Some thoughts on sequels, snippets and those voices in your head.

There's a question that is often asked by authors, usually new ones, when it comes to sequels. It is basically this: Should I write a sequel to my book? My answer has always been to wait and see if you find a publisher for the first book and then to see if it sells well enough to justify writing a follow-up. Now, there are times, at least for me, when that advice isn't completely followed. I say completely because, well, I have a sequel to Nocturnal Origins about halfway written and completely outlined. Why? Because those voices in my head get so noisy at times it was was the only way to quiet them so I could work on anything else.

But recently, I've come to wonder if there's not another reason to have at least a rough draft of a few chapters of a sequel written when the first book finally comes out. It can be great promotion -- of course, it can also backfire on you. Hopefully, for me, it's working and will help drive the sales of Origins to the point that NRP will buy the next book in the series.

All of this is a round-about way of saying I've been posting a few snippets to Nocturnal Serenade, the sequel to Nocturnal Origins, over on my writing blog. You can find the first two here and here. I thought today, I'd post a third snippet both on my blog and here.

The following scene is not what comes next in Serenade. I thought I’d skip ahead some. This scene comes about 75 pages or so into the book. It will give a little of Mac’s family background and, hopefully, tease you some about what’s happening in the book. Yes, I’m evil and I love it. Hope you enjoy the snippet.

* * *

“All right, Mackenzie, don’t you think it’s time you told me what in the world is going on?”

They’d finally collected Ellen’s bags, after what had to be one of the longest delays in getting luggage from a jet to the terminal in recent memory, and had made their way to Pat’s sedan. Instead of answering her grandmother’s question right away, Mac had stowed Ellen’s luggage in the trunk, thinking hard as she did. Where to start? There was so much to tell her grandmother, none of which would be easy.

So she’d start with the easiest. She’d explain that they’d have to wait until morning to go to the hospital. The doctors wanted to keep Elizabeth sedated during the night so she could get some of the rest she needed so badly to begin her recovery. Ellen simply nodded, her eyes flitting from her granddaughter to Pat and back again.

Now, with Pat carefully navigating her way through the parking garage, Mac knew she couldn’t put off telling Ellen the rest of it. Especially not with her grandmother looking at her so closely. Still, she couldn’t quite find the words to begin.

“When did you start shifting?” Ellen’s voice carried a mixture of concern and, to Mac’s surprise, guilt. “And I assume you’re aware of the fact your partner’s a shifter as well.”

Well, trust her grandmother to cut right to the chase.

“It’s a long story, Gran, and I’ll tell you everything later. I promise. But the short version is this. Shortly after my birthday, I was attacked by one of the local lycans. He damn near killed me – Hell, they thought he had. Imagine my surprise when I woke up in the morgue. I about scared the poor attendant to death – Any way, the attack awakened my shifter abilities. I started shifting shortly after that, although I didn’t realize what was happening.”

Anger and resentment flared as she remembered how scared she’d been, how close she’d come to actually considering killing herself for being a monster.

Easy, Mac. It’s not her fault you didn’t know what might happen one day. You know that. Just as you know it’s something you need to talk to your mother about. So ease back on the anger.

“Fortunately” she continued, relieved none of the resentment showed in her voice, “my captain, who happens to be the local pride leader, did realize what was happening to me. He sent Pat and another member of the pride to watch me. Fortunately, all of them, especially Pat who helped me control one of my first shifts and then who took me somewhere secluded so she could teach me, helped me begin accepting what was happening.”

“Thank you.” Ellen reached over and lightly clasped Pat’s shoulder in appreciation. “And this lycan who attacked you?”

“It didn’t take long to realize he was responsible for a series of murders Mac and I were investigating. At first we didn’t know if he was a loner, because there hadn’t been any problem with the local lycans for years, or what. Then we realized he was a member of the local lycan pack and was doing his best to stir up trouble. Which, as I’m sure you realize, was the last thing any of us wanted,” Pat said.

“Wait!” Ellen leaned forward, reaching out with her left hand to turn Mac’s face to her. “That is why the Conclave convened here, without warning. You met that bastard in the Circle.”

It was more statement than question and all Mac could do was nod.

“I dealt with him, Gran, as I needed to.” That much was true. She had needed to deal with Wilcox herself, not only for what he’d done to her but for what he’d done to the others he’d stalked and killed. “The Circle gave me the only way I could make him pay for his crimes without arresting him, and that was the last thing I wanted to do. I couldn’t risk him shifting while in custody.”

“Of course you couldn’t!” Ellen leaned back, suddenly looking her age as the implications sank in. “Mackenzie, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have –“

“Gran, don’t.” Mac waited until she knew she had her grandmother’s undivided attention. Then she waited a moment longer as Pat paid the toll to get off of the airport grounds. “I won’t lie to you. I was angry and hurt and more than a little confused and scared about what was happening to me. Then, when I learned shifting ran in the family, that you and Granddad were shifters, I was more mad than anything else. I didn’t think we had any secrets between us, and, damn, this was a big ass secret.

“I’ve had to do a lot of thinking since then. I know it wasn’t your decision not to tell me. That’s something I’m going to have to discuss with Mom when she’s better. But I am glad you know now and that we can talk about it, and about the family aspect of it.”

“Mackenzie, there’s more to this than you’re telling me. What is it?”

Mac laughed softly, ruefully. She’d forgotten just how quickly Ellen could read through all the layers and realize she’d hadn’t been told everything.

“Unfortunately, Gran, there is.” She paused, chewing her lip as she thought. “I know you’re worried. But I’d appreciate it if you’d wait for an explanation until we get to my place.”

Leaning back, arms crossed, Ellen studied her granddaughter for a moment before nodding. The moment she did, Mac smiled and thanked her. It was going to be hard enough to tell her everything that had happened, especially when it came to the attack on Elizabeth. The last thing Mac wanted was to be confined in the car where she had to sit still, not pace and burn off at least some of her own anger and fear as she spoke.

Half an hour later, Mac and Pat carried Ellen’s luggage inside and upstairs to the bedroom she’d be using while in town. Ellen trailed behind them and Mac could almost feel her fighting against the urge to start asking questions again. She understood. If their roles had been reversed, she’d have been demanding answers long ago. But then, she’d never had her grandmother’s patience, something she knew she should try to cultivate but simply didn’t seem to be able to.

“All right, Gran.” Mac handed Ellen a glass of wine and sat across the kitchen table from her. They were alone for the moment. Pat had excused herself a few minutes earlier and had disappeared outside. Although she hadn’t said so, Mac knew she was checking the perimeter and talking with whomever King had sent from the pride to keep watch. “You said there’s more to what’s happened than I told you and you’re right. There’s a hell of a lot more. But let’s start at the beginning. How much do you know about what happened at the Conclave?”

And you’d better be ready to tell me how you know, since you weren’t anywhere near here at the time.

“I know that the Conclave was called by the head of the pride here because at least one of the local lycans was openly hunting and leaving his kills where they were being found. I’d heard that the lycan had also attacked a member of the pride. Cassandra called the Conclave when it became clear that the pack leader either wouldn’t or couldn’t control the lycan, this Wilcox I assume.” She waited until Mac nodded in confirmation. “Apparently, the pack turned Wilcox over to the Conclave for judgment rather than risk the Conclave disbanding the pack or ordering its extinction.”

“All true,” Mac confirmed. “The pack leader, Ferguson, had been aware of the trouble Wilcox was stirring up but hadn’t, apparently, realized how much trouble he was actually causing in the pack itself. When he did, instead of calling out Wilcox, he punished two weaker members and expelled them. All that seemed to do was send Wilcox over the edge. He’d already caused at least two deaths that we know of, as well as attacking me. His third kill was also here in the city and happened just before the Conclave arrived.”

“So, how did you wind up meeting him in the Circle?”

A hint of disapproval touched Ellen’s voice. Mac heard it but knew it wasn’t aimed at her. Or at least not totally. She had a feeling that when her grandmother finally met King and realized he was the local pride leader, her captain would get a lecture he’d not soon forget.

“When the Conclave passed the death sentence on Wilcox, he demanded his right to trial by battle. Pat and some of the others of the pride had already warned me that he had that option. So, when the Speaker, this Cassandra, asked Mike who would stand as the pride’s representative in the Circle, I said I would.”

“MacKenzie!”

“Gran, I didn’t have a choice. I had to do it. I had to for me, as well as for all the others he’d attacked. We still don’t know now many others he killed. Nor do we know if he managed to turn anyone. But we do know he can’t do any more harm and the pack now realizes we will not stand by and let them run wild. It’s hard enough keeping our existence a secret without one of them getting careless and revealing our existence through DNA or other forensic evidence.”

“I understand why you felt you needed to do it, Mackenzie. What I don’t understand is why your pride leader allowed it. You were too new as a shifter.”

“Gran, that’s you speaking as my grandmother. Besides, Mike knew better than to try to stop me. I had to do it and, as you can see, I managed quite well, thank you.”

“All right.” Now she smiled, and reached over to grasp Mac’s hand. “Don’t get me wrong, sweetheart. I’m very proud of you. Your grandfather would be as well, if he were here to see you.”

“I hope so, Gran.” She gave Ellen’s hand a quick squeeze and then leaned back, wondering how to say this next part. “But there is more you need to know.”

“Just say it, dear heart.”

“Gran, we haven’t caught the bastard who attacked Mom. But we do know one thing about him, or her.”

“I have a feeling I’m not going to like what you have to say.”

“You aren’t.” Mac lifted her wineglass and drained it. “Gran, she was knifed by a lycan. I don’t know if the bastard was trying to turn her and things got out of hand or what.”

Ellen looked at her in disbelief, the color draining from her face. Then, much as Mac had done just a moment before, she lifted her wineglass and drank it dry.

“Y-you’re sure?”

“I am. I got there within minutes of the attack happening and there was no mistaking the scent. Pat and Mike confirmed it.”

“Damn it!” Ellen shoved back her chair and got to her feet. Mac watched as she paced the length of the kitchen once and then twice before returning to the table.

“It gets worse, Gran. I don’t know if he infected her. Hell, even if he didn’t, I don’t know if she’ll react like I did and start shifting on her own.”

“Dear sweet Lord, Mac. This is going to be more than your mother can handle.”

“You’re right. We tried talking to her about it when she was old enough to start showing signs of shifting, not that she had. But she wouldn’t listen to us. When she finally realized just how serious we were, she decided to try to ignore it all. When she couldn’t do that any more, and when she realized she wasn’t going to be a shifter, she convinced herself that your grandfather and I had some sort of hideous disease that she wanted to avoid at all costs.” Ellen paused, gnawing her lower lip much as Mac did when thinking hard.

“So, when you were born and I tried talking to her again about the possibility of you being a shifter, she panicked. She watched your every move, scared you’d begin showing signs of having inherited the curse.

“She should have told you, Mac. I should have told you….”

“Gran, don’t.” Mac slid out of her chair and moved around the table to her side, holding her close. “It’s over. Now you can help me continue learning. More than that, you can help me look after Mom and help her deal with what’s happened.”

Ellen nodded and Mac relaxed slightly. They’d have to talk some more, a great deal more, but it could wait. One step at a time, and they’d already taken a huge one. Even better, they’d managed to do it without it devolving into an argument. Now if she could just figure out how to manage the same with her mother when Elizabeth was able to talk.

Nocturnal Origins -- Free Giveaway

Looking at the cover image of Nocturnal Origins, I still can't believe it. Finally, after a very long time, it's being published. Mixed with the excitement is more than a little bit of fear. What if no one likes it? What if no one, not even family and friends, buys it? That's like everyone saying your baby is ugly. Why, oh why, did I agree when the bosses came to me and said they'd made the decision to publish it without discussing it with me because they knew I would say no?

Okay, hysterics aside, or at least pushed down a bit. These really are the questions I've been asking myself since Origins came out the other day. Part of the reason is this is my first novel to be published. But it's more than that. Every author has that one novel or short story that is special. The one that just sings to them and never quite leaves the back of their mind. It's the world that keeps on living and has more stories to tell than you will ever be able to write. Origins is that for me.

In a lot of ways, this book came about because of a challenge from Sarah. She'll be the first to tell you that she had to drag it out of me, painfully and with much protestations and denials, that I was a writer. But she did it, at first by trickery and cajoling and then by downright demands and threats. Finally, worn down, I admitted that I did "write a little". Well, that was it. The next thing I knew, she had somehow convinced me to send her something I'd written. From there it was exercises and plot discussions and, well, the next thing I knew, Origins was born.

I'll admit here, this is a blatant post promoting the book. Why? Because that's what authors do -- or should do. Also because I'm really proud of the book and hope folks buy it and like it and tell their friends about it. So, along that same line, keep reading to find out how to win a free digital copy of the book.

So, what is Nocturnal Origins? It's an urban fantasy mixed with mystery mixed with police procedural mixed with just a hint of romance. It is not, as a friend said, lady porn -- not that there's anything wrong with that. I've read more than my fair share of it ;-)

I posted a snippet of Origins back in January. You can find it here.

Here's a snippet from later in the book.

* * *
Deep shadows swathed the neighborhood as night slowly crept toward day. The pre-dawn silence was broken by the occasional passing car or the lonesome bark of a dog left outside by owners still safely tucked away in their beds. So normal and seemingly so safe.
And so prime for the taking.

The large cat moved silently as a wraith as it kept to the deepest shadows. It avoided the occasional splash of light thrown off by street lamps along the edge of the road. The jaguar prowled the well-manicured lawns, a cat on the hunt. This might not be the jungle it longed for, but this was the jaguar's territory. Nothing else mattered.

A padding step behind her brought her to a stop. Her head swung in the direction of the sound, teeth bared even as she scented…him. A soft growl sounded in her throat. At the same time he stepped into the light cast by the nearest street lamp. For a moment, it was as if he called to her.

No! How dare he intrude on her territory?

He took a step forward and she bared her teeth, another growl cutting the silence of the night even as her ears folded back against her head. Undeterred, he moved even closer. How dare he! Her heavy paw darted out, barely missing his head as he pulled back, surprise reflected in his brown eyes.

To her surprise, he tried again to approach her. Maybe he was a bit more wary. Not that it mattered. Her guttural challenge came a mere split-second before her paw slashed forward, claws bared.

How dare he think he could intrude on her territory, hunt her prey! Such a foolish male. Just like all of them. Just because they are larger, they think they are the masters. Well, she'd shown him. She'd shown that she wouldn't meekly let him usurp her rightful place. The fight might have been short but it had been brutal and he'd slunk off into the shadows to lick his wounds, leaving her to her hunt at her pleasure.

Foolish, pitiful male.

A porch light switched on down the street, and the cat froze, melting into the shadows. Its head lifted, and surprisingly deep green eyes, eyes that seemed more human than feline, scanned the area even as the jaguar stood poised for flight. Finally satisfied no danger awaited, it continued on the prowl.

A few moments later, the jaguar paused once more. Its large head swung from side to side, something nearly a smile parting its lips to show a set of very deadly teeth. What good hunting could be had here. So many unsuspecting humans with their pampered, overfed pets. Yet, while it might be enticing, it wasn't sport. Not when the pets were penned like sheep awaiting the slaughter. Too bad, especially since the jaguar craved the joy of the hunt, a real hunt, that night. She hungered for the thrill of the kill, for the taste of fresh meat.

From somewhere down the street a dog, safe inside its fenced backyard, barked a challenge. As other dogs picked up the call, the jaguar once more bared its teeth in something that looked suspiciously like a grin. Such foolish creatures, these dogs. Brave as long as they were behind their fences with their humans close by. But so easy to silence.

A harsh growl sounded, low and rumbling. Almost instantly, the dogs quieted. The cat shook its head. They presented no challenge. It was time to move on and find more worthy prey.

Then, without warning, the silence of the night was shattered. A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky followed almost instantly by an ominous roll of thunder. Barking once more filled the air as dogs up and down the street clamored to get inside to safety.

A few moments later the first large raindrops slashed to the ground. Unlike most cats, the jaguar didn't race for shelter. Instead, it waited, listening, watching. Then it crouched, muscles gathering before it leapt into deeper shadows at the edge of the trees. It was time to move on, to find a better hunting ground.
To find food.

* * *

The steady drip-drip-drip slowly penetrated the fog that held her. Consciousness returned and with it a paralyzing fear. Whatever had happened, she wasn't lying on her bed, huddled under the blankets. Nor was she safe inside her house. Somehow she was outside, and that couldn't be good.

Eyes tightly shut, she prayed it was all a dream. But it wasn't. She knew it just as she knew the cold seeping into her bones was leaching the last of the warmth from her body. If she didn't get up soon, she would be in real trouble.

Mac's mind wailed in fear as reality sank in. She lay cold, wet, and completely nude in a puddle of water. Mud oozed between her fingers as she struggled to gather enough strength to climb to her knees. After twice trying to rise only to fall back to the ground like a helpless kitten, she knew she had to open her eyes, no matter what she might find. But she didn't want to. Once she did, she'd be forced to face the truth. Something had happened, something she couldn't remember, and she had a very sick feeling it was nothing good.

Why do these things keep happening to me?

Slowly, terrified of what she might find, Mac opened her eyes. Almost immediately, relief washed over her. She lay in her own backyard, safe - she hoped - from the prying eyes of her nearest neighbors.

That much, at least, reassured her. Nothing else did. Aches and pains too numerous to count spoke volumes about what she'd been though these last few hours - days? Worse, she had no idea, no memory of what had happened. How the hell had she wound up here? Had she been attacked again?

Or was it worse?

Could it be worse?

Swallowing hard against a sore, dry throat, she once more tried to push to her knees. A gasp of pain was torn from her, breaking the silence of the new dawn like a scream. Instinctively, she clamped her mouth shut and swallowed again, this time against the nausea that caused her stomach to pitch dangerously.

She most definitely was not in good shape.

Not daring to try to stand, Mac slowly crawled across the waterlogged grass toward the house. Never before had the yard seemed so large or taken so long to cross. Perspiration from the effort mixed with the rain, chilling her even more. Tears tracked down her cheeks as she forced herself to climb the three steps to the back porch on her hands and knees.

Sobbing in relief to have gotten that far, she paused. Part of her wanted to collapse where she was. She didn't have the strength to go any further. She could just lie there and rest awhile. There was nothing wrong with that. Then she could go inside. That would be all right, wouldn't it?

No! She couldn't stay there. No matter how badly she wanted to, she couldn't. Not when she was so cold and wet. Not when she had no idea how she had gotten out there in the first place. She had to find the strength to go inside. She had to. But how?

Placing one hand in front of the other, she dragged her now almost unresponsive body across the wooden porch to the door. Those few short feet seemed an almost insurmountable distance. Every movement hurt. Every breath felt as if it might be her last. Despair threatened to drown her as she collapsed and looked up at the doorknob. That shiny brass fixture seemed so far away. Could she reach it?

She had to reach it.

Please let it be open. Please.

Mac repeated it over and over like a mantra as her arm stretched upward towards the knob. Numb fingers touched and then slid off the cold metal. Biting her lower lip to keep from crying out, she once more reached up. Her eyes locked on her hand. Her focus narrowed to her fingers. Nothing else existed in the world in that moment except her fingers, the doorknob and her need to get inside.

Shaking from the effort, Mac willed her numb fingers to close around the smooth metal globe. Time slowed, seeming to almost stop. Then, miracle of miracles, the knob turned.

With the last of her strength, she pushed the door open and tumbled headfirst inside, landing in heap on the tile floor just inside. Slithering forward on her belly, she pulled her legs inside and kicked the door shut. She was safe. Finally. Her kitchen. Her house. Safe.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed the snippet. You can find Nocturnal Origins at Naked Reader Press or at Amazon or Barnes & Noble. And, as with all NRP books, Origins is DRM free.

If you're interested in winning a free digital copy of the book -- your choice of formats (epub, mobi, lit, lrf) -- leave a comment. You can comment on this post or about the state of the publishing industry in general. Just remember the rules -- no politics. I'll pick a winner tomorrow morning and post the winner. So keep checking back.

Impaler

This excerpt is the opening scene of Impaler. Final edits haven't been completed, so there will probably be some changes in the published ebook.

Enjoy!

Impaler

Chapter 1

Always before battle begins I am possessed by the need for solitude and prayer. It is a curious thing, for I have never fought as merely another knight. I first ruled men at the age of eighteen, when the old Ottoman Sultan Murad and his son Mehmed still thought I could be a Turk puppet.

Those who slander me say I care nothing for the fate of other men. They forget that those who rule by the Lord's grace are entrusted with the Earthly welfare of their subjects, and to some extent their souls. To take one's subjects into battle, however righteous the cause, ensures that they will sin. The burden of their souls falls upon me, their Prince.

I do not allow others to see my weakness. Few great lords care for the fate of those in their domains. That I of all men should do so would seem the most grotesque of jests. I, whose name echoes through Europe as a byword for atrocity. And yet, I am driven to pray for those whose lives will end on the battlefield this day, men whose only crime is to obey the commands of their lords.

Thus I walked through heavy mists in the Snagov marshes towards a hillock built by the monks to shelter their hermits from winter's worst. Mist beaded on the fine dark red wool of my coat and brushed cold and clammy against my skin. Around me my bodyguards ghosted through the marsh trees, soft-soled boots all but silent in the pre-dawn gray.

Only ten men of the two hundred my cousin Stephen had sent to my aid walked with me. Of all the forces I commanded this day, Stephen's two hundred were the only ones in whose loyalty I placed any trust. There had not been time to build forces of my own as I fought to reclaim my land from the Turk's puppets. My men were hirelings for the most part, bound by no oaths of fealty.

My goal emerged from the chill mist: a glade nestled against an earthen wall overhung with vines. It was a place sought by hermit monks for generations, and an air of peace and contemplation hung about it still.

I nodded to the nearest of my guards, and entered the glade. Another man might not have heard the whispers of movement, the sound of chain mail muffled by layers of quilted cloth. The curse laid upon me by Mehmed had its uses. I knew where my bodyguards positioned themselves, knew that they would give their lives to protect me should the need arise.

I knelt on a bed of fallen leaves, damp cold seeping through my pants to chill my legs. My lips moved without sound as I prayed. I begged mercy for those who would die this day, even those who fought under my traitorous cousin Basarab Laiota's banner. I asked no quarter for myself, nor for victory, for those matters lay in higher hands than mine. And finally, driven by what impetus I do not know, I prayed that if the Lord would not lift the Sultan's curse from me He show me a way to use the curse to further His glory.

How many times I begged that the curse be lifted from my shoulders I could not say. I can only say that this morning, as I prepared to face an army near twice the numbers of my forces, I begged instead that the Lord show me His will.

His answer came mere heartbeats after I stood, when I heard the whicker of a horse and the distinctive sound of metal against leather. My chest tightened and my hands clenched. I swallowed, and forced myself to show no sign of disturbance as I walked the few paces to Stefan, the captain of my guards.

"I heard horses and armor to the north," I murmured.

He nodded, and hastened to another man, who moved away in the mist. I waited, nerves drawn bowstring-tight, while the remainder of my guards joined us. They sensed the tension though they knew not its cause, loosening their swords in their sheaths, faces grim in the ghostly mists.

I drew my own sword, my hand settling comfortably around the worn leather wrappings on the hilt. This weapon had been my father's, a sword of the finest Toledo steel. Like him, I prized it for its strength and wicked sharpness as well as all it represented. How his faithful retainers smuggled it to me when he was murdered, I do not know. I was young then, too young to fully understand for I had never ruled, never known the bitter fruits of betrayal. Now I could only honor them for their courage and loyalty.

The scout returned, moving as quickly as he could without making undue sound. Though he whispered, I heard enough. At least fifty men approached from the north, men in the turbans of Turkish soldiers. It seemed my dear cousin Basarab lacked the courage to meet me on the field of battle and sought instead to murder me by stealth. The horses would be to ensure they could escape before any pursuit could be raised.

The captain swallowed when he turned to face me. "Sire, fifty men from the Turk army, leading horses. We must fight."

I nodded once. I and my ten guards were woefully disadvantaged, the Turks too close for a safe withdrawal. Had my curse-sharpened senses not heard them, they would have held the advantage of surprise as well. "Have your men draw weapons, and conceal themselves as well as they may. In this mist, we will be able to strike the center and send them into confusion."

"Sire... my Lord Prince... We can cover your retreat." The man's face had the calm, empty look of one who knows that death awaits, and has made his peace with his fate.

I smiled. Stephen's men deserved better than I could give them. "If I am not here, they will not allow you to hold them." I saw no reason to add that the rarely-used paths I had traveled to reach this place were unguarded. Better to draw the teeth of the snake here than to hide and allow brave men to die in my stead. "Go." I could hear the enemy more clearly now, whispered curses and the sound of wrapped hooves upon soil and leaves.

My guards melted into the mist, slipping behind tree trunks and bushy shrubs. I joined them without word, fighting the excitement that strove to quicken my breath. Soon enough there would be battle, and bloodshed aplenty to appease the curse. Now I could only wait.

Each breath seemed an eternity, those last few moments before our enemy emerged from the heavy mist stretching out into the everlasting wait. First they loomed as grotesque shadows, blurred darkness, then details began to emerge. Here, the shape of a horse's leg, there the glint of a drawn scimitar. They stayed close, horses and men breathing steam into the air, merging with the swirling shadows.

Their faces were grim, their turbans dark. They wore coats of all shapes and sizes, patched and worn and stained with the blood of former owners, for these were men who rarely saw the bone-aching chill of Wallachian winter. I smelled the oil they used in their hair and beards, the cleaner scent of horse, and shifted a little to ensure that they saw nothing of me as they passed us, alert but unseeing.

No signal was given, for none was needed. The rising tension in the bodies of my men, the quick flicker of their eyes as they checked to see how many had passed us and how many remained, gave the signal to all.

I leaped forward, my sword slicing across a Turk's unarmored chest as screams and shouts of alarm rose around me. Blood sprayed into the air, scarlet against the gray mists. My mouth opened to receive the accursed nectar, the sickly sweet taste sending thrills of anticipation through my body. My first swallow burned through to my stomach, the fire of renewed strength, of the energy that defeated the wasting sickness that would otherwise consume me.

A scimitar's movement caught at the very limit of my eyesight. I reacted without thought, my left hand reaching for the hand that held the weapon even as I kicked my first victim aside, raised my sword to the new threat.

I slashed that one's belly open and wrenched his scimitar from his hand, left him to scream and spill his entrails upon the forest floor. In those few moments, the joy of battle, the knife-edge of knowing that each beat of my heart could be my last, rose to fill me. My sword and stolen scimitar slashed into horses and men as I spun and danced amid the screams of the dying.

None could touch me: the Sultan's curse granted me speed and strength beyond human while the draught of fresh blood coursed through my body. Here, there was blood aplenty to sustain my unnatural prowess and for once, I welcomed it. Surely this was God's answer to my prayer.

If I were to use the curse in His name only, dedicate the victories it won me to His glory, it ceased to be the tool of darkness the Sultan had intended and became instead the scourge of Mohammed's followers. Thus could I expiate my many sins.

I truly know not how long the battle lasted. It can not have been long, for mist still lay heavy about me when my weapons could find no more enemies. I stood, gulping air tainted by the stench of death, and listened. I could hear only my own guards, all ten with the dazed look of men astounded to find themselves still breathing.

Of the enemy, I counted forty and three dead, and seven still living though wounded so severely they would not see the morrow. I stalked to the nearest, rested the point my sword in the hollow of the man's throat.

He took time to recognize my presence, to look up along the length of Toledo steel to my blood-covered face. A moan escaped him, and the words, "Kaziklu Bey."

I smiled. The Impaler Lord. He recognized me: good. "Grant me reason not to impale you alive," I said in Turkish.

His eyes opened very wide, and he grew even paler. His words lacked coherence, and were interspersed with pleas to Al-lah, but they told me enough. This group had been sent to commit murder and return to my beloved cousin Basarab with my corpse -- or failing that, my head. Returning without proof of my death had not been an option.

How fitting that dear Basarab Laiota should choose the coward's path. No doubt he wished to be free of me so he could rest his old bones safely. Perhaps instead of sending his head to the Turks I should send that part of a man they valued most.

My mood must have reflected upon my face, for the Turkish soldier began to beg the mercy I had implicitly promised.

I regarded him with contempt. "May your Al-lah grant you mercy," I said, and drove my sword into his throat. His body spasmed once, then was still. The death reflected nothing upon me, and I felt only weariness. In truth, there was little likelihood that he would have survived to be impaled, but fear of that fate -- and no doubt the reputation I had garnered -- overwhelmed any such consideration in his mind. To Turks, death by impalement was dishonor, and impalement by my hand dishonor and defilement.

For Turks, not only did I grease the stakes, I greased them with pig fat. Few had ever received the relative mercy of the stake piercing their heart: I displayed their proclivities to the world instead. Small wonder they held that death in battle was preferable to capture and impalement.

I cleaned my sword on a fallen man's clothing before sheathing the weapon, and located a relatively unstained turban to unwrap and wipe the worst blood from my face. "Send someone to the camp to have stakes prepared and bring these back." I could feel the grim amusement in my smile, taste it in my voice. "We will have a welcoming gift for the Sultan's tool ere this mist lifts."

#

No Will But His by Sarah A. Hoyt

Sarah is fighting the flu and asked me to post this snippet from her upcoming novel No Will But His: A Novel of Katherine Howard. It will be released April 6, 2010. Enjoy! Btw, she will begin her short story clinic next week. Promise. -- Amanda)

**

The Backstairs of Hampton Court

“Are you brave or foolish, Your Majesty? Brave or foolish?” Thomas Culpepper’s fine, long fingers quested beneath the bodice of my dress, caressing along the rounded slope of my breast till they found the nipple and played upon it as a musician upon a virginal. His blue grey eyes sparkled like a cloudless summer’s sky down at me as he demanded, his voice thickened by desire, “Brave or foolish?”

I smiled at him, but I said nothing. It has ever been my belief with men that it is far easier to allow them to make up their own minds and tell themselves whatever pretty story they want about your motives.

They can think you love them or hate them, that you’re brokenhearted at leaving them or else that you have turned your heart to another. There is naught you can do about their fanciful imaginings, and it saves time and many tears if you simply let them believe as they will. Then they tell themselves their pretty stories and your soul remains unstained by the lie.

As I looked at Master Culpepper from beneath my half-lowered eyelids, I thought it was a good thing he had auburn hair and those fine eyes, and that his features—I thought—resembled what my husband’s had been before he’d grown so fat. Any get of Thomas could pass as the get of Henry, the king of England.

“Don’t you know, madam, that the wrath of kings is death?”

I smiled at him, my sauciest smile, and endeavored to appear lighthearted and fanciful and interested in nothing but my pleasure. Or perhaps half mad in love with him, which Thomas would probably fain believe I was. He’d grown very vain.

“You speak too much, Master Culpepper.”

“Should one not speak?” he asked. “When such grave matter is afoot?” His hand, more forward than his brain, quested still in the warm reaches of my bodice, and by that questing hand I knew I had him. He might think, and he might talk, but his body would no more let him walk away from me than it would let him ascend to flight like an angel bound for heaven above.

“My quarters are warm, and all my servants abed, save only Lady Rochefort and Mistress Tilney who is utterly devoted to me—and both of them would die before they betray me.”

In his eyes for a moment there was a flash of fear. Then it was gone. “Madam!” he said, desire in his voice strong enough to drive away any fear. “Madam.”

“Dare you not, Thomas Culpepper? And I thought you a brave man.” Which by all accounts I should well think him—in the field of joust and in dispute, he stood with the most gallant courtiers.

“Brave I am, and I’ll dare if you will, but . . .”

My finger rested on his lips, stilling them. “Hush then, and dare you all.”

In his eyes I read lust mixed with a little fear. He would never be allowed to see the fear in mine. I kept my gaze level, my smile broad. He would never be allowed to know that as I stood here, in my velvet gown, my sparkling jewels, I walked a narrow path between two deep abysses.

The king, my husband, lay ill abed. At this very moment, already, he might be dead, taken by the same illness that had caused the wound in his leg to stop flowing and turned his face black with foul humors just two months ago. That same illness had returned, that same blocked humor. And now he would die. And if he died—

If he died, he left nothing. Two daughters and a small son who, though he might be a lusty infant, would still be a pawn of every pretender, every hand against him.

We would find ourselves again as in the time before the king’s father when my grandmother said every man had been against every other and no one safe. And I, the relict of the sovereign, would be the first to lose life and limb in such strife.

Only one thing would protect me, and hold me on the throne, and that was that my womb should ripen with a child.

But that was impossible as my husband did little that could lead to such an auspicious result.
And so, at this moment, in my peril, I must seize upon another who might impregnate me and whose son I could pretend to be Henry’s. Of course, discovery of my treason would lead to death, but so would Henry’s death without having seeded my womb.

I half closed my eyes and wondered how I—who had wanted nothing more than to keep myself free from any man’s single, brute power over me—should have come to this.

But I said nothing. I closed my eyes and allowed Thomas to think it was just my desire for him making me hoarse, as I said, “Speak no more, Thomas. Only make me yours.”

Sunday snippet: sample chapter from THE BETRAYAL

Sample from The Betrayal copyright © 2008 by Pati Nagle and Del Rey Books. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author. Exceptions are made for downloading this file to a computer for personal use.

Alpinon

A footfall on the forest floor below brought Eliani's head up sharply. The scroll in her hands curled back into itself. She had not been reading it-her thoughts had drifted long since. The Lay of the Battle of Westgard had failed to entrance her today.

She leaned out from the branch where she sat and peered down between the leaves of her favorite oak, seeking the sound's source. A shadow of movement below, the edge of a cloak curling out of sight. Not a kobalen, then. Nor could it be a guardian, for Alpinon's patrols were always at least three strong.

Eliani laid a hand against the oak's trunk-slender here, near its top-and closed her eyes. The tree's khi was slow and deep. She sent her own khi through it and out into the forest: roots running strong into the earth, whisper-fine grasses moving with each light breeze, small creatures dwelling in branch or under root. A much brighter, stronger pulse of khi reverberated through the wood, one that could only be ælven. Eliani drew back from it, as the ælven did not trespass upon one another's khi.

She opened her eyes and carefully set her scroll in a notch of two branches where she had stored little treasures since childhood. She loved the old ballad-heroic mindspeakers and soul-consuming alben warlords still thrilled her despite her inattention today-but her curiosity about the intruder was more immediate.

She moved stealthily down to the oak's lowest limbs, making no sound at all, for she could have climbed the tree blindfolded in any direction. Peering on a lower branch, she saw a solitary figure walking away northward: tall, male, pale-haired.

She caught her breath, thinking for an instant that it was an alben. Fear set her heart pulsing before reason reminded her that an alben would not be walking in daylight, even if he dared to cross the mountains into Alpinon.

No, it was a Greenglen, his hair not white but pale blond, as was common to his clan. He wore a cloak of Clan Greenglen's colors-sage lined with silver-and carried a long bow slung over one shoulder.

Greenglens were rarely seen in Alpinon, though their homeland of Southfæld shared a nearby border. Eliani had met only a handful of them in her short fifty years, and none recently.

She smiled a hunter's silent pleasure. She would track this foreigner, try to glimpse his face, see how long she could follow him unnoticed. It was the sort of game she most enjoyed, and she was good at it, having spent the last two decades in Alpinon's Guard. She felt a moment's wistfulness, reminded that soon she would become the Guard's commander. The other guardians would call her "Warden" instead of "Kestrel," the nickname they had given her.

Tomorrow, on Autumn Evennight, she would be confirmed in her majority and formally named heir and designated successor to her father, Felisan, Governor of Alpinon. The command of the Guard would pass to her as well. This was her last day of youth and irresponsibility. A little mischief might be forgiven her, this last time.

Grinning, she turned her attention to her quarry. She tensed her thighs, balanced carefully, and sprang to the forest floor, making no more sound than the falling of a leaf.

~~~

Turisan walked at his ease, enjoying the rich earthen smell and myriad colors of autumn leaves, only mildly curious at first about his pursuer. He was not quite certain how long he had been followed.

He was not averse to meeting a patrol from Alpinon's guard. In fact he half hoped to encounter one, for he had not previously been in this realm and did not know the way to Highstone. His pursuer, however, though certainly ælven, was evidently not a guardian. Such a one would have challenged him, not stalked him. He therefore continued to stride through Alpinon's fair woodlands, which were full of life and untouched by ælven hands, as unlike as could be to his home in Glenhallow.

Pausing to examine a spray of scarlet leaves, he saw a flicker of movement above. His brow creased in a slight frown. It was impolite to treat a visitor so, whether or not they knew who he was. He began to tire of the game.

And now he could hear his father berating him for not bringing along an escort suitable to his dignity. Had he been accompanied by ten of Southfæld's Guard, as Lord Jharan had wished, no zealous Stonereach would have dared to stalk him. In Jharan's view, a member of Southfæld's governing house should never travel unattended, though he walk through the most benign lands. Indeed, he should not walk. He should ride a finely caparisoned steed, or better yet take his ease in a chariot emblazoned with marks of state, surrounded by a mounted escort.

It was such excess of ceremony that made Turisan long so often to be gone from the court at Glenhallow. The more he learned of the intricacies of governance, the more he yearned for the simplicity of a wild wood, a clear stream, and the flicker of stars through leafy branches.

This journey was in part an escape from court formalities, though at the end of it they awaited him again. His father had sent him here on a visit of ceremony, to pay respects and carry messages to Lord Felisan, the governor of Alpinon, and to witness the confirmation of his heir.

Turisan had made no objection to this errand, for he knew it to be his duty as his father's nextkin. Lord Jharan's eyes, so often stern, grew soft with fondness whenever he spoke of Felisan, and that alone made Turisan curious to know him. He also expected the visit to Alpinon's woodlands to satisfy his longing for wildness. Yet even here in the forest he was to have no peace, it seemed. Annoyed all at once, he turned in mid-stride and nocked an arrow to his bow, aiming it amidst the branches overhead.

"You have followed me half the afternoon. Come down and declare your business with me, or begone."

A moment's silence. Then a rustle in the branches, and a lanky ælven female in worn and dusky hunting leathers emerged, landing softly before him. She brushed a strand of nut-brown hair from her green eyes and stood gazing at him.

"Peace to you, friend. I meant no harm. We seldom have visitors from the south."

Turisan lowered his bow. "And who are you?"

The little chin went up, then a corner of her mouth curled. "I am called Kestrel. I am kin to Lord Felisan."

Surprised, Turisan paused to return arrow to quiver while he reevaluated her status. No rustic this, whatever her appearance. Even a lesser relative of Lord Felisan deserved his respect, though she had not given her true name. He bowed.

"It is to bring messages to Lord Felisan that I have come. Will you honor me by guiding me to his house?"

The green eyes lit. "Messages? From Southfæld?"

Turisan smiled. "From Glenhallow."

He had thought mention of Southfæld's seat of government would thrill her. She drew a breath, as of deep pleasure, then surprised him by replying with quiet dignity.

"It will be my honor to guide you."

She turned and with a friendly glance over her shoulder, started northward. Turisan hastened to come up with her. Though not as tall as he, she had a guardian's purposeful stride. She looked at him sidelong as they walked apace.

"Forgive my discourtesy, I pray. What visitors we do receive from Southfæld generally come by the trade road."

Turisan smiled to show he held no grievance. "I prefer the woodlands."

"So do I. You have no horse? Glenhallow sends its messengers on foot?"

"I have a horse. I left it with the guardians at Midrange, thinking to enjoy a walk this fine day. I believe it is not far to Highstone?"

"No, not far." She smiled, her mouth twisting up in some private amusement.

Not a rustic, and not quite so young as he had first thought. Turisan observed her while she answered his polite questions about the land through which they walked.

She was fair of face and form, her coloring middle-dark as was common in the Stonereach clan, her figure well enough though leaner than the gently-bred maidens of Glenhallow's court. Turisan, being accustomed to receive the open admiration of every maid he met, was intrigued and somewhat abashed to realize that this female seemed more interested in his messages than in himself.

It would be a lesson to him, he acknowledged silently. He had indeed dwelt too long at court.

The woodlands, all ablaze with autumn, grew denser. Turisan's legs told him they were climbing, though at first the slope was scarcely noticeable. It became a true hill before long, and led to numberless others increasing in size, greenleaf trees giving way to tall pines as they proceeded from foothills into the mountains proper. Though he would have enjoyed a rest, his guide seemed unweary and he followed her onward, reflecting that the day he could not outmarch a slip of a Stonereach girl was the day he should renounce his heritage and become a magehall acolyte.

The mountain air took on a chill as evening fell, and warm glints of light had for some time been showing through the trees when they reached a road that sloped upward along one side of a pine-filled valley. It led to a town centered on a level shelf of rock, where houses spread out from an open public circle and clung to the steep, rocky walls above and below. A pale river cascaded through the chasm to the north, and he heard the distant roar of a waterfall.

His guide paused at the edge of the circle. "Welcome to Highstone."

This was Alpinon's chief city, then. Smaller than Turisan had expected. The houses were built of stone with steep, slated roofs to shed snow. Their ornamentation was minimal and rough compared with that of Glenhallow's graceful buildings, but after the long walk the glow of their lighted windows in the blue-shadowed dusk was especially welcoming.

The grandest structure was a long hall situated on an outcrop commanding the valley a little way above the public circle. Its roof timbers were carved with stag's heads, the token of Clan Stonereach. A row of tall, arched windows gave a muted glow through tapestries already drawn for the night.

"Felisanin Hall. Come, they will be at table. We are in time to join the meal."

"I would not intrude on Lord Felisan. Will you show me to a place where I can await his leisure?"

She grinned. "We are not so formal here. He would berate me for keeping an honored guest waiting. Surely you are tired and hungry?"

"Ah-yes."

"Come, then."

She led the way across the circle with a backward glance to see that he followed, and started up the steep stone stair beyond that led up to the governor's hall. Reflecting that a lack of formality did not necessarily imply a poor table, Turisan hastened after his guide.

~~~

Eliani could not wait to see the faces of the household when she introduced their exotic guest. She was certain now that he was high-ranking. Elusive, too; he had said little about himself, and had turned aside a probing question or two with practiced ease.

She had longed to question the visitor about his homeland and what was happening outside Alpinon, but as he had clearly not wished to discuss such things with her, she had refrained. When asked the same questions by her father he could scarcely refuse to answer, and so she would hear the news all the same.

Pausing in the hearthroom that served as entrance to Felisanin Hall, Eliani warmed her hands by the welcoming hearth and looked more closely at the stranger while he gave his cloak, bow, and small pack into the keeping of the attendants who came forward to welcome him.

He was tall and slim, though his firm shoulders told of strength with bow and sword. The hunting clothes he wore were of fine, soft leather, dyed in subtle shades of green and richly embroidered. The silver clasp that pinned his cloak was intricate in design and bore a large, glinting white stone. He left it in the cloak as it was taken away, as if its possible loss would mean little to him, though it was finer than any jewel Eliani possessed.

How rich his life must be! How simple he must think what she deemed grand and fine. She felt as if she were watching a creature out of another world entirely, one to which hers bore no comparison. Even his person was of rare and unusual beauty-fine features, long graceful fingers, hair of rich gold, eyes like dark pools of shadow.

Abruptly he glanced up at her and smiled. Caught in her curiosity, she returned the smile and stepped forward.

"May I know your name, so that I may give you proper introduction?"

He seemed to hesitate for an eyeblink, then answered quietly. "It is Turisan."

"I have heard that name." Eliani gazed at him, frowning slightly, certain they had never met. "I do not remember when."

His lips twitched. "It matters not. I am ready, if you will lead me in."

She started into the hall, pushing the tapestry aside. No doubt he was used to much grander feast halls, but at least she need not be ashamed of her house's hospitality.

Torches burned brightly, musicians played in a corner of the hall (for Lord Felisan was very fond of music), and the household talked merrily around the long table. Eliani was glad to see that the meal was not very far progressed. Her father looked up and beckoned to her, but instead of taking her place beside him she strode up to his chair, bowed formally, and stepped to one side. The conversation fell away as the household became aware of the stranger she brought with her, thus it was to the accompaniment of music alone that she made her announcement.

"Lord Felisan, I bring you a visitor from afar. May it please you to welcome Turisan, who bears tidings from Glenhallow."

The murmur that followed confirmed the importance of their guest. Her father rose, and she was pleased to see that he wore one of his better robes of deep blue velvet, broidered with gilt thread and pinned at the neck with a large violet stone. No doubt he had put it on in honor of their kindred Beryloni, who was to be handfasted three days hence.

Felisan glanced at Eliani, his eyes glinting mischief. The next moment it was gone as he turned to greet Turisan.

"Welcome indeed!" Lord Felisan smiled broadly as he offered his arm. "I was present at your salutation-day, but you will not remember that, of course. Lord Jharan does me honor to send his own son with his tidings."

Eliani drew a sharp breath. She hoped it would go unnoticed, and quickly assumed a disinterested smile. As Turisan clasped arms with her father she thought his glance flicked to her.
Lord Jharan's son, was he? Heir to the governance of Southfæld, the second-oldest and second-largest ælven realm. She closed her eyes briefly, silently chiding herself for not remembering where she had heard his name.

"I thank you, Lord Felisan, and crave pardon for arriving unheralded."

Felisan waved dismissal. "Jharan and I have been friends for centuries. There is no need of ceremony between our houses. Come, sit beside me and give me news of your father! These are all my household, I will not trouble you with their names just now. And two of my theyns, Luruthin and Gharinan, there at the end. My daughter you have met."

Eliani, standing beside her chair, was gratified to see Lord Turisan glance up at her in surprise. Her suspicion was correct, then-he had thought her of little importance. She returned a sweet smile, and he acknowledged her with a bow before taking his seat. This appeased her somewhat. Even more so did the kind thanks he made to the cousin who gave place to him.

Eliani helped herself to warm bread from the basket before her, listening to the pleasantries that passed between her father and his guest. Lord Jharan's messages would be given later and in private. She intended to be present, and Lord Turisan might make of that what he would.

"Your mountains are beautiful. I have seldom seen such richly timbered woods, and some of the prospects are breathtaking."

Felisan looked pleased. "You have yet to see the best of them, having arrived from the south. Ask Eliani to show you the Three Shades. It is a high fall of water not far from here, a very pretty spot, with some interesting legends attached to it."

Turisan's gaze shifted to Eliani and he gave a solemn nod. "I would be honored if Lady Eliani would show it me."

Eliani felt color rising to her cheeks. No one had called her "lady" before. That honorific was reserved to governors and their heirs, the masters of guildhalls, and other persons of high responsibility. She was not yet formally her father's nextkin.

She returned Turisan's nod, then glanced away and took a sip of wine. She did not know why she should find Lord Jharan's son any more disconcerting than she had found a nameless high-ranking Greenglen, but so it was. Perhaps because she had always thought of the people of House Jharanin as stately beings, dwelling in luxurious palaces and occupied with lofty concerns of governance.

Turisan did not fit this picture at all. What governor-elect of any self-importance would undertake a day's journey on foot and alone?

She would. She laughed and choked a little on her wine.

~~~

THE BETRAYAL is a March 2009 release from Del Rey Books. More about the book and links for ordering at aelven.com

Sunday snippet: "Glad Yule"

"Glad Yule" first appeared in An Armory of Swords, an anthology edited by Fred Saberhagen and set in his Swords universe. Fred was a kind and gentle human being and is greatly missed. His invitation to write a Swords story meant a great deal to me. As today is Yule, I'm inclined to curl up by the fire with a cup of mead and drink to Fred's memory. Here's a snippet in his honor.

"Glad Yule" Copyright © 1995, 2008 by Pati Nagle. All rights reserved.

~~~~~

Trent opened the door to a cozy chamber where a fire crackled on the hearth. Heavy curtains had been thrown back from tall windows to give the ladies of the house, seated around a table, light to work by. Elian and Mari were stitching golden trim to a half-cape of dark green, while Sylva fashioned a wreath out of sprigs of holly. They looked up at Trent, who smiled and swept them a bow. He knelt beside Elian's chair and kissed her hand. "Fair lady," he said, "your father sent me to tell you that the Midsummer mead is palatable."

She smiled down at him in amusement. "Oh, I'm so relieved," she said. "How much is left?"

"Plenty," said Trent. "Shall I bring you some?"

"Thanks, I'll wait till tonight."

Trent shrugged, smiling, and wandered over to sit beside Sylva. "What are you making? A crown?"

"Yes, for the Holly King," said Sylva with a sly glance at him.

"Who's that?" asked Trent.

"The Holly King," repeated Mari, opening her brown eyes wide. "Don't you know?"

Trent shook his head, his face all innocent puzzlement.

"It's one of our customs," said Elian. "Every Yule the young girls all share a cake with a bean baked into it. Whoever finds the bean gets to choose the Holly King, and he presides over the Yule festival."

"And he has to dance with all the girls, and be merry all night long," added Sylva.

"Ah," said Trent. "Sounds like hard work."

"Not for you, my Lord." Elian smiled."

Trent glanced up at her inquiringly.

"If King Nigel requires you to dance, you've had good training."

Trent laughed. "True. Do you think I would make a good Holly King, Sylva?"

"I don't know," said Sylva. "Let's see." She placed the wreath on his head, dark green leaves glinting against his soft brown hair. "Not bad," she said. "What do you think, Mari?"

"I think he's perfect," said Mari, then she blushed and looked down at her stitching.

Trent laughed again. "Thank you, kind lady," he said, coming around the table to kiss her hand. "If you find the bean and choose me, I'll dance with you all night long."

Mari giggled and smiled at him shyly.

"You would be a fine Holly King," said Elian, regarding him with her calm green eyes. "You can make anyone laugh, and you are always merry yourself."

"Not like Lord Paethor," said Sylva. "He never smiles."

"Oh, he does," said Trent. "You just have to be watching."

"Why is he so glum?" asked Sylva.

"Why? Well—it's because he's heartbroken, lady. All his life he has wished he had red hair."

The girls laughed.

"No," protested Trent. "It's true. And now he comes and meets you, Sylva, with the prettiest, reddest hair in all the world." Trent sat beside her again and picked up a strand of her hair, stroking it with his fingers. "Redder than sunset, and softer than a rabbit's fur. No wonder he's mad with grief.

Sylva laughed again and punched his arm. "Be serious!"

"I am!"

"No, I mean tell me! Why is he so sad? What's the truth?"

"Don't pry, Sylva," said Elian.

"The truth? The truth, dear lady, is that I don't know. I'm not in his confidence." Trent sighed. "He isn't always this gloomy. At King Nigel's court I've seen him dance through the night. The ladies there are all mad for him, but not one of them has ever touched his heart. Not that I know of, anyway." He looked up and found the girls watching him, even Elian, whose needle lay forgotten in her lap. He broke into a foolish grin. "You shouldn't listen to me, though," he said. "I never tell a tale the same way twice."

Sylva frowned, laughing, and took the wreath from his head.

"Have I displeased you?" said Trent in mock alarm. He knelt beside her chair. "Tell me how to make amends. I want to be worthy of the holly crown!"

"Help me finish it, then," said Sylva. "Hand me that ribbon. "

"I hear and obey," said Trent, jumping to his feet and snatching up a ribbon from the table, then presenting it to Sylva with an exaggerated bow. She laughed and took it from him.

"Now a piece of holly," she demanded, enjoying the game.

Trent scooped up a sprig and yelped as a thorn pricked his thumb. He squeezed it and a bright red drop appeared.

"You're supposed to take the thorns off first!" said Sylva.

"Are you all right, my Lord?" asked Elian.

Trent smiled sheepishly, sucking at the wound. "Fine," he said. "It's nothing but my own carelessness. My own stupid folly, for playing with holly—"

Sylva giggled, taking the sprig from him and snipping off the thorns with a little pair of scissors.

"Folly, lolly, lolly—" sang Trent, picking up two more sprigs by their stems and making them dance on the tabletop.

The girls laughed, and Trent kept them laughing until they'd finished their regalia. Then Sylva made him try it on, and he struck a royal pose, the cape lightly draping his shoulders, holly forming a halo around his head.

"I hereby decree that mistletoe shall hang in every doorway, and anyone who doesn't smile shall be sent to the kitchens to wash the dishes," he pronounced.

"Paethor, be warned!" said Elian, taking back the cape. "Come, Sylva. It's late, and we still have your dress to trim."

Sylva reached for the crown and Trent gave it to her, lifting her hand to his lips. She smiled coyly at him, picked up a leftover sprig of holly and stood on tiptoe to tuck it behind his ear. Then she and Mari tossed all their odds and ends into a large basket and ran to the door where Elian waited.

"Thank you for your help, my Lord," she said. "We'll see you this evening."

Trent bowed and watched them go, then grinned to himself and made his way back to his chamber.

~~~~~

The full text of "Glad Yule" is available at BookViewCafe.com