Releasing The Calling, the first book in
the Tales of Rhohin series, has been one of the most exciting
events of my past year. The novel I began as a teenager, and once planned to hide
away on a dusty shelf, has gotten into the hands of, by my count, 278 readers around the world, via Kindle,
and I have been amazed to get compliments from total strangers who enjoyed my
work. To God be the glory, through Jesus His Son. He gave me the gift, the
determination, and the opportunity.
And now it’s almost
time for the sequel!
The Black Isles
picks up about sixteen years after The Calling, and follows the
adventures of Brien and Ella’s children. It includes slave-traders, dragons,
ships, a noble stable-hand, amnesia, scheming wizards, and feisty birds, to
name a few things.
Once again, I hired
the help of my brilliant younger sister and fellow fantasy-lover Twila to
proofread and edit the book. I anticipated a few of the revisions she might
hope for and made them ahead of time, but of course, she was able to push me to
do even better. The Black Isles is
now in the final stages of production.
Here’s
behind-the-scenes art and an advance look at the Prologue and Chapter One:
Prologue
On an island mountain, a man knelt beneath a
grey, rolling sky. His hands were bound, his dark hair matted, and his bronzed
skin mottled with welts and blood.
Slowly, he lifted
his head to meet the cold blue eyes of the man who stood over him.
“Daenan,” the
beaten man murmured, “why do you do this?”
His nemesis’ face
was white and stiff with maniacal energy. Evil pulsed from him in tingling
waves. “Oh, you are humble now, Gallian,” he sneered. “You quiver. Now it is
you who is at our mercy. You are helpless, and we are strong.”
Gallian looked
out at the group of people surrounding them: men, women, and children who were
pale-skinned and fair-haired like Daenan. Sylvans, the graceful forest-dwellers
who had once ruled the land of Rhohin. These ones were outcasts, rebels against
King Shawn, who had been sent here to the Black Isles as punishment for their
unrepentance. Tears filled Gallian’s eyes as he remembered the day he first saw
them, staggering ashore from their battered little boats, trembling in terror,
some weeping. He remembered their looks of amazement and happy cries to find a
human presence on their dreaded shore of banishment.
Now, they gazed
at him with the coldness of their leader. A few faces were troubled, eyes
wavering, but they quickly turned away.
“Daenan, this is
a mistake,” Gallian said. “This will not strengthen your people. It will only
harm them.”
“Be silent!”
growled the leader, slapping Gallian across the face. “So, you want to know why
I do this? First it was Shawn, the Mordovian pretender-king, trying to rule us,
now it is you trying to manipulate us! You are a plague to my people. You even
defiled a Sylvic maiden and got her with child—a half-breed disgrace.”
Gallian struggled
to keep his rage under control. “Hannyl is my wife—you blessed our marriage
yourself! What has changed in you since last winter?”
Daenan gave a
small, poisonous smile. “Last winter, we would have starved without the
knowledge of these islands which we could only get from you.”
 |
| Lionna, a Sylvic girl |
There was a
rustling in the group of watching Sylvans, and a red-haired man took a step
forward. “My lord Wizard-King,” he said quietly, addressing Daenan, “can this
be right? Gallian and his friend have only done us good.”
The leader
whirled on him. “Sythrin!” he hissed, “Are you declaring yourself one of them?”
The man lowered
his head, looking ill, and stepped back.
Daenan turned to
Gallian. “Your plague is spreading. I will not let you infect my people with
your foolish religion and the story of your foolish god. You tell lies that
turn the world upside down, and it must be stopped!” Daenan brandished a jagged
stone knife. “The plague will be ended.” He stood close by Gallian’s side.
“Renounce you god, and I will let you live.”
Gallian looked up
at him. “No. Jesus the Christ is my Lord forever.”
Daenan gripped
Gallian’s hair, yanking his head back and exposing his throat, then roared, “I
claim these islands for the Power and its gods!”
Gallian’s voice
came gently as he stared into the hovering sky. “You cannot kill His light.”
Daenan yelled,
the knife slashed, and Gallian’s blood watered the barren ground.
* * * * *
Hidden in a cavern that echoed with the roar of
the sea, a man and two women sat together and wept.
“Why would God
allow this?” cried one woman, a fair-skinned Sylvan. She leaned against the
black-haired man. “You and Gallian survived shipwreck all those years ago,” she
moaned, “only to end in terror and darkness.”
He tried to
comfort her, but his own eyes were reddened with tears.
 |
| Battle scene, near the end |
Chapter One:
Faerlyn and Ralin
Princess Faerlyn stared up at the house that’s
peaked roof seemed to nudge the sky. Its yellow plaster walls were being
invaded by ivy that framed its bright red door. The ten-year-old grinned and
squeezed her father’s hand. “Isn’t it so beautiful, Papa?”
King Brien,
sovereign of Rhohin, smiled back at her. “Yes, Fae.”
The tall woman
beside them gestured toward the house. “Your highnesses are free to come
inside. It’s still a bit untidy, though.”
“That’s fine,
Megan!” Faerlyn cried, running for the door. “I want to see everything!”
The main room,
with its scattering of disarranged furniture and bundles, had a soaring ceiling
upheld by timber pillars. On each side were two-story wings of smaller
chambers.
“We’re thinking
that side will be for women and girls,” Megan explained, pointing to the left
wing, “and the other for men and boys.”
A slim man with a
tool-belt around his waist and plaster dust in his curly hair appeared on the
loft of the men’s wing and bowed to the visitors below. “Good morning, your
highnesses!” Instead of coming down the stairs, he climbed over the loft
railing and swung to the floor.
Megan frowned at
him and crossed her strong arms. “Rennivar, you won’t keep doing that once
children come here. I don’t want you giving them ideas.”
“Of course not,
my dear.” He strode over and placed a kiss on her cheek. “I’m sure they’ll be
able to think of it on their own.”
Megan shook her
head in exasperation and Faerlyn giggled.
“Come, your
highness,” said Megan, taking the princess by the hand. “I’ll show you some
rooms.”
 |
| Faerlyn, a few years older |
Faerlyn looked up
and gave Megan a trembling smile. “My dolls will be happy here.”
The woman sat
down beside her, eyes teary, and drew her into a firm hug.
“They can leave
me,” the princess went on with a catch in her voice, “because I’m getting so
big now. The orphan girls need them.” She nestled deeper into Megan’s embrace,
a comforting feeling she had known since she was very small. “And I’m glad
you’ll be a nursemaid to the girls, because they need you lots more than I do.”
“You’ve got a
loving heart,” Megan whispered.
Faerlyn eased out
of her arms, and her cheerful mood returned as quickly as it had flown. “I hope
I can come play with the orphan girls sometimes!”
They went back
downstairs to the main room, where Rennivar and King Brien were talking.
“Now if there’s
anything else,” the king was saying, “I’ll see that it’s taken care of.”
“Thank you again,
your highness,” said Rennivar, with a deep nod. “This place was just a dream
Meg and I had when we worked at the castle. Now it exists, mostly because of
your contributions.”
The king shook
his head. “It exists because of God…and a certain little princess. She was very
persistent about reminding me why it was important to provide a safe home for
our city’s neediest people.”
There was a rapid
pounding on the door.
Exchanging a
bemused look with his wife, Rennivar went to open it.
A dark-haired
young man in ragged clothes stood there, breathing hard.
“Why, Ian!”
exclaimed Rennivar. “How are you today?”
“I’m well enough,
I suppose,” he said in a low voice, nervous eyes darting from Rennivar’s face
to the floor. “But my friend…he’s not so well. Not at all.”
“Mycael? What
happened?”
Ian cringed. “Bit
of an accident, sir. In the line of work, you might say.”
Rennivar frowned.
“Work, Ian?”
“Alright, thievin’.
He wasn’t helpin’—I’d never make him. But he had to run ’cause I was runnin’,
and then he went and fell in some rubbish and cut his leg. It swelled up awful
and he got a fever.” Ian’s brow furrowed. “He just lies there moanin’.”
Rennivar looked
from the lad to King Brien. “Your highness, I wonder…would you by any chance
permit us the use of your carriage?”
Brien nodded.
“And hurry.”
Ian stared at the
king, and his eyes bulged. “He—he’s…?”
“Aye, he is,”
replied Rennivar, clapping a hand on Ian’s shoulder as he led him out to the
yard.
“And I’m ridin’
in the royal carriage?” Ian sputtered.
After they were
gone, Megan sighed and invited the king and princess to sit down at a table
piled with wooden boxes and glass vials. She brought out a tray of pastries and
cups of mint tea, and joined them.
“Renn and I may
not have children of our own,” she murmured, opening a box and beginning to
sort the bandages inside. “But he takes every boy and girl he sees into his
heart. Those two orphan boys—” She glanced toward the window. “Ian’s nearly a
man of sixteen, and a bit of a scoundrel. Tried to pick Renn’s pocket when they
first met. But he’s got a soft heart as far as his younger friend Mycael is
concerned. That one’s a sweet boy; he wouldn’t survive on the streets without Ian.”
As soon as the
rumble of the carriage wheels returned, Megan ran to throw the door open for
her husband. He came in lugging the limp body of a boy in his arms. Ian was
behind him, but he stopped on the threshold, and looked around the inside of
the house with an expression that was both longing and fearful.
“You can come in
too,” Megan urged him.
Ian darted an
anxious glance to her, clutching the tattered hem of his shirt in his hands.
Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, m’lady…this isn’t for me.” He cast one
last affectionate look at his sick friend. “Just take good care of him,
alright?” Then Ian turned and ran.
Faerlyn studied
the figure in Rennivar’s arms. The boy was much older than her, she thought,
and probably quite tall if he was standing. But he was very thin, and his
copper-colored hair hung damp with sweat. His eyes were closed and his
breathing raspy.
She felt her
father’s arm come around her shoulders, pulling her to him.
“He’ll be alright
now, won’t he?” she asked.
“I pray so,”
Rennivar replied. He carried Mycael toward the lower story of the men’s wing,
and Megan followed.
“Come, Fae,” said
the king, “we should leave them to their work. When we get back to the castle,
I’ll send a physician here.”
“Just a moment!”
she pleaded, and hurried after them.
Rennivar laid the
boy on a bed, and Megan began to undo the dirty bandage on his right leg. A bad
smell came from the wound.
Faerlyn swallowed
hard, breathed through her mouth, and came closer, still staring at the boy’s
face. This was the closest she had ever been to someone who was from the
streets, someone who had been abandoned and hungry—someone real, not just a
story.
 |
| Mycael, a few years older |
“Not earlier than
God planned, I’ll wager,” Megan replied, removing the boy’s flimsy leather
shoes.
Faerlyn reached
out, tentative, and laid her small hand on the boy’s arm. “Hello, Mycael,” she
said softly. “You have a home now.”
His eyes
struggled open. They were rich brown and gentle.
The princess
smiled at him.
Then her father
told her that it really was time they left.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, within the walls of Castle Kirlaen, a
young boy stood in the courtyard, clutching a book to his chest. He was Ralin,
crown prince of Rhohin, but that knowledge made him feel no braver. He watched
a group of servant boys enjoying time off from their duties by holding a game
of tussleball, a rowdy sport that was devoid of much strategy besides capturing
the leather ball by any means necessary and holding onto it as long as
possible. They were laughing and joking, even as they pummeled each other.
Behind Ralin, his
grey-haired manservant Logan cleared his throat. “Go on, your highness. You’ve
only got to ask.”
The prince
clutched the book tighter against his thin chest, wishing the courage of the
heroes from its pages would sink into him. He wasn’t even as brave as his
sister. He was Faerlyn’s twin brother, though they did not look alike. She was
rosy-cheeked and dark-haired, and he was pallid and blonde. She had grown up
healthy and active, while he had been constantly falling ill.
But he hadn’t
been dangerously sick for nearly a year now, and his mother thought he might be
well enough to play with the servant boys.
“As long as Logan
watches you the whole time,” she had warned. “And the boys promise to be
careful. And you stop the moment you feel faint or get a pain.”
The queen might
have insisted on coming along herself, had she not had Ralin’s toddler sister
Brianna to take care of.
It might be nice,
he decided, to prove he could do something without her standing guard.
 |
| Ralin, a few years older |
“Your highness,”
mumbled the grey-shirted boy who held the ball, bowing. The others imitated
him.
Ralin felt anger
surge through him, though he wasn’t sure why. “I want to play,” he snapped.
“Don’t just stand there.”
The boys
exchanged glances, there was a bit of whispering. The tallest, nearly
man-sized, had a sneer in his smile as he replied, “Terribly sorry, your
highness, but we were just finishing up.” He winked hard at the others.
“Indeed we were,”
said the boy with the ball, nervously.
“Come on then,
lads,” said the tall one, stalking off, “that’s enough for one day.”
“Good day, your
highness,” murmured a few of the boys as they crept after him.
“It’s a stupid game,
anyway,” Ralin growled under his breath as he watched them leave. The prince
turned back to Logan. “They…they said they were finished,” he mumbled.
“Aye, I suppose
they were,” sighed the old servant, though he didn’t sound convinced. “I’m
sorry, your highness.”
Now Ralin felt
anger again, hot and writhing. He almost wanted to hit Logan. He snatched the
book back from his servant and told him, “You can go. I’ll come in later.”
Logan hesitated a
moment, looking his little master up and down, then sighed and walked back to
the castle.
Ralin trudged
around the paths that surrounded the castle yard, past trees and under stone
arches, looking for a good spot to sit down and immerse himself in the magical
book, Collected Tales by Master Threnn. Perhaps the story of the winged
people who lived on mountain peaks, or the one about the young warrior who set
out to conquer the dragon that had destroyed the land…
Ralin heard a
ruckus coming from the part of the yard he had so recently left, and crept
toward it, keeping hidden by darting from tree to tree along the path. A knot
twisted tight inside him.
The servant boys
were back and playing tussleball again. He watched them from behind a tree, and
listened.
“Camron,” grunted
one as he and the tall boy wrestled for the ball, “do you think it was
alright—foolin’ the prince like that?”
“What else could
we do?” laughed Camron, tossing him off. “You know what a lily-blossom he is.
If he so much as bumped his royal nose, he’d be running to his mother, and who
knows what she’d do to us!”
They all paused a
moment to shudder at the thought of incurring Queen Elowene’s displeasure.
One boy scratched
his cheek. “King Brien’s a great warrior—so how come he got such a pathetic
son?”
Camron snorted.
“Why do you think you never see them together? The king’s ashamed of him, for
sure.” He hefted the ball, ready to toss it out and begin another round. He
smirked. “Maybe under those fine clothes, the prince is really a girl in
disguise.”
There were
incredulous guffaws and snickers of “Princess Ralin,” and then they plunged
full force into another tussle. They were too preoccupied to notice the thin
little figure that went running down the path, away from their shouts and
laughter.
Ralin fled to the
far end of the yard, where there was a cluster of hemlocks. He squeezed in
amongst the trunks, his slight body fitting snugly. Tucked in the embrace of
the trees, he folded up on himself and the book, pressing his face against the
embossed letters on the cover. He began to sob in sharp, gasping breaths.
Eventually his
tears stopped. He wondered what would happen if he stayed here all day. They
would think about him then. Everyone would be thinking about him. They
would be running all over the castle, searching, calling his name. Maybe even
his father would come looking.
Then Ralin heard
a sound: dragging footsteps and a tapping on the paving stones of the path.
He set aside Collected
Tales and crawled forward, peeking out between the trees. The sound was
coming from a dark archway just ahead. Ralin cringed and ducked back into his
hideaway. Nothing good ever came out of the dark. Grief-filled cries burned in
his memory, and he tried to ignore their echo.
Then he
remembered Camron’s taunt. Lily-blossom.
Gritting his
teeth, Ralin looked out again and saw a man emerge from the archway, peeling
away from the shadows. He was a stranger—tall and cloaked in black, with hair
the color of dry grass. He dragged his right foot, and carried a carved white
staff. As he came closer, he looked toward the cluster of trees. His eyes were
an intense, blazing blue that immediately captured Ralin’s full attention.
The prince rose
from his hiding place, hurriedly trying to brush himself clean and smooth the
wrinkles from his tunic. The man looked unsurprised to see a rumpled boy
emerging from the greenery, and nodded to him.
“Who are you?”
Ralin asked.
The stranger gave
a slow smile. “Evan is my name.” He had a faint, lilting accent.
Ralin hid his
hands behind his back, then remembered that that wasn’t a princely thing to do
and brought them out again. “I’m…er…I’m Ralin. The prince.”
Evan chuckled.
“This is fortunate. You are my purpose for coming here. I intend to become your
tutor.”
Ralin felt dismay
roil in his stomach. He had gone through four tutors already in his young life.
Each had been appointed by his father, and each resigned from the job shortly
thereafter.
Unteachable.
Stubborn.
Sharp-tongued.
They had long
lists of complaints, and the king became as upset with Ralin as they did,
lecturing him about the importance of a prince being well-learned. Ralin had
given him sulky silence. He didn’t need tutors. He had already taught himself
to read.
The prince looked
up at Evan and asked, “Did my father hire you?”
“I and the king
have not met. I heard of your need, so I came.”
Ralin frowned.
“What do I need?”
The man leaned
down so he was closer to his eye level. “A tutor who is as intelligent as you.”
 |
| Cover in progress |
Evan chuckled.
“How could I not?”
“Not just practical
books. Books with…stories?”
The man leaned
closer. “Better, I can tell you stories…stories you have never heard.”
His hand rested lightly on Ralin’s shoulder. “Would you have me, your
highness?”
Ralin stared at him, caught by his intense eyes.
Then he gave an eager nod.
