Coming Soon: THE BLACK ISLES

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

The other woman sat a little apart from them, arms enfolding her pregnant belly. Her blonde hair hung like a veil over her grief-lined face. She looked up, as if listening, and her eyes flickered with life. “The light will shine,” she whispered, “even in these caves. It cannot die.”

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 followed Megan through the women’s wing. The princess especially liked a large room on the second story that had beds for six girls. The furniture included chairs and a cupboard donated from Castle Kirlaen. Faerlyn was delighted by the collection of toys spread around the room, many of which were her own. She began setting the dolls on a bed, straightening their dresses and smoothing their fiber hair and yarn braids. As her fingers brushed the faces—smooth wood and cool ceramic—she began to feel a little sad.

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

Rennivar rested a hand on the boy’s forehead and looked at his wife with a wan smile. “It seems Haven House is opening a bit earlier than we planned.”

“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

Ralin stiffened his narrow shoulders and thrust his book into Logan’s hands. Clenching his trembling fists, he walked toward the group of boys. They noticed him coming across the beaten-down grass, and their lively noise faded into awkward silence as they disentangled themselves from their giant wrestling match and stood up, casting uncertain glances at each other.

“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

The prince felt a little stirring of hope. “Do you…do you like books?”

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.