post.

Looking back over 2009, I think the thing I’ll remember most is Revision Hell.  I spent a great deal of time revising projects and pushing them out the door.  I finally revised my first NaNoWriMo novel about half a dozen times and began submitting it.  I worked on Arcana’s revision — my first and only fast draft novel — only to realize I’ve still got some issues with it. 

Probably the biggest milestone of the past year was finishing the Shanhasson trilogy.  That dream has come full circle, the first dream, the first story that brought me to this path.   I hope to share that full dream with you in 2010.

Another major milestone was making my first sale to Samhain.  As I wrote last year, Dear Sir (Letters) pushed me to grow beyond my favorite genres of fantasy and science fiction flavored with romance.  Conn gave me the excuse to remember how much I love poetry (this is Dreaming in Rhyme after all), and now Victor will continue pushing me into 2010 (he’s got the riding crop handy in case I balk).

On the horizon, I see a new series simmering just out of the corner of my eye.  It’s a new combination of some of my very favorite things.  These include Deathright and Seven Crows, which I’ve blogged about briefly before.  They’re satire in a way — making fun of some tropes, but paying homage to them at the same time.  I can’t wait to get back to them in early 2010.

No luck this past year in the Great Agent Hunt, although I did have a close call.  I have queried, but I’ve been pretty selective.  I plan to re-evaluate my A-list around April/May next year and begin querying the new series with fresh eyes.  But my personal goals are changing a bit.  I want to build what I’ve already established.  I need to write the final Keldari novella, get the Shanhasson trilogy done, and then wrap up the Connaghers.  I love the flexibility I have right now.  I want to LOVE what I write and write my heart out.  If I can snag an agent in the process, then I’ll kill two birds with one stone, but either way, I’ll continue doing what I’m doing, which is hopefully writing stories that keep you up late at night, flipping just one more page, one more page, one more page.

While Gregar, Conn and Victor whisper in your ear.

Here’s to another year.  Hopefully I’ll actually remember my writing birthday on 9/30 next year!