Character Interview: Tryss from "Moonscript" by Hannah Williams!

Welcome, everyone! Today I have a very special guest on the blog: Tryss, a character from Hannah Williams' novel, Moonscript.

Before I begin, I will offer a summary of the book:

The Secret Was Safe With Him…But Only If He Was Saved First

Long ago, the elven king hid away his most precious book, the Moonscript, for only it held the secrets of the unreachable Higher World. Evil has long sought this knowledge…and now the heir to the Moonscript has vanished…

Such stories should have nothing to do with Tellie.

Young Tellie is a simple orphan girl with one desire in her heart—to find a family who loves her. But when dark strangers visit her inn, she discovers a mysterious treasure and is pulled into the outside world.

Her dreams of family and home are forced aside as Tellie is plunged into an adventure beyond her imagination. If she is to escape, she must rescue a fellow prisoner, the only person left alive who can keep the Moonscript a secret.

But which will be harder—rescuing him from dungeons….or from himself?

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Tryss

*Bows* Welcome to The Other World, Tryss. I hope your journey was smooth. To begin, would you please offer readers a glimpse into the world of the chema?

Thank you so much, Rebeka. *Bows* Yes, my journey was surprisingly easy. I do not understand this world in the glowing window at all, but it is very beautiful. Cimie! To be honest, my tribe of chemas aren’t the perfect representation of our kind. Indeed, we are a small group that left our cold country many years ago and made a new life and culture in the humid jungle. And though our elegant ancestors would no doubt consider us crude and wild, I love my home. We make our living off of the forest: our food, our houses, our clothing.

I should explain the most unique element of my kind. We can blend in with our surroundings. It startles any strangers, but it is a very normal part of life to me. Passing through the forest unseen is useful if you are hunting or hunted. It is a dangerous, wild jungle, but we make the best of it. We have even turned hot springs into baths. And we’ve created nests for the milthi moths that provide us milk and silk for clothes.

A little bird told me that you have been assigned to assist Errance and his companions on their perilous quest. Please tell us, who are your fellow travellers, and how do you get along with them? Are there any that are particularly difficult?

Cimie, I hope this isn’t common knowledge! Our secrecy is important. I was sent to help under the title of guide, even though I knew precious little of the outside world. Really, I was there to keep care of the children, Tellie and Kelm. They are both fourteen and capable of taking of themselves under normal circumstances, but the journey is so long and rugged, I do not think they would have lasted long. I am the eldest of seven children, so I’m well suited to taking care of others. Both Tellie and Kelm are sweet and charming; they remind me of my siblings.

But Errance…well…at first, I was very intrigued by him and his courage. But the first night of our travels, I discovered he deeply resented me and even seemed to be angry at me, though I have no idea what I did to deserve his contempt. So I’m reminded that even though he’s easy to sympathize for, he is very dangerous and I should keep my distance. If only I could convince Tellie and Kelm to be more cautious around him…

What exactly is the Moonscript—or are you allowed to tell us?

I’ve heard only the faintest of rumors, but only since this Errance arrived. My grandfather was…is…greatly filled with knowledge, and he is aware of the history of the elves. I believe the Moonscript is a book of secrets, but other than that, such as where it came from, who it belongs to, and who wrote it, I do not know. And perhaps that is a good thing if evil is so determined to claim it.

Your world is vast—are you a frequent traveller? If so, of all the places you have seen which is your favourite? And why? And is there anywhere you haven’t been but dream of seeing?

No, not at all. Before traveling with Errance and the children, I’d never gone further than the villages in the hills around the jungle. We traded with them, but I’d never reached a city. The nearest is Oolum, but I had no desire to go there. However, chemas are masters of blending in, so perhaps the best course for our journey will take us straight through the city…

I’ve seen the sea from the tallest trees. It is vast, silver, beautiful…*sighs*

You probably think it odd that I have no desire to see the home of my ancestors. I’ve been told it was in the North Mountains, built of stone and cold as ice. *eeh*

I would love to see Aselvia, the valley of elves. The legends spoken of it are beyond comprehension. And now that my jungle is no longer safe, perhaps…

What do you consider your best strength? Your worst fault?

I’m afraid they’re one in the same. I’m very protective.

One has to be completely aware of what is going on in the jungle to stay safe. Even in our village, we have to keep a sharp eye on the little ones. There are snakes, wild cats, monkeys. I’m not a warrior, but I can defend myself and others if necessary. Now that Tellie and Kelm are under my protection, I’m determined to keep them safe.

But there’s a problem. In my determination to keep them safe, I’m probably a little over-bearing. And suspicious of everything that moves. And wary of anyone who seems dangerous. This is awkward, considering I’m trying to keep them safe from the very person they seem to completely love and trust. I just hope Errance realizes how much they look up to him.

Can you teach us a bit of the chema language?

You might have noticed me saying a strange word as an exclamation. Cimie is the name of an ancient city of the Northern Chemas. I guess I say it because my late grandmother used to swear by it all the time. I think it actually means Queen. Strange how it was turned into an exclamation.

In the North, the chema language is said to sound like falling ice. I prefer to think of it like hummingbird chatter. Here is a sample.

Chee. Yeii chiree eim KelTreese. (spoken very rapidly)

This translates something as, “Hello. Thank you for inviting me to your world.” Treese means world, and the Kel attached to it is possessive, causing it to be your world.

What is your favourite food? Your favourite thing to wear?

Though my people may be secluded, we’re not uncivilized. The elders of our tribe have passed on the skills of the North Chemas to our new generation, and we weave our clothes on looms and can create extravagant food with what we have.

Nearly everything we eat and wear is made with what we harvest from our Milthi moths nests. These large and docile moths excrete a liquid, much like the bees do your honey, which we refer to as “milk” and use as cream, cheese, and other things.

The fiber they use to spin their cocoons we use to spin cloth, like your silk. The chemas can persuade the fiber or fur of camouflage creatures to blend in with ourselves so that we can truly go invisible (in the North, the chemas spin cloth from the long fur of a camouflage cat). Things we are holding very tightly might be persuaded to stay concealed for a time, but if we lose hold or break concentration they’ll reappear.

What is your favourite type of weapon?

I’m not very fond of weapons. This may sound strange at first, but I’m most fond of poison darts, because we use them to kill an animal gently without them having almost any distress aside from the tiny sting at first. But that requires getting very close while invisible. So bows and arrows are common. As are spears. I’m a fair shot at archery. But I hope I never have to use it in combat.

Thank you for being here, Tryss! Blessings to you on your journey, and may all turn out well in the end!

Thank you as well, Lady Rebeka. Ayahwei will watch over us, I am sure. If only we can just keep ahead of those pursuing us…

*******

Hope you all enjoyed the interview! I know I for one am so excited to read this book and go on the journey with Tryss and all the rest when this story comes out!

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And as a quick little end note: I hope you guys like the new look of the blog! I'd been quite unsatisfied with the blog look for some time--now I feel it is far more personal and more suited to my style. Let me know if anything in particular is an eye sore so I can change it--I want to make this blog as easy on the eyes as possible. ;)

--Beka

The Ever Queen

I haven't been using Pinterest for very long, but in the time I've been on it, I've created quite a few boards. One of my favourite things to do while writing is go on and search out pictures that match the characters, locations, and atmosphere of my stories.

But this past week, while scrolling a friend's Pinterest, I was struck with inspiration for a THIRD entry for Anne Elisabeth Stengl's Cinderella contest. I had sworn I would only write two stories for it, but this idea is by far my favourite of all the ideas I've come up with for submissions. It's been like a whirlwind romance so far; it combines so many of my favourite things--evil faeries, Celtic EVERYTHING, dynamic heroines, high stakes, balls and beautiful gowns, and a dash of romance. I'm absolutely in love with and delighted by this story.

So without further ado, here's a sneak peek at:

The Ever Queen

One dark day, Aednat is stolen from her quiet life to serve as a slave in the realm of the Everen, a place full of dark beauty and monsters hidden behind sweet smiles. Her one hope is to escape, and when the new faerie king holds a ball to choose his queen, Aednat seizes on her one chance at freedom--even if that one chance may cost her life.

Meet the Characters

Aednat

Stolen from her family to serve the Everen, Aednat has only one goal: escape. When the old Ever King dies and a ball is held to find a new queen, she concocts a plan to finally gain her freedom. But it is a plan that risks her life--and her heart. By the time all is said and done, Aednat will have to ask herself if she truly wants to leave--and what she's willing to risk to have everything she desires.

Faolan

When his father dies, Faolan is crowned the new Ever King. To fit into this role and protect his people, Faolan must hide his true self behind a mask of cool aloofness. When Aednat unintentionally shows her true self in the midst of his father's funeral, Faolan sees someone other than just a slave: someone who might accept him as he truly is. But as his love for her deepens, so do the consequences. 

Orla

One of the beauties of the Everen court, Orla knows it is her destiny to be the Ever Queen. She is one of Faolan's closest companions, and, she thinks, closest friends. But what is about to come will turn her world upside down, and betrayal will come from the one person she always took for granted--her own sister.

Laisar

Ashamed of the mortal blood that runs in her family, Laisar detests the presence of humans in her beloved realm. But when Aednat approaches her with a plan to free herself and rid Everen of humans forever, Laisar is forced to choose between her own dreams and that of her sister's. The choice she makes will change Everen forever.

Other Characters

Einin

Aednat's younger sister, left behind to mourn her beloved sister's disappearance for seven long years. During that time, she marries the chief of another tribe and has a child of her own, named Aednat. She goes on to become one of Irela's most celebrated women warriors--but she never forgets the sister she bickered with so often and loved so dearly.

Oonagh

A cranky, reclusive Everen faery who also detests the mortal presence in the faery realm, Oonagh is more likely to try to kill Aednat than help her. But when Aednat and Laisar come to her for help with Aednat's plan, she finds herself playing faery godmother--with interesting results.

(All images are from Pinterest--I do not own any of them, nor did I create any of them. I wish I were so talented!)

A Tiny Excerpt

This is first draft only, so forgive any off-kilter stuff. :)

Raising her head, Aednat looked across the stream to the woods beyond. The trees went ever on, moss creeping up their trunks and vines trailing like dead, dangling limbs to brush the forest floor. Beside her, Nessa went still, tilting her head, as though listening to birdsong Aednat could not hear.

No birdsong. Aednat shot to her feet, dropping the water bucket.

Nessa glanced at her, puzzled. "What's the matter?"

"No birds," Aednat whispered. The water had gone still and silent, and even the sunlight was smothered by the mist that now swirled, clinging to Aednat's legs. She skittered backwards, while Nessa shook her head.

"There's nothing to fear," Nessa said. She stepped into the river.

"No," Aednat squeaked.

Nessa cocked a brow at her.

"Nobody crosses the river!" Aednat whispered, her voice hushed in the suffocating quiet. "The Everen live there." How many stories had the elders told of those who passed over--and never returned?

Nessa snorted, placing her hands on her hips and tossing her thick black braid. "Where I come from, such cowardice is frowned upon," she said. "The great lairds of my land would never allow the Everen to dictate their choices." She sniffed. "If they even exist." With that, she waded through the water, her skirts flaring out behind her. She scrambled up the bank, stood, and held out her hands as though to show Aednat all was well.

Heat swept through Aednat, flaring in her fingers and toes, setting the back of her neck on fire. She wanted to sink through the soft earth, swallowed by green.

But more than that, she wanted Nessa to love her, to be proud of her. And what if Nessa was right? What if the Everen were no more than mist and shadows, the reflection of her own nightmares?

Tucking in her chin, she set her foot into the stream. Chill spiked through her toes, jolting along her leg until it touched her spine. She shivered, but kept going.

When she set foot upon the opposite bank, the noise like the thud of a door closing echoed through the wood. She whirled around, squinting into the distance. Nothing but serene green trees, moss growing like soft stubble across their trunks.

Hands snatched her arms, yanking her backwards. Fingers clawed her dress, gripped her legs. She shrieked, thrashing, while voices hissed all around her.

Don't hurt her.

Oh, she's lovely. Look at that hair. Niamh picked a good one this time.

And, all the while, she watched the forest from which she'd come fade away and reappear, this time seeming as distant as the stars. For when she managed to break from her captors and run to the stream, her feet glided over the water as though she were mist. And when she reached the other side, the branches that would once have snagged her curls now slid through them. She was no more than fog to the world she had once known.

She was trapped.

***

Hope you enjoyed this little peek into The Ever Queen! I'm always looking for people to proofread my stories and offer constructive feedback. If you have the time and are interested in this story, just leave me a comment and a way to get into contact with you. I appreciate all the feedback I can get--the more, the merrier! And if you're a writer too, I can proofread one of your stories in return. There's nothing I like better than making new writer friends!

Romancing the Righteous: The Phantom of the Opera and Shannon Hale

This is not a spoiler-free post. Read at your own risk. Also, this is a very long, slightly winded post. But it discusses topics that I feel very strongly about, and that I feel are very necessary to discuss in this day and age, where love, lust, and romance are so easily entwined and very hard to distinguish from each other. I appreciate any insights and comments you might wish to share. :)


All right, so while I am a romantic at heart, I'm often disenchanted by romance in popular books or movies--or perhaps, I'm more disenchanted by people's reactions to them. One example in particular is The Phantom of the Opera, which I saw for the first time last year on my first reading break at university.

Among my friends and family I am known for having an opinion about almost everything, and usually I am quick to voice it. This case was no different. While many others I know swoon over Eric and how misunderstood he was, I preferred the quiet, understated Raoul. And I hated how, in the movie, the last scene seems to imply that the connection the Phantom and Christine shared was stronger than that of her and Raoul.

Which brings me to the point of this post. The tendency to romanticize disastrous relationships while dismissing the quieter suitors as boring and unable to bring out or appreciate the heroine's fiery spirit. This idea is seen in the insistence on Christine/Eric, however subtly suggested in the movie. Basically, the 'bad boy' is glamorized.

There are many authors that take this trope and twist it. Shannon Hale, in her book Enna Burning, tackles this problem in the character of Sileph, whose smooth-talk, charming manner, and good looks ensnare Enna, the main protagonist. He accepts and encourages her ability to control fire, without any  thought to the consequences for her. Enna, like many of us readers might, therefore ignores the suit of Finn, a quiet, steadfast forest boy.

The righteous boy.

I wouldn't be so concerned about this issue if I didn't see its consequences in real life. I've known girls and women who have fallen for the 'bad boy,' who have embraced the idea of an unhealthy relationship and made it something 'romantic.' It turns my stomach and has invoked a slight cynicism of romance altogether that I regularly struggle against.

So how can we, as writers, change this? I've seen it argued, very well too, that readers know better, that they can see the fact from fiction. But the very same writers will agree that words have power to influence. So we can't have it both ways. We can't have the glorified, unhealthy men in our novels and not expect readers to glorify them. Of course everyone knows fact from fiction, but it's the context, the social idea, behind the characters in these books that blur the lines.

Eric isn't just Eric. He's every boy who has ever been picked on and pins all his chances of happiness on one girl.

Enna isn't just Enna. She's every girl who's wanted to be noticed, who's wanted a boy to charm her and love her and seem to accept her as she is, make her feel beautiful.

Characters have power because they aren't just characters--they're parts of ourselves on the page. And it's so easy to see people on paper and think they're not dangerous, that they can't affect us.

But one reason why I love to write is because I know words have a way of connecting with others. Words are our thoughts and emotions, our desires and non-desires, tangled into a tale of someone else's life. But underneath it all runs another story, one between and above and under and sometimes through the lines.

So we have to ask ourselves: How do we encourage the romance of the righteous?

(Please don't misunderstand. I realize and accept that some 'bad boy' characters are written on purpose, for a particular point or character arc. I'm not talking about those. I'm talking about the ones who are more subtle; whose character is 'bad' but more likely to be described as 'misunderstood.')

Shannon Hale does this wonderfully. I've never read a Shannon Hale hero I couldn't love and respect and cheer for. Her heroes are each very different, but NONE of them are the typical 'bad boy' character you'd expect from popular culture. They're not the handsome, brooding, mysterious vampires or the womanizing super hero we're so quick to laud.

No. Some are princes, some are beggars, some are goofs.

But they all treat the women in their lives with respect. They love and cherish them. These men don't angst about their problems--they go out and solve them. They ask for help when they need it and don't push their love interests around as though they have no brains.

If you can't tell, I'm utterly infatuated with all of them.

But what Shannon Hale does so well is that she doesn't make a big deal out of this. She does it so naturally, so subtly in her novels--like she's asking: Why isn't every girl out there finding guys like these? This--this is what normal is. 

Normal does NOT equal the misunderstood boys whose complete and utterly creepy fascination with the heroine is supposed to make us sigh. It does NOT equal the smart-talking hero who sleeps around and later manages to convince some idiot that she's actually his ONE TWU LUV.

No. What's normal is a man who puts the best interest of the heroine first, who tells her what she needs to hear, and who treats her like a human being. The hero whose goals and ideas align with the heroine's, creating a mutual respect that is the foundation of something more.

We need to take this sort of relationship and shout it from the rooftops. We need YA authors to break out of the creepy love interest idea and dare to be different--dare to romance the righteous and leave their bad boys in the dust.

Teaser Time: "Rebel's Daughter"

Much to my chagrin, I'm one of those writers. Writers who can have as many as ten projects on the go without finishing any of them. Incidentally, I have so many WIPs that when I hit writer's block with one, there's always another waiting in the wings.

Rebel's Daughter is one such story. I got the idea for it a few years ago, typed up a short synopsis and opening scene, then abandoned it to continue work on Ice Roses. But this book is one close to my heart, drawing on my Eastern European heritage and childhood obsession with the movie Anastasia (which, if you haven't seen, you MUST SEE IT NOW). Like many other authors, I've wondered what it would be like to be a princess exiled because of who she was. I've wondered what it would be like to be a young woman surrounded by a bloodthirsty revolution, targeted because of my birth.

But, perhaps because of my eccentricity, I then started wondering what it'd be like to be the revolutionary who ruined the life of that princess. What would drive someone to do that? The image of a young girl revolutionary took form in my mind.

Hence, Anya, my main character, was born. She's by no means perfect, but I love her and can't wait to write more of her story.

Here's that opening scene I wrote so long ago, now edited and part of a completed first chapter! Hooray! Hope you enjoy this tiny peek into the darker side of my brain. ;)

Rebel's Daughter: The Firebird Trilogy Book One

Synopsis

Twelve years ago, the rebellion that tried to overthrow the Russak monarchy ended, and with it everything Anya knew. Her father, the head of the revolutionaries, became the most hated man in Russak. With his young daughter in tow, he fled the country.

But unrest still reigns. After her father’s death, Anya receives a visit from a childhood friend, the son of her father's co-conspirator. He wants them to continue their fathers’ legacy and lead the common people out of the ashes. Anya wants revenge against those who ruined her life and drove her beloved father into an early grave.

To help conduct the conspiracy, Anya goes undercover in the royal palace, working as a maid in order to gather information to pass on to the revolutionaries. But after one of the nobles involved is discovered and executed, rumours begin to circle of a traitor in their midst—someone playing both sides. Someone with the power to destroy the revolution before it even begins.

As tension builds, Anya also befriends the prince and princess of the nation. But their very birth spells them out for death, and when the time comes for the revolution to strike, Anya must make a choice—

Between legacy and love, father and friendship, past and future. The choice she makes will not only affect the fate of her country, but that of the entire world.

Part One

The Shadows Beckon

Chapter One: Shadows of Yesterday

Her name was Anya Kerachova, and she feared little. Not the bears or wolves that stalked the deep, dark forests of her home country, nor the beady-eyed thieves of the city streets.

The only thing that made her knees shudder and shake was darkness. The kind that wraps around one's soul and squeezes so tightly you feel lightheaded. The kind that hides behind a handsome face or friendly smile—the kind that is nearly impossible to kill.

And now it was standing on her doorstep, staring past her shoulder into her home.

“Hello, Anya,” it said. “May I come in?”

She gripped the door handle. “Go away. Do svidaniva.”

The darkness cocked its head, its lips curved down. “Is that what you say to an old friend?”

Anya curled her fingers into the door frame, determined not to show her fear. Outside, the wind screamed and scattered the blowing snow, and inside her bones tingled with dread. But she pressed her lips together and narrowed her gaze at the tall, bundled figure before her. She would not let him in. “You are no friend of mine.”

“Then why do you keep the door still open?”

“Because if I close it, I cannot see you,” she said. And if there was one thing Papa had driven into her before life had fled his body, it had been to trust little, and never turn your gaze from an enemy. If she could not see him, she could not know what he did.

He chuckled. “I thought it perhaps had to do with my charm.”

Anya forced the laugh through her mouth, though she felt sick to her stomach. He had as much charm as a bear. “Go away,” she said.

“Or what? Do you know witcheries to force me to your will?”

Her hand flew to the pendant at her neck. “You know I do not practice such things.”

He laughed again, and heat pushed against her tongue. She swallowed it back down. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her crack.

“Then you cannot make me move.”

Anya’s eyes flew to the city street. The lamps flickered, illuminating the hulking shadows of the guards on patrol. One hovered across the street, his eyes on her house.

“Curse you,” she hissed, and grabbing his arm, dragged him into her home.

Her stomach coiled. She had let him in.

He stood there in his dripping furs, grinning and sweeping the snow from his body. It hit the ground and sizzled in the heat from the crackling hearth. “I'm surprised you remember me,” he said.

“You have your father’s ugly nose.”

His hand flew to his face, then he lowered his arm with a scowl. “You have your father’s bad attitude.”

She crossed her arms. “What do you want, Ilya?” she spat. His name burned like coals.

“The same thing your father wanted. The Phoenix Rising.”

Chills prickled along the fine hairs of her arms. Khotkin stirred from his sleep before the fire, raising his head to growl at the stranger who trailed shadows in his wake.

Anya shook her head. “You are insane.” She kept her voice level, calm, pretending she spoke to someone she might interview for the newspaper. Pretending.

Ilya shrugged out of his furs, dumping them on the ground. Khotkin bared his teeth, struggling to rise. Anya crossed the floor to kneel by her dog, running her fingers through his thick, curly coat. “It’s all right, boy,” she crooned, though she wished to scoop him into her arms and bury her face in his fur. But even he could not save her from the past.

The Phoenix Rising.

Ilya crouched beside her, cold radiating from his body. He stared into the flickering flames, his dark eyes glowing like embers.

“It’s been twelve years,” she said, her voice breaking the quiet that had descended. The quiet that threatened the invasion of dark thoughts, of shattered resolve. “Too long to start—” She broke off, choked by a swarm of images. She pushed them back, her stomach vaulting with nausea. To start all that again.

Ilya pursed his lips, a furrow digging into his brow. “So you would abandon all your father lived for?”

“He died for it, too,” she said. Khotkin nosed her hand, his tongue rough and wet against her fingers.

“I heard. I’m sorry.”

She shot him a glare. He bullied his way into her home, then had the nerve to treat her like they were friends?

He returned the look with a cocked eyebrow, his head tilted to the side. “Your father would say yes.”

She winced, turned to stare at the photo on the mantle Papa had insisted they have taken before he died. For years he had shunned photographs or portraits, living in fear of being discovered by those who had driven him and his daughter from Russak. But after learning he was dying, he’d wanted something for his only child to remember him by. “When you look at it,” he’d said, “remember me.” And Russak.

Anya stared at her thin, frowning likeness, studied her father’s gruff, bearded face—and the Russakin carpet hanging in the background. The same carpet that now draped over the wall above the hearth, telling the tale of Vasilisa the Beautiful—a woman far braver than she.

A woman who would not have abandoned Russak in its time of greatest need.

“I’m not my father,” she said.

“You’re like him in many ways.” Ilya slid his hand over hers.

She yanked her hand out from under his touch, her fingers digging into Khotkin’s side. Khotkin whined in protest. Jerking to her feet, she paced the floor. “Why now?” she asked at last, spreading out her hands, her knuckles cold from Ilya’s fingertips.

Ilya drew his long legs to his chin, resting his head on his knees. “After you and your father fled Russak, the monarchists dug out nearly every single revolutionary and executed them.” Firelight played across his hawkish features. “Including my father.”

Anya’s steps faltered. She remembered the dark, joking man who had always stuffed her mouth with sweets. But Ilya was not the type of person to show vulnerability to; he could wield feelings as a weapon as well as he could use a sword. So instead she gave a curt nod, her braid slapping against her spine.

Ilya’s lips thinned, but he continued. “Many of us were too frightened to try again for years. But times are no easier now than they were then, and the peasants are only growing poorer, the workers more disgruntled. And the Tsar continues to use his money foolishly.”

“What makes you think you’ll succeed this time?” she asked. Unbidden, she saw before her the lineup of dead corpses after the Tsarik Riot—the wide, glazed eyes of her childhood friends. The same pain she had bottled that day and hoped never to feel again swept through her. She trained her gaze on the flames once more, praying they might burn away the tears threatening to fall.

“The knowledge that something has to happen soon.” His voice was quiet, assured. “If we don’t plan a revolution carefully, a true bloodbath may occur—and Russak may never recover. We may only be a few wolves against a bear, but when wolves band together, bears will fall.”

Anya shuddered despite herself.

Ilya rose, creeping up behind her. “Anya,” he whispered, his breath tickling the back of her neck, the heat of his hands hovering over her shoulders. “The monarchy drove your father to an early grave. It killed your friends, took your mother, stole your childhood. What are you waiting for?”

Mother. Oh, Mother—kind, tender-hearted, devout mother. Anya’s fingers clutched the pendant at her neck, the gold biting into her palm. Wind battered against her windows, rattling the glass. The snow glowed in the darkness, resembling fluffed white feathers. And the darkness. Thick, oozing, seeping between the cracks in her soul.

Ilya settled his hands on her shoulders, his fingers pressing into her skin. “Anya?”

She started, sweeping herself away from him. She had to save herself from the stirrings in her breast. “Get out.”

His expression hardened. “I know you want this.”

“You know nothing!” But her voice wheedled.

He smirked, sat down beside Khotkin. The dog growled weakly. “I’ll give you time to realize what you already know,” he said, covering his yawn with the back of his hand. “In the meanwhile, I will sleep here. Unless you wish me to divulge your true identity to the street guards.”

Writing Updates, and Penpal/First Reader Love

This summer has been full of ups and downs. I'm still searching for a job, since university won't pay itself, and I'm trying to have faith that God will provide in His good timing. So I'll attempt to relax and embrace the chance to immerse myself in my writing.

Being jobless, for example, is one of the reasons I've been able to complete the first drafts of two novellas for the Five Glass Slippers Contest held by Rooglewood Press--one, right now dubbed The Voice in the Laurel Tree, combines the Cinderella story with Moses and the Burning Bush. I wrote it in a three-day sprint that sucked me dry and yet left me elated. Sometimes writing reminds me of a sport--you train and train and train, then when the moment comes you rush through the race and are left drained yet soaring through a personal high.

The other novella (right now called Until Midnight) tells the story from the stepsister's point-of-view, but not in the conventional fashion you might expect. Let's just say there's no 'fairy godmother' in this one. ;)

Both of these stories tested me in different ways and I'm proud of them for different reasons. But they're far from finished--I've sent them to friends to give me feedback. 

One of my dearest and closest friends--my penpal from America--is always so quick and thorough and wonderful with her advice. She's been with me since almost the beginning, when I actually took my writing seriously. She's my biggest cheerleader and my emotional support, and if I ever get published she will get a dedication and she will be included in every single acknowledgements page I ever write. She's that awesome. You writers out there, if you ever are blessed with people of Encouragement, don't take them for granted. They are the people you write for, the people who make it worthwhile. They are the reason behind the words. Shower them with love and never let them feel unheard.

In Which I Throw Confetti and Dance Around Like A Crazy Person

I've been writing since I was a child. My very first story was published in my school's yearbook when I was seven or eight--the tale of a girl receiving a surprise puppy. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that ever since I can remember, our family has never been without a dog.

Later on, I won a national contest in a horse magazine (at that point, I was crazy about horses; I'm beginning to sense a pattern). There were various short story and poetry contests I entered as well, one in which I received a place in a Canadian anthology of high school students' work. In-between all this, I wrote fanfiction and dabbled with novels.

Regardless of all this, I have never been so excited as now, with this opportunity:

Starting in July, I will be mentored by Anne Elisabeth Stengl, the writer of "The Tales of Goldstone Wood"; one of my favourite writers ever! She will be helping me with my first draft of Ice Roses, which I am going through in preparation to write a second draft. Within the next year or so, I hope to submit this story to agents in the next step of my journey toward publication.

I've known this news for a while now, but I finally decided to share it with you, my blog readers, so we could all celebrate together! I'm so excited and feel supremely blessed to have the opportunity to work with someone whose writing, faith, and personality are all so lovely and inspiring. This summer will be a great one indeed!

Story Excerpt: The Other Brother

The Other Brother is (one of) my current work-in-progress(es), a retelling/continuation of The Wild Swans, a story I remember well from my childhood. My family on my father's side has Ukrainian/Russian roots, and one of my fondest childhood memories is sitting on the floor at my Babi's (grandmother's) house and watching a Russian-produced cartoon version of the story. You can imagine how thrilled I was to find it, years later, on Youtube. It may sound cheesy, but one of the segments, the part where Elisa and her brothers are on the rock in the middle of the ocean during a storm and singing, gives me chills every time I listen to it.

You can find the video here (you should definitely check it out if you get the chance!):

This story remains a favourite; I adore the emphasis on sibling bonds. I always wanted a flock of brothers to adore and protect me (I only have one). :P

Anyhow, moving on.

The Other Brother actually started out as a short story idea. I started writing it, and then had an idea to expand it into a short novella. I shoved it aside for a couple months/years or so. And then, towards the end of my second semester of university, inspiration kept stinging me for the story--this time, not as a short story or novella, but a larger, perhaps huge, novel. It was like the story completely possessed me.

And it continues to invade my mind, urging me to finish outlining and get it all down. It has expanded into a large, epic vision--and quite a lot darker than I had first anticipated. There's a lot of heartbreak in this story, but I feel that is a part of who I am and an honest journey into the twistedness of human nature in general. Of course, that also means that there's a lot of hope. I'm not one to make my characters journey through the Shadow of Death without having a reason to want to reach the other side.

So, without further ado, here's the synopsis, prologue and part of chapter one. Any feedback is appreciated, and I hope y'all will stick along for the journey! :)

SYNOPSIS

Arya wants nothing to do with the mysterious man with a swan's wing for a right arm when he appears at her family's inn one night. But after the inn is attacked by the sorcerers on his trail, she finds herself running for her life alongside him. Swept into a journey to rid the world of dark magic, Arya must come to terms with a destiny greater than she ever imagined and a curse running through her veins--a curse that may destroy her. A retelling/continuation of the fairy tale, "The Wild Swans".

PROLOGUE: SWANS

When Arya was eleven summers old, the swans flew overhead. Her younger sister, Mari, dropped her water bucket and ran after them, chasing their long, sleek shadows.

Arya stood still, gripping the handle of her bucket, her chin tilted to the sky. She watched the swans' giant white wings buffet the air. The rosy-bright light of morning cast golden crowns across their glowing brows. She had never seen such beautiful birds—and seven of them, too. Seven was a sacred number in the ancient days. While Mari squealed, pointing and clapping her hands, Arya drank in the moment, memorizing the image of large white birds against the dawn.

Then, having committed it to heart, she grabbed her sister's hand and dragged her back to the inn. Their father stood in the doorway, drawn by Mari's cries. His gaze focused on the birds in the distance, a deep furrow in his brow. He reached out, startling Arya into dropping her bucket, and wrapped his daughters in his arms. Mari wriggled out of his grasp and skipped off into the house, singing some ditty about swans.

Arya sensed her father's distress and took the rare chance to lay her head on his shoulder. “Treachery,” she thought she heard him murmur, and his hold on her tightened. She could hear the loud, insistent thrum of his heart, and wondered if her father was afraid. What was so alarming about seven swans in the sky? Their ancestors would have believed it a sign of good luck.

He kissed her forehead and straightened, taking her hand in his. Together they watched as the last of the swans vanished from sight behind one of the many mountains that rose from the neighbouring kingdom of Song.

“Papa,” Arya said after long moments had passed.

“Yes?”

“Breakfast needs to be done.”

A smile flashed across his handsome face. “You're right, little miss.” He scooped her up, ignoring the water bucket that fell over and spilt, ignoring the fact that she was far too old for such things, though she was certainly small enough still. He hugged her to him and carried her inside, slamming the door shut behind them as though to keep something out. Wrapping her arms around her father's neck, Arya contented herself with her sisters' jealous stares as their father paraded her into the kitchen.

As the daily tasks of life—baking, boiling water, cleaning clothes—demanded her attention, the swans slipped from her mind. Every now and then for the next few years the memory would resurface and she would smile in whatever quiet moment she could snatch to appreciate their beauty. And then the memory would dip away from her like a coy gypsy dancer and she would let it go.

If she noticed the dark strangers her father entertained at all hours at their inn, she kept it to herself. If she noticed that the swans never flew across her small portion of sky again, she shrugged it off. Life was too busy to dream up dangers that did not exist.

And if such dream dangers truly did exist....she did not want to know.

CHAPTER ONE: A STRANGER AT THE DOOR

The storm was coming in. Dark clouds burgeoned across the horizon, sweeping black skirts high above the floor of the world. Arya chased chickens towards their coop, cursing at the stubborn rooster who refused to yield to her guidance. He strutted across the yard, picking at the grains Mari had scattered earlier in the day. Arya gritted her teeth. Mari was the one who should have been doing this, not her. That skirt of lazy-bones was probably hiding in the cellar with a candle, her nose in a book.

A brave chicken launched a peck at Arya's fingers, which did nothing to improve her mood. She went for the broom and half-booted, half-swept the idiot beasts into their coop. The rooster fled before her wild, swinging wrath. A dark, guttural note built up in her chest and crept up her throat, familiar in its terrible, secretive feel.

She froze in the middle of the yard, strangled. The sensation choked her with its desire to escape, and she tried to choke it with her desire to never let it free.

Finally, she swallowed.

The wind picked up, snatching at the chimes that  hung from the corner of the inn. They had been her mother's, a gift from her parents after she had decided to leave their gypsy caravan to marry Arya's father, Marcus. Whenever Arya heard them, their voice seemed sad, as though they could not recover from the death of their mistress when Arya was but a babe. Tonight, their song spoke of other woes: a song of swans and sin and the whispered wickedness of treachery. The high, shivering notes settled on her arms in the form of gooseflesh, while the wind trailed its sensuous fingers through her snarls of black hair, teasing her for dreaming up fears.

Arya ran her hands over her arms and shut the chickens inside their coop, pushing her ridiculous ideas from her mind.

But not so ridiculous, a voice whispered.

The front gate ripped open in a gust that nearly bowled her over. She staggered forward, while the gate creaked and groaned as it shuddered back and forth on weary hinges. Arya clenched her fingers. Mari had forgotten to drop the latch into place. She ran and was just closing the gate when the stamp of feet rippled over the ground. One of the many army patrols appeared around the bend in the road, their uniforms dusty. Arya recognized their leader and bit back a grin. It struggled past her teeth.

Vic met her grin with a solemn nod, his spine straight and knees high as he marched by. The rest of his troop shuffled after him, hands stuck in their pockets, shoulders hunched. Some stared openly at her; others avoided her gaze; still some glanced at her and quickly away, embarrassment making them awkward.

Her chest tightened, and she smiled so sweetly at them that one of the awkward ones actually reddened. His shame at their treatment of her only caused her more misery. She didn't want their pity or their remorse—she wanted their respect. To be looked at as a fellow human, flaws and all, yet still that—human.

***

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