Review of 'Darkness Reigns' (The Kinsman Chronicles #1.1) by JillWilliamson

Hello again, fellow digressors! I apologize for disappearing over the last few days. Between finishing NaNoWriMo, dealing with Lyme stuff and a possible flu bug, and an encounter with peanuts and Benadryl, I've been a bit lazy. I didn't even manage to show you the countdown graphics for 'Darkness Reigns', but I suppose they're obsolete now, because... 

IT'S HERE! 

Some of you may have pre-ordered a copy already, but for those who didn't, you can snag it for your e-reader at any of the following retailers: 

Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B013EW2SV4?tag=wwwteenageaut-20

iTunes: http://jillwilliamson.us3.list-manage.com/track/click…

Kobo: http://jillwilliamson.us3.list-manage.com/track/click…

CBD: http://jillwilliamson.us3.list-manage.com/track/click…

Nook: http://jillwilliamson.us3.list-manage.com/track/click…

Am I forgetting something...? Oh, right! I promised you all a full review when the book officially came out, didn't I? Well, here it is. 

First off, I read a digital ARC of this book which I received in exchange for an honest review. Honesty is important to me, and I have given less-than-glowing reviews of review copies before, so trust when I say that the following opinions are in no way coerced.

I've been a fan of Jill's books basically for as long as I've been aware of their existence. 'By Darkness Hid' was the first one I put on my wishlist, and also the first one I read, so the world and the characters are very close to my heart. I'm a die-hard fantasy fan, and especially Christian fantasy, which Jill writes masterfully. So I was, shall we say, rather intrigued when I found out that Jill was going to release another fantasy series. I was just a bit excited when I got the opportunity to read the first installment before its public release.

Okay, so maybe I had to do some repairs on the roof after I flew up through it. Sue me.

Bottom line, Jill did not disappoint with this one. One of the most important things to note, especially if you're coming to it as a 'Blood of Kings' fan, is that while it shares some elements with her other books, it is different in a few ways. First, 'The Kinsman Chronicles' is set hundreds of years prior to 'Blood of Kings' and therefore the setting is very different. Second, Jill usually writes what she calls "weird fiction for teens", whereas 'The Kinsman Chronicles' is geared primarily towards adults. As such, most of the characters are older and deal with different concerns, the most notable of which stem from the corrupt nature of the culture in which they've been raised.

The story is set primarily in Armania, a land ruled by a corrupt king who makes sacrifices to false gods and keeps several concubines, as well as multiple wives. This is considered normal for nobility in their culture (as was once the case in Israel when the people forgot Jehovah, and strong parallels may be drawn here). One character seems to be the victim of prior sexual abuse, though nothing is explicitly stated or shown, and characters practice dark arts through power drawn from dark spirits. As such, caution should be exercised when considering the book as reading material for less mature audiences. However, I should note that the author handles all these potentially problematic topics with care and restraint, and so puts the proper perspective on the characters' actions and lifestyles without allowing the story to become steeped in inappropriate scenes.

In my opinion, while the more awkward topics might make one squirm a little (the main reason I'm giving it 4.5 stars, though unfortunately there is no way to do that on most review sites), the darkness sets things up well for a future turning point when the characters find Arman (God) and make a change in their lifestyles. Have you ever heard the story of someone who was a slave to crime or passion or some other sin, only to experience a miraculous change when they gave their lives over fully to Christ? Those testimonies hold a unique power because of the sheer contrast they elicit between the darkness and the light. As such, I do believe it is important and necessary to show where the characters stumble (though with care, of course) to lay the groundwork for things to come.

The characters, imperfect as they are, are multi-dimensional and relatable. I especially enjoyed reading scenes with Wilek and Trevn, the Armanian Sars (or princes). Their personalities are different, but I found them equally relatable and might have a hard time deciding whom to root for should it come to a choice between one or the other in a future book. The story starts a bit slow as Jill sets everything up, but I didn't find that to be a major issue. The slower start gave me time to connect with the characters and get into their world in a way that a faster beginning would not have allowed. The world-building is superb as ever, with all due context given for the details of the immersive environment created for all the characters involved, without bogging the reader down in unnecessary info-dumps.

All in all, I'd say this is a good start to the series, and worth the read for discerning readers who enjoy epic fantasy. I'm excited to see how the rest of the series goes. 

Interested? As I said, it's a free download, so go check it out! In the meantime, here are the other countdown graphics which I failed to show you prior to the release date. Also, come join the Facebook party that's going until 9 p.m. Pacific time! There are Q&As and giveaways and we would all love to see you there. The link is in the comments. Enjoy, and happy digressing. 

Exciting News for Jill Williamson Fans (And Mine, Too, I Suppose)

Hello there, fellow digressors. I return to you after months of being on the run after, unfortunately, faking my death. I would tell you why that was necessary were it not for the fact that telling you as much would mean I would have to kill you. 

Wait... Maybe that was just a dream I had after falling asleep trying to explain why I was gone for so long. Well, either way, I'm sure the government will be swooping down on me soon, either to change my identity or to arrest me for my serial-killer-esque search history. 

Anyways, I have big news for all of you who are familiar with the works of my favorite author, Jill Williamson, and particularly her 'Blood of Kings' trilogy, of which I reviewed the first book here.  

On December 1st, Bethany House Publishers will release 'Darkness Reigns', the first installment in a NEW FANTASY SERIES from Jill. That's right -- there are more Jill books on the way! 'Darkness Reigns' is a free eBook, and makes up the first third of 'King's Folly', the first book in 'The Kinsman Chronicles'. There will be three eBooks, and then the paperback of 'King's Folly' will be released in April of 2016. You can preorder 'Darkness Reigns' for FREE here and read it as soon as it hits the market!

But first, let me clarify -- 'Blood of Kings' was written for teens (and it was beautiful). 'The Kinsman Chronicles' is written for adults, and thus the content is somewhat more mature. I've been reading an ARC of 'Darkness Reigns', and let me say that while it is an excellent book and well worth reading so far (I'll post a full review when I finish it), it is very different from the related 'Blood of Kings' trilogy, largely due to the fact that it takes place hundreds of years beforehand, in a darker time when Achan's ancestors lived in a different land and lived less than godly lifestyles. The culture of the realms which the characters occupy is entrenched in idol-worship, and the king who rules over Armania in particular (where most of the main characters reside) is a corrupt man, and his corruption is reflected in the debauchery of the court and society at large. Parallels can be drawn between the rule of the Armanian king and the rule of the kings of Israel when the people forgot Jehovah and strayed to worship false gods. There are things such as human sacrifice, women calling upon dark spirits to gain power, and the presence of concubines and multiple wives taken by the king and various nobles. As such, caution should be exercised when considering the series as reading material for, say, young teens or anyone who does not appreciate a measure of darkness (restrained, of course) to provide contrast to the light in their fiction. 

Now, that being said, where there is great darkness, there is great capacity for the light to shine through and to shine all the clearer. After all, many a testimony has been given by a person who lived their own life in such darkness and found the light when they came to Christ, and I myself believe that these testimonies would not hold such power were it not for how much they did and went through, and consequently how much change God wrought in their lives. (Hey, I had a demon-possessed character in my first book and he tried to kill people. If that's not dark, what is?) And Jill, being a responsible author, handles the darkness in such a way that, while it is uncomfortable witnessing such a corrupt society, gore is kept to a minimum and the inappropriate relations which do occur happen behind closed doors rather than being flaunted for the reader to witness. Hence, Jill's careful handling makes what is admittedly a different read from her other books still very much worth the reader's precious time. The characters are multi-dimensional as ever and their stories are riveting. I can only imagine how powerful the transition will be when the characters (I don't know which ones yet) find Arman and allow Him to transform their lives. I, for one, am excited to see it happen. 

Oops. Did I just post a full review of the book before actually getting to the end of it? Well, I guess I am rather far into it. Still, I will update the review when the time comes and, hopefully, have more to add than I've already given.

At some point, I will endeavour to sketch portraits of the many lovely characters residing in the book, though I might have a little diffculty doing justice to their faces. (Incidentally, if anyone has any advice on how to sketch darker skintones without making them look splotchy, I would not say nay to such assistance.) 

All right, now to the goodies (virtual though they may be). Jill has, at the link below, posted a chart of the five realms in 'King's Folly' and written summaries of them. I definitely recommend checking out the list to start getting into the mood for when the first installment comes out in FOUR DAYS. 

http://jillwilliamson.com/2015/11/countdown-to-the-end-5-realms/ 

Speaking of which, I do happen to have these lovely graphics, created by Jill for just such an occasion (although technically the first one was supposed to be for yesterday)... 

OH. That's right -- there's also going to be a Facebook party to celebrate the book launch, and you are all invited to attend. (I will post details about that as well when I post my review of 'Darkness Reigns'.) 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to finish reading this awesome book I've been going through, and also trying to finish the first draft of 'The Sehret Chronicles: The Rescuer'. Yes, you heard me correctly -- the end is in sight! I've just hit page 225 in the manuscript, and I'm already working on figuring out how to end this thing. (My writing process is complicated, but suffice to say, I'm making up nearly everything as I go along at this point, and it's resulting in quite a lot of plot twists. Anyone particularly attached to my characters and concerned for their wellbeing should probably be afraid of this stage of my process.) 

So what have you all been up to lately? Read any good books? Besides 'Darkness Reigns', I recently read 'Unwind' by Neal Shusterman. It's a dystopian novel, the first in a series, and while the premise may seem a little disturbing (basically, the pro-life and pro-choice people went to war and ended up making peace under certain conditions which allowed for teenagers to be "unwound" at their parents' orders), it's a really compelling story and worth the time to read. I've actually moved on to the second book, and the trend of haunting awesomeness has so far continued. It's nice having the brainpower to read books again, after a long period of being too foggy or distractible. Maybe that's why I've only recently gotten into the groove of writing again, since reading fuels my passion for writing. 

But, as ever, I digress. 

Update On The Short Story Situation

All right, fellow digressors, here's the situation: A while back, I resolved to post the openings to several short stories and give you all the chance to vote on which one I should continue. I posted the first scene of two of them, then never got around to the others. Quite honestly, I would love to just run back and forth between all the possibilities and write them all and share my babies with you for your entertainment. (Yes, my characters are my babies. My very tortured babies.)

However... I am seriously behind in my primary project, 'The Sehret Chronicles: The Rescuer', and with how my health is, it's hard to do much of anything, so I'll be hard-pressed to get this book done by the end of the year. As you might have guessed by the sporadic nature of my posts, my brain is not the most reliable one in the world, and if I try to keep up with too many things at once, I'll just fall further behind in everything.

SO. Here's the deal. I find myself rather attached to both of the short stories I've already introduced, 'Street Rats' and 'The Runaway'. I think if I picked one of them, I might have a chance at making at least some progress with it, though I know at this point that to promise to churn out a scene every week would be unwise and unfair. Which one I would prefer depends on the day. 'Street Rats' gives me the opportunity to show a whole different side of a couple of my favorite antagonists (THEY WERE JUST BABIES, OKAY?), and that appeals to me. However, 'The Runaway' would give some insights into both Jorthen and Sohrem, and maybe set things up a bit for the books that take place after it chronologically. I also have a better idea of the plot for 'Runaway', so it is possible that I would put out scenes more reliably if I chose it.

But I miss Tal so much... Yes, I know I'm insane. He's still my baby, even if he did get a little... erm... messed up. And baby Siran is adorable. I love their early relationship, before things started to go really wrong.

...But I digress once again. Here's the bottom line: I want to write these. But it's probably best that I go with only one of them for the time being. SO. If it were up to you, which story would you like to see continued? In case you missed them earlier, or in case you'd like to review, here are the links to the opening scene of each:

'Street Rats - Part One'

'The Runaway - Part One'

So (yes, I like that word)... What do y'all think? Yes (I like that word, too), I do actually want to know what you think. I am an extremely indecisive person and a people-pleaser, so I'd like to be sure that you all have input into whatever I do here. I mean, sure, writing these things is fun, but I'd like to make sure other people enjoy them and not just me.

ANYWAYS. I hope I've explained the dilemma clearly enough. Feel free to ask clarifying questions about the stories or whatever below. Go!

An Open Letter to Those Who Feel Left Behind

(Hey, fellow digressors -- I'm alive! I bet you were starting to wonder, huh? I've actually had this post mostly written for a while, but I'm only posting it now. Sorry about that. Just so you know, I do intend to address the short story situation, as well. And I'm sorry if the formatting is off; I'm using the Blogger app on my phone. That will probably drive me crazy until I can get to my laptop and fix it. Sorry, OCD/OCPD people; I never meant to cause you pain... *ahem* But I digress. 

[UPDATE: I fixed it! Yay! ...I shall let you read now.]) 

You're not sure when it started, exactly. Life was normal -- even if it wasn't always perfect, it was fairly predictable. Then something started to change. Maybe a friend moved to a different state or went off to college. Maybe a sibling went off and got married. Maybe you were diagnosed with a long-term illness. Whatever it was, when it came, you thought you would learn to deal with it. You and that friend would keep in touch often, the sibling would meet with you for lunch once a week, and all your friends assured you that your illness would not change anything between you. You exchanged e-mail addresses, agreed upon an ideal day of the week on which to meet, and started treatment for that illness, confident (or at least hopeful) that things would return to normal soon. 

But sometime between then and now, something has shifted. You no longer feel the security you once did. You don't hear as much from that friend or that sibling, or you find yourself incapable of fulfilling what most people consider to be basic tasks. Oh, sure, all around you life goes on. But somehow you just don't feel like you're part of it. You've begun to feel disconnected from your friend or sibling, or you feel stuck in a rut of lying in bed all day while everyone else works, goes to school, gets married, or just keeps chugging away at [insert ideal "normal activity" here]. 

And here you are, standing (or sitting, or lying) right where you were when it all started, stuck. Fading into the background. Left behind. 

This letter is for you. 

On August 28th, 2012, I rode with my mom to a doctor's appointment. In my lap, I held a notebook, and on my way to see the doctor, I scribbled all the symptoms I could think of that had plagued me for the past couple of years. I can remember a few of the items now: Fatigue. Brain fog. Memory problems. Arthritis. Muscle aches. Depression. Sensitivity to light. The list went on. Part of me thought it was ridiculous, that at least some of these symptoms had to be in my head. There were too many, and no-one had fully explained them. 

Well, I supposed, someone had. Upon describing some of my symptoms to a friend, they asked if we had investigated the possibility of Lyme Disease. Being a chronic Lymie herself, she was well-acquainted with the disease and even knew who we could visit to get it tested. By then, I had been through several tests, most of them involving blood work, one of them involving electrodes stuck to my chest for a day to measure my heartrate. Although this physician was fairly new to us, we figured that we might as well visit him and try to get some answers. And anyways, his blood tests only involved a prick of the finger rather than a needle stuck into the arm, and for me, the less invasive the needle, the better. (Needles. Blech. I can't even type the word without shuddering.) 

So we walked into the small practice where the doctor worked, and I held tight to the list of things that had plagued me over the recent months and years (more specifically, the past year and a half). We walked into his office and sat down, asked our questions, and I handed my lengthy list over to him. I remember that he told me the list was consistent with Lyme, but of course he would have to check my blood to make sure. I held out my hand, and he pricked my finger and smeared a drop of blood onto a glass slide. I had to look away, of course. I've never been good with blood. 

As you've probably figured out by now, it wasn't a normal test, where you take vials of blood and ship them off to a lab and test for a hundred different strands of disease. This was much simpler. You take the blood and put it under a dark field microscope, and then observe the cell activity and look for parasites. (And believe me, it is effective. It's just different, is all.) The doctor took a look, then switched on a small television set connected to the microscope, indicated all the telltale signs in the bloodstream, and confirmed our suspicions. 

I had Lyme Disease. And by his estimation (combined with our own accounts of when my symptoms had become noticeable), I'd had it for about a year and a half already without treatment. So not only did I have Lyme, but it was late-stage, chronic, and had gotten into my brain and nervous system, wreaking havoc there. 

Strangely, when I got the diagnosis, I did not panic. I did not cry. I did not even wonder much about how this might impact my life in the near future. I just thanked the doctor, went to the car with Mom, and while she stepped into a grocery store, I sat in the car and vented my thoughts and feelings into a document on my iPad as I came to terms with my new identity: 

"I have Lyme disease.

I have been diagnosed with Lyme disease.

I am a Lyme patient.

I am a Lyme sufferer.

I know what's wrong with me.

I know why I've been sick for the past two years.

I know why I've had to quit karate.

I know why my peanut allergy has become life-threatening.

I know why dairy makes my stomach upset, and gluten makes my head heavy.

I know why I'm depressed.

I know why my liver is on the verge of collapse.

It's not my fault.

I have Lyme disease.

I know why a debilitating fatigue sometimes sweeps over me, making it impossible to work.

I know why I'm always sick.

I know the name of my disease, the name of my tormentor.

I have answers.

I have closure.

I have peace.

I have Lyme disease."

In my eyes, at that moment, everything was a little brighter. Sure, I was sick, but we would soon make the illness go away, and I could return to life as normal. I would keep going to church and drama ministry group, and soon I would be able to help around the house again without ending up on the couch. People would look at me no differently from before, and within a few months, I would be normal again. 

Two and a half years later, still Lyme-ridden and depressed, anxious, foggy, etc., I've begun to feel stuck. I'll admit it. Yes, when I really think about it, I can point to ways that my illness has blessed me even as I've suffered from it. It's mellowed me, made me care more, and forced me to slow down and take things one day at a time. It's given me no option but to trust God with all that I have and am, and it's taught me to reach out to others and not wallow in my own problems (though I can't say I always succeed in this). 

But I am not perfect. I am human. I have a mind that likes to twist everything and make me feel all the things that are least helpful to my recovery or to my ability to serve God. I have a body that gives out on me randomly and nerves that wreak havoc with my ability to function in public or even sometimes at home. I smile to the world, while inside I'm just hoping and praying that soon I will find relief. I walk into stores, and people stare at my cane, then look away when they realize I've seen them. I throw myself into helping with a project, then try to avoid people's frustrated gazes when five minutes later I have to retreat to my room to collapse. I tell others to hold on and find hope in God, while inwardly I'm screaming and pleading with God to give me even a glimmer of that hope which I pray I've been able to pass on to others. 

Oftentimes, I feel alone. I feel scared and tired and hopeless. Sometimes I stare at my bottles of supplements and just think, "Why am I still taking these? I've been taking them for years, and I'm still sick. It's still costing my family money. What's the point?" 

And when my mind takes that turn, it also likes to dwell upon all the things I haven't done. I wanted to go to college. I'm too sick to go and probably wouldn't have the necessary concentration, either, even if my treatments hadn't made finances complicated. I pictured myself as a stay-at-home mom. I guess at this point I'm open to marriage, but since I'm almost never out in public, I've sort of accepted that men are unlikely to notice me (not that this is an entirely bad thing; being single leaves a lot of opportunities open), and I'm not sure I'd be able-bodied enough to keep up with the responsibilities involved in having my own household, much less in having and caring for kids. I want to get a job and be able to contribute to the family finances so I don't feel like a freeloader. Well, I do have a job, but it's not all that lucrative, and since it's basically freelance work, it's not all that regular of a paycheck, either. 

And then I look around me at all the people who are moving on with their lives and doing all these great things for God and others, and I feel left out. I feel invisible. 

I feel very left behind. 

Maybe you've been there. Maybe you still are there, and it hurts. You wish you didn't feel this way. You see others in situations worse than yours and feel like a whiner if you so much as open your mouth about your own problems. Part of you knows and understands that not everyone does life at the same pace and that it's fine for others to move on with their lives while yours is apparently in intermission. 

But then there's another part of you that wants to run after everyone and yell, "Stop! Wait for me! I don't want to be left out anymore!" 

I guess what Theodore Roosevelt said is true: "Comparison is the thief of joy." 

I know it's hard not to compare our lives to others' when we feel stuck and miserable, but it really gets us nowhere. For me, it just makes my depression worse and makes me want to try less. 

But for me, at least, at the heart of all this comparison is not necessarily jealousy or anger, though those do play their roles. For me, it's more that I feel like everyone else is doing what they're supposed to be doing, and I am somehow inadequate. I should be moving on and pushing through all my difficulties. Yes, I try to serve God where I am in the ways I can manage, but some part of me feels like that doesn't matter when I can't keep up with the everyday stuff that everyone else is doing. 

Okay. Let's stop right there. Enough of my pity party. What does the Bible have to say about this? 

"For all things are for your sakes, that the abundant grace might through the thanksgiving of many redound to the glory of God. 

For which cause we faint not; but though our outer man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day. 

For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; 

While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal." 

- 2 Corinthians 4:15-18 

Sometimes life is hard. Crazily hard. Unbearably so. Sometimes people get busy, health declines, and things start to look bleak. Sometimes you find yourself standing on the tracks, staring after the train of life as it pulls out of the station, and wonder why you didn't catch it in time. But God will make a way. Even if that way means trudging through the wilderness with sweat pouring from your brow, and even if no-one else you know takes exactly the same route or shares in your struggles, God will be there to help you keep moving at the proper pace (not the one everyone else is keeping), and He will give you rest when you finally reach the destination He has ordained for you. Maybe you can't see it now, but remember: Things are always harder to see clearly from a distance. When you get there, it will all become clear, and the struggle will be worth it. 

Recently I discussed marriage and parenthood with my mom, and expressed to her how unnerved I was by the idea of enduring childbirth. I mean, yeah, if I do get married, kids would be nice, but there has to be a reason why mothers scream and cry and curse the day they met their husbands as they bring their children into the world. She told me (not word-for-word, because I have a terrible memory), "When the labor is over, and they lay this cute little baby in your arms, and you realize that it came from you and your husband, the pain is left behind, and you wouldn't trade a moment of it for the world." 

So next time life gets hard and you feel left behind, just hang on and keep pressing forward. Don't worry about the pace; you'll get there eventually. You may not like where you are right now, but with God's help, you will reach your destination, and never again will you be left behind. 

'The Runaway' - Part One

Hello yet again, fellow digressors. How was your weekend? Mine was a little busy, but not too bad. I got a copy of Microsoft Office on my laptop at long last, which should make my life as both a copy-editor and a novelist a lot easier. This makes me happy. However, because the program took time to install, and because I needed time to play with and get used to my new toy, I'm delivering this next short story opening a day or two later than I intended. (The opening for the first story, 'Street Rats', is here, in case you missed it.) 

Anyways, some of you may remember Jorthen Lavahr from 'The Follower'. Despite any mistakes he might have made, he still seems to be well-loved by readers, and it's been quite interesting trying to develop his backstory, especially as he tends to come across as 'Mr. Perfect'. As you are probably aware, no-one is truly perfect, and we all have secrets, some bigger than others. So, without further ado, here is the next short story... 

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The Runaway

–––––––

Reshan Territory, North-East of Jaern – Outerlands

Eleven years before the events of ‘The Follower'

There was a time when Jorthen Lavahr would have done anything for his father. If Atrin gave him an order, Jorthen would keep his mouth shut and obey, no matter the consequences. If someone from the outside asked him, he would say that hadn't changed.

But here, with the campfire crackling before him and Atrin plotting a course with their map a few feet away, Jorthen couldn't keep his mouth shut any longer.

“...I don't want to go.”

Atrin looked up briefly from the map, then went back to it without so much as looking Jorthen in the eye. “You'll go. The Council is expecting your arrival.”

“They're all older than me. I'm not supposed to join until I'm sixteen.”

“Ordinary people join at sixteen.” Atrin reached for his canteen of water and took a brief swig before speaking again. “We are not ordinary people.”

Jorthen swallowed. “What's so bad about being ordinary? What about...” He hesitated, but the question escaped him despite his efforts to be quiet. “...What about Amra?”

Atrin threw his prodding stick into the fire. Sparks leapt up from the coals upon impact, and Jorthen cringed to avoid them. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, but a hot look from Atrin made him slowly lower it and straighten his posture. 

Atrin ground his teeth and raised his eyebrows slightly. “I believe I remember telling you not to mention her again.” 

The evenness of Atrin’s tone made Jorthen gulp. His tongue felt thick, but he concentrated enough to make it work. “Sh-she…” No. No stammering. Stammering was a sign of weakness. He cleared his throat. “…She’s my friend. I barely got to say goodbye.” 

“You’re lucky you even got a moment with her. I should have made all the preparations myself instead of giving you time to bid goodbye to the local rabble.” 

Jorthen tensed. “Amra isn’t rabble.” 

“Look, I’m going to say this once more, and if you bring it up again, there will be consequences. Are you listening?” 

Jorthen’s muscles quivered, but he managed to nod. 

Atrin’s blue eyes burned into him. “That girl is beneath us. Always has been, always will be. Forget her.” 

All Jorthen could do was stare, unable to even avert his gaze. His mind seemed frozen, and with it every other part of him. Maybe that was why he shivered. 

Silence stretched, and Atrin picked up another stick and fiddled with it in what seemed like a casual manner. He snapped off a deviant twig that had sprouted from it and eyed Jorthen again. “You hear me, boy? No son of mine will run off with an herbalist’s daughter.” 

Jorthen wanted to retort, to ask what was so wrong with caring for an herbalist’s daughter, especially since that herbalist had kept him alive these fourteen years. But he withered under Atrin’s gaze, and he lowered his eyes to stare at the grass and mumbled, “Yes, sir.” 

“And hold your head up.” 

This command Jorthen rejected. Instead, he worked his jaw and glared at the coals of the fire before him. Half of him hoped Atrin would not notice, but the other half knew he would, and relished the rush of adrenaline that came from that knowledge. 

“…Go to the tent and wait for me.” 

The adrenaline faded as blood drained from Jorthen’s face. His mouth went dry, and he swallowed hard as his thoughts scattered. Atrin was taller than him. Even if Jorthen turned out to be the faster runner, his heart would likely betray him and take him to the ground long before Atrin gave up. 

A Lavahr never gave up. Never quit. Never showed weakness. 

“Did you hear me, boy?” 

Numbness overtook Jorthen as he rose to his feet and stumbled towards the tent. If he was lucky, by the time he got there, he would be completely devoid of feeling. He would no longer care. By the time Atrin arrived, he would no longer feel pain, either physical or in that corner of his mind where Amra Sheram’s freckles and glittering brown eyes taunted him. 

But he had never been lucky. So numbness would have to be enough for tonight. 

–––––––

Reshan Guard Military Base, Jaern – Reshan Territory

Eight years later

Lieutenant Cpt. Jorthen Lavahr strode down the hall and ignored the looks his frenzied stride drew from others. Well, perhaps it would not have seemed frenzied had someone else used it, but the uneven rhythm and the way he leaned forward to gain momentum were so unlike him that only a few around him neglected to move out of the way. A young recruit with silky raven hair smiled and stepped forward as if to intercept him, but he ignored her. He barely felt the impact when his shoulder connected with that of a passerby, and it only occurred to him as he entered the echoing stone foyer a few feet ahead to mumble an apology. He spotted a door ahead as it swung open and some officer he couldn’t identify entered. He should have been able to identify him. Perhaps he was from another province? 

What did it matter? Jorthen caught the door before it could swing closed and stepped through it. 

“Lieutenant!” 

Jorthen’s feet halted even as his mind raced forward and tried to plot a course to the nearest solitary place. He took a deep breath and ignored the ache growing in his chest as he turned and smiled at the recruit behind him. “Yes, Haren?” 

“Sorry to disturb you, sir.” Ardran Haren’s copper hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it out of the way as he straightened his scrawny shoulders. “Permission to make a request, sir?” 

Ardran’s sudden change in posture reminded Jorthen to square his own broad shoulders, though he didn’t bother with the dark chestnut hair that likely fell over his own forehead. He put his hands behind his back and managed a slight chuckle. “Ardran, if you want to make a request, then make it. An overture isn’t necessary.” 

Ardran’s cheeks flushed red, and he ducked his head briefly. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Um…” He wiped his hands on his tunic, then quickly folded them behind his back as if to copy Jorthen. “…I… would like to file a complaint, sir. A-about my roommate.” 

One of these days, the recruits would learn the difference between a request and a complaint. Jorthen nodded. “Find Inspector Brehn. He should be in the northern training room.” 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Ardran turned and sprinted a few steps before halting. “…Uh, what should I tell him, Lieutenant Lavahr, sir?” 

You can tell him to keep you busy for a few minutes so I can get out of here. 

Jorthen blinked and reined his thoughts in again to form an answer. “Tell him what you just told me – that you want to file a complaint against your roommate. And give him whatever details he asks. Understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” Ardran nodded again and halfway turned to go, then hesitated again. “You don’t look well, sir. Should I call for a physician?” 

Abomination. Was it that obvious? Jorthen forced another smile that he hoped looked real. “I’m fine, Haren. Now you’d better hurry if you want to catch Brehn. I think he’s scheduled to meet a lady friend in about twenty minutes.” 

Ardran’s blue eyes widened. “Yes, sir.” It took only half a moment for him to forget entirely about Jorthen’s appearance and to sprint off towards the northeast section of the base. 

And people thought women were the only ones with ears for gossip. 

Jorthen glanced around to be sure no-one else was approaching, then turned and walked out of the building, pulling the door closed behind him. 

Outside, the town seemed to be made of all brown materials, and even the grass that sprouted up between cracks in the walkway seemed to have aspirations of turning to match that palette. The military base’s grey stone set it apart, as did the splash of color from the Reshan standard that waved from the battlements. Jorthen set his sights on the green of the grass at the edge of the town square and headed that way. Out here, people still recognized him, but as none had any immediate business with him, he met with no delays. 

He did not know how long we walked before spots crept into the corner of his vision and crouched to lower his head between his knees. From there, he rocked back into a sitting position, closed his eyes, and focused on breathing evenly. His pulse still raced, but with some effort, he made it slow and even out into a less painful rhythm. The adrenaline that had charged his flight drained slowly from his muscles, leaving him fatigued and aching for bed. But it was only midday, and he had two batches of recruits left to wrangle before his scheduled activities ended and the paperwork began. Not to mention any meetings he hadn’t known were coming, or any more impromptu questions from the recruits who already knew him. 

He had a good mind just to sit here for the rest of the day and pretend he’d been in some secret meeting the whole time. 

If only Atrin Lavahr had not been sitting in one of the southern meeting rooms at that very moment, likely prepared to launch a full investigation should Jorthen not return in time to perform every one of his duties. 

Jorthen raised a hand to his right temple and rubbed it, trying to rid himself of the headache growing there. How had his life come to this? When he’d joined up eight years ago, he’d managed to convince himself that the Guard would serve as an escape. True, he’d left some things behind, but at least he would be away from Atrin, except for the inevitable visits here and there. He could be independent. He could make something of himself. 

And he was something now, all right. He was twenty-two years old, easily over six feet tall, and strong. He could put on a brave face in any situation, and there was hardly a woman in Jaern who would not revel in his attentions. Even those who did not particularly like him could not hate him, such was his charm and his skill as a diplomat. 

And in this moment, he hated it. He hated all of it. Because it had all come from Atrin. He orchestrated everything, pulled strings to get Jorthen in before he was technically of age, conditioned him by various methods to push through anything, and constantly reminded him of any shortcomings he still needed to eradicate. There was not an aspect of Jorthen’s life that did not smell of his father’s influence. 

But then, had he ever really expected that to change? 

A rhythmic pounding fell on his ears, and he opened his eyes. His vision was still blurred, but if he squinted, he could see something on the northern horizon, a dark shadow in the distance, growing nearer as the pounding grew louder. A horse and rider? 

He stood and fingered the shakahn at his belt, just in case, but kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the figure in the distance. It could be a scout returning with news from one of the Reshan-Shamindo bordertowns, perhaps, but if so, why did he ride so hard? And as the horse approached, Jorthen could see that it was far from a war steed. It looked to be more of a packhorse, really, its shaggy grey coat littered with dirt and flecked with sweat, stride faltering as if it could not take much more running. 

And the skinny rider’s black hair, pale skin, and ragged clothing sent the word Shamindo ringing in Jorthen’s head. 

His pulse spiked again, and he pulled his blade free of its sheath. “Guards!” His voice came out hoarse, so he cleared his throat and called out again. Voices from the town behind him proved that someone heard him. If it came to a fight, he would have backup. 

At the disturbance, the grey horse tossed its head, released a shrill whinny, and stumbled to one side, then toppled, throwing its rider into the grass some yards away as if he weighed nothing. Jorthen dropped into a fighting position, but when the rider did not rise, he strode forward and tried to get a better look. The fallen horse paid him no mind as its lungs heaved in an attempt to catch its breath, but he leaned down to pat its neck as he peered at the rider nearby. He had landed facedown, but from here Jorthen could tell that he was small, barely a man if he was one at all, and that he carried no weapon. Jorthen slowly lowered his own weapon and froze as he spotted burns on the arm that was not pinned beneath the rider, and charred holes where fire must have caught his clothing. 

Jorthen kept still for a moment, then sheathed his weapon and knelt next to the boy. He touched his shoulder as lightly as he could and turned him over onto his back, then recoiled slightly at the sight of more burns on his face and neck. If treated, they should heal without leaving scars, but how had they gotten there? How much more of his body was burnt? Jorthen heard footsteps behind him and called over his shoulder, “He’s injured. Find a physician.” 

One of the newcomers repeated the order, and someone else sprinted back towards the base. Yet another person knelt beside the fallen horse to assess its condition. Jorthen stretched out a hand to feel for the Shamindo boy’s pulse. 

The boy gasped and jerked away from Jorthen’s hand as his eyes flew open. Jorthen started, then held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Easy, easy – I’m not going to hurt you.” 

From behind him, someone called out, “Shamindo! He’s a Shamindo spy!” 

“Quiet,” Jorthen snapped. He looked at the boy again and offered a hand. “Come on. We’ll get you some help.” 

The boy shook his head and tried to scramble away from Jorthen, but fell to the ground again, his green eyes wide, emaciated body trembling. The burns covered his hands and arms, and his tunic was singed halfway into oblivion. He could not have been much older than sixteen. 

Jorthen swallowed hard. “…Easy,” he repeated, and extended a hand again. “I’m Jorthen Lavahr. Let me help you.” 

The boy blinked at him, uncomprehending in his panic. All at once his muscles went loose, his eyes glazed over, and Jorthen barely moved forward in time to keep him from hitting his head on a rock as he fell unconscious again. 

Jorthen cursed under his breath and glanced at a Guard recruit as the boy stepped up beside him. “Help me get him to the base.” 

The boy nodded, and with little difficulty they lifted the Shamindo and headed for the military base. Until this point, Jorthen had managed to focus his distractible mind on the matter at hand, but as they walked, he could not help thinking, Won’t Atrin be thrilled when he finds out about this? 

'Street Rats' - Part One

Hey there fellow digressors. Sorry I've been so absent lately -- among other things, copy-editing business has picked up a bit, so I've been busy with that. I had a day off today, though, so I spent it mostly sitting around and browsing Facebook and Pinterest. I saw some other people dealing with prompts and such, and decided to check out my huge board of prompts on Pinterest. I picked one, posted it to a writers' group on Facebook, and followed it myself. A couple of my friends urged me to write more and put it on the blog, or even to write more short stories and do the same with them. 

Well, it just so happens that I'd already considered this idea. And I've decided to give it a go. 

But here's the rub: I have way too many stories dancing about together inside my head. Most take place in the world of Sehret, and most are backstory pieces about my main characters or their families. And I am such an indecisive person that I can't decide which one to use. SO. Here's what I want to do -- over the next couple of days, I'll post the opening scenes for a few of these short stories, and give each a (very temporary) name so you can keep track of them. Then, in a few days (I'll have to figure out how many stories I'm dealing with before I know exactly when), I'll write a summary post with shortened versions of the scenes, and ask y'all to vote on which one most interests you. Whichever story has the most votes will be the one I continue (or try to continue) and post exclusively here on the blog. Let me clarify: These scenes are not in any actual book that I'm writing at the moment. They may become their own novellas or be sorted into an anthology of short stories at a later date, but right now, the only way to read them will be by coming here. Think of it as a serial novella which you get to read as it's written, and on which you can give feedback if you so desire (but please, be kind). 

Another idea I've considered is designating a certain day of the week to check the 'Writing Prompts' widget in the sidebar and follow whatever prompt it gives me, and invite y'all to join in if you want. Thoughts? How many of you would be interested in something like that? 

Anyways, now that I've gotten that intro out of the way, let me introduce you to the first (not fully edited) scene of the first short story... 

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Street Rats

(Temporary Title)

Prequel to 'The Sehret Chronicles: The Merchant's Son'

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Lans, Reshan-Shamindo Border -- Reshan Territory

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All he had to do was take it. The bread sat on the edge of the table, fresh and wafting its yeasty scent towards Tal, making his stomach grumble again. He wouldn't have felt it over the moths fluttering in there, had it not sent such a sharp stab of pain throughout his ribcage. His hands trembled from hunger and fear. How would he ever make them steady enough to steal for his brother's dinner? 

The baker turned away to deal with a customer, and Tal's heart quickened. He tensed, glanced around to be sure no-one was watching, then... 

"You don't want to do that." 

Tal gasped and spun to press his back against the wall between him and the baker's stand. His pulse pounded in his head, and his stomach churned. 

A boy of about his age with straggly black hair and keen blue eyes crouched next to him and grinned. "New to this, are you?" 

"Keep quiet," Tal hissed. His hands shook, so he curled them into fists. "This is risky enough as it is." 

"It's risky because you don't know what you're doing. Me, on the other hand? I could get that bread in less than the amount of time you've spent shaking behind this wall." 

Darr's voice rang through Tal's head. "Quit shaking and get the job done. There'll be time enough to think things through later." 

He swallowed, glanced over his shoulder, then fixed his gaze on the newcomer again. "...Who are you?" 

"Name's Ryst. This is my territory." 

"It's Reshan territory, stupid." 

Ryst snickered, making Tal flinch. "So do you want that bread, or not?" 

Tal worked his jaw. "I've stolen before." 

"Sure, sure you have." Ryst crept to the edge of the wall and peered around it. "All right. The customer is leaving." 

Tal found himself creeping up behind Ryst and trying to peek around him. His heart leapt to his throat again, and he pulled back. "Do we go now?" 

"Back," Ryst hissed, and shoved Tal back far enough to retreat himself. 

Tal barely caught himself before he could fall. Frustration rose within him, and he glared at Ryst. "Why did you distract me? I could have made it." 

Ryst sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "If you're counting on customers to distract him, then you never go during the first sale of the day. He won't let his guard down long enough to let you in until he feels safe looking away that long." 

"I don't have all day. I just need enough time to run in and grab the bread." 

Ryst snorted. "And then he'll spot you and call the guards. You might think you're fast, but you won't get away if you try something like that." 

Tal tried, but he couldn't think of a proper response. He looked away and tried to keep a neutral expression. His eyes stung, and he blinked hard to get any stray flecks of dust out of them. 

He felt eyes on him, and when he looked again, Ryst was watching him. "What's your name, anyhow? I haven't seen you around here." 

Tal swallowed hard, then cleared his throat and tried to sound as grown-up as possible. "Talsyn Lethar. I... didn't used to come here often." 

"Talsyn Lethar?" Ryst wrinkled his nose. "Too long. How's 'Tal' sound?" 

Tal shrugged. "It works." He was actually used to having his name shortened that way, but he felt no need to point it out to a thief he would probably never speak with again. 

"Fine then, Tal. How old are you?" 

"Why?" Tal glared at him again. "I don't even know your full name. Why do I have to give you my whole life story?" 

Ryst rolled his eyes again. "Fine, then. Don't tell me your age." He inched forward on the balls of his feet, then glanced at Tal. "If I snag that bread, I get a share, right?" 

"What kind of share?" 

"Half." 

"One third." 

"Half, or you can grab it yourself." 

"I have a brother to feed, dimwit." Tal tried to make the words sound hard and clipped, but his voice trembled, betraying hi desperation. Could he really get the bread on his own? Ryst was right -- he had no idea what he was doing. He'd only stolen twice, and both time were under Darr's supervision. Both times, Darr had stressed to him how this was not a permanent solution, only a quick fix until they could get on their feet again. 

But Darr wasn't here, was he? Not that he had really been there in life, either. 

It took him a moment of staring to realize that Ryst had vanished from his perch by the wall. 

Tal blinked and scrambled to his feet. Where had the rat gone? Stolen the bread, no doubt, and run off with every bit of it. Well, maybe that was fair, but it wouldn't help Tal fill any stomachs tonight. He glanced nervously about and fought the panic rising in his chest. He had to think. If Ryst's assessment was accurate, an attempt at theft now would more likely earn him a trip to jail than a meal. He couldn't afford that. He also couldn't afford to sit here all day coming up with plans if he wasn't going to follow through on them. 

He groaned and paced away from the edge, ran a hand through his greasy black hair. This whole trip had been a bad idea. It had been hard enough saddling up the old hag's gelding and getting it here. And leaving his brother on that hill outside of town, without supervision? While safer than leaving him at the house, it was still a monumental show of idiocy. He had to get out of here now. He had to grab Siran and-- 

"Hey, Tal-boy." 

Tal started and fumbled at his tattered belt for the sharpened stick that he'd hung there. He jabbed it out ad he whirled around to face the speaker. 

Ryst laughed and tossed a fresh, piping hot loaf of bread from his right hand to his left. "Still working yourself up, I see. Here." And with that, he flung the loaf into the air in Tal's general direction. 

Tal dropped the stick and caught the loaf in mid-flight. He turned it over in his hands, ignoring the way it burned his skin. The smell wafting from it made his knees weak. Upon closer examination, he saw that the loaf was whole. He frowned. 

"Good enough?" 

He looked up to see that Ryst was still watching him. Tal lifted the loaf as if putting it on display. "What about your share?" 

Ryst shrugged. "Break it off if you like. I'll eat something. Unlike you, I'm used to stealing for myself." 

The words stung, but Tal could barely hold back a grin as he stuffed the load into his bag. He had to get back to Siran. They had to get back to the house before the old hag got sober enough to realize that they'd gone. 

"Hey, shaker." 

The words made Tal stop and face Ryst again. His face flamed as he remembered that he hadn't acknowledged the efforts made to get the food now bulging in his pack. "...Thanks." 

"Actually, I was just going to say that my name is Rystar Teln." Ryst shrugged. "Just in case you were still wondering." 

Tal swallowed hard again and nodded. "...Teln. I'll remember." 

"I'd rather you didn't, actually. The name's Rystar." And here Ryst stepped forward and extended his hand. "Think you can remember that much, Lethar?" 

Tal hesitated a long moment, then took Ryst's hand and slapped his palm. He nodded. "Sure. And just call me Tal." 

Ryst returned the slap and grinned faintly. "I guess I probably won't be calling you anything, if you're not sticking around. You really going to feed yourself and that brother of yours with one load of bread?" 

"We've made do with less." Tal stepped backwards and lowered his hand. "I have to go. he's waiting." 

Ryst nodded. "Power to you, Tal. And lots of it." 

Power. Now there was an elusive commodity. Tal shrugged. "Sure." He turned again to leave, then hesitated. "Hey, Ryst--" 

But when he turned again, Ryst was gone, vanished as if he had never been there in the first place. 

Tal looked down at his satchel, then at the ground where Ryst had stood. After a long moment of thought, he turned and sprinted off in the direction of the hill where he'd left his brother. 

When he got there, clouds had just begun to roll in over his head, and the air was pregnant with telltale moisture. Tal shuddered and quickened his step. He spotted the patch of grass where he'd made Siran sit not an hour earlier. 

Nothing. The grass was bare. 

His heart leapt to his throat again. "Siran?" His voice came out hoarse, and he nearly tripped in his haste to get up the hill. He reached the patch of grass in question and patter it as if to be sure that no-one sat there. His eyes had not deceived him. Panic swelled in his chest, stole his breath from him. He whirled around and panted for breath. "S-siran? Siran, where did you go?" 

Could he have wandered into the city? Had Tal passed him in his hurry to get there? What if one of the merchants had nabbed him, declared him a Shamindo street rat and locked him up somewhere? What if-- 

"Tal?" 

Tal nearly cried out from relief when Siran sprinted over the crest of the hill towards him. Tal stumbled up to meet him, grabbed hold of his arm, and dropped to his knees before his little brother. "Siran, I told you not to wander off like that!" 

Siran's green eyes grew wide, and he tried to jerk his arm away from Tal. 

A bit of remorse left a lump in Tal's throat, and he released Siran's arm. "I'm sorry. I was just... I just didn't..." His words trailed off, and he winced, then touched Siran's arm more carefully. "Look, Siran, you know I wouldn't hurt you, right? Not ever." 

It took a long moment, but Siran nodded and wrapped his arms around Tal's neck. 

Tal blinked hard and returned the hug, then took a deep breath. It was time to be the big brother here. No more motherish panic attacks. He reached for his satchel and pulled the flap open. "I got something in the market for us." He reached into the bag and pulled the loaf into view. 

Siran's grin was instantaneous. "You got food?" 

Tal relaxed again and managed to return Siran's grin. "Yeah. I had a little help, but we won't go hungry tonight. Here..." He broke off a piece and offered it to Siran. "Chew it slowly. This will have to last us until I can get some more." 

If his brother heard his warning, he showed few signs of it. Siran stuffed the morsel into his mouth all at once, and seemed to have no intention of chewing it. 

Tal laughed. "Eacy there. Don't choke yourself." 

Siran coughed and ducked his head a little, then made a more obvious effort to chew his food. All the same, it was barely five seconds before he swallowed. 

Fair enough. Tal broke off a piece of the bread or himself and took a bite of it. The succulent, yeasty taste almost made him cry out with pleasure. He could see why Siran's self-control had gone out the window. But this had to last. He finished his piece and stuffed the rest of the loaf back into the satchel. "We'll have the rest at the house." 

Siran's face fell. "But she'll take it." 

"No, she won't. I'll hide it so that she won't ever find it." Tal offered a hand to Siran. "Trust me?" 

A pair of wide eyes met his, then Siran nodded, smiled sheepishly, and slid his grimy hand into Tal's. 

Tal squeezed his hand and led the way back down the hill. Siran's feet slipped enough times that, by the time they reached the bottom of the hill and approached the animal they'd ridden into the city, Tal had hoisted his brother onto his back and had a pair of arms wrapped tightly about his neck. It was all he could do to hold them far enough out to avoid choking. He helped Siran mount and began to fasten their satchel to the saddle. Something bumped his rear, and he swatted without looking. "Settle down, horse." 

The black gelding, Taryk, nickered and nipped again. Siran giggled. Tal grimaced and ignored the animal until he had the bag secure. Taryk bumped him with his nose, and Tal sighed and rubbed it. "You're a real chore, aren't you?" 

This must have been enough, for a moment later, Taryk bobbed his head and began to graze again.
"Oh, no, you don't. You'll eat at home just like us." Tal swung into the saddle and helped Siran center himself on the saddle. "Ready?" 

"Can we make him gallop today?" 

If this nag galloped, he'd fall apart halfway home. "We'll see. Just hang tight, all right? We'll be home soon." 

Siran nodded and took hold of the saddle horn. Taryk seemed none too pleased, but ceased his grazing, and when Tal picked up the reins and kicked, the animal tossed his head slightly and began the eternal ride towards home. 

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Copyright (c) 2015 by C. F. Barrows