On the Eve of Battle – The Rise of Kings

Well, 2 years after it was promised, Book 2 in the Changelings saga is finally here. It doesn’t matter that it was essentially written four years ago – which, coupled with my desire to expand the story – caused me so. many. freaking. continuity errors I nearly lost my mind – it’s here now. It’s here and I love it.

Oh, and FYI – forewarned is forearmed: Book 2 is totally the Empire Strikes Back of the series. Just in case anyone was wondering, or hoping for resolution – no. I mean, yes, in a way, but no. Sorry.

In the midst of editing, I realized the truth. While Into the Mist could *technically* be a stand-alone story, Book 2, The Rise of Kings could not. It demands you read the first book (which is free, on July 13!!), and it hopes you read the final chapter, Book 3 (which, I’m happy to announce, is tentatively titled The Memory of Myth).

That said, I love it. I love where it takes Sean and Maureen. I love the people they become in this story – and I love the side characters. If anyone wants to have an in-depth conversation about Martin or Mared (or Elisabeth, or. . . well, you get the idea) hit me up on Twitter or Facebook. I’m not kidding. I love them all and I hope you do, too.

So, here’s to an updated website (hey, we have shopping carts – you all know you want signed copies!!), and a book three years in the making.

Thanks for sticking with me.

. . . Oh. . . I almost forgot! Here’s an excerpt from Changelings: The Rise of Kings. Enjoy!

He came at them not with flame or trembling light, but through the hollow call of a judge’s gavel. His were no longer the shrieking voices of faceless monstrosities, but the sonorous tones of men who claimed to speak for God. With them, Nuada attempted to lay to waste the keepers of memories, the tellers of tales, and the wise women of the woods.

Sean tossed in his cot, aware he was caught in a dream but helpless to do anything about it. He could not force himself to wakefulness, and though he tried, he could not take command of the dream.

As the parade of men and women passed before him, each doomed to die for nothing more than sharing the glimmer of magic in his blood, his powerlessness turned to fury – to action. He would save them.

He had to.

He stood before judges, and attempted to put out flame, but they did not see him, and the flame merely rose higher.

Briefly, tantalizingly, others would see him – those who stood at the edges, neither jeering the condemned nor sobbing for their lives. They could hear his words, and they peered at him with concern in their eyes. He urged them to speak, to stand up for the hunched crone who could not have poisoned the Smyth’s cow. She who had brought their youngest into the world with those careworn hands, and cooled the fevered brow of their brother as he lay with the sweating sickness should not be condemned for imagined evils.

But those who could hear him and see him were almost worse than those who could not. Their concern turned to fear – to hatred. How dare he single them out?

Those who knew, who could sense his otherness, turned on him. They did not want to know. Not anymore.

Night after night he dreamed. All those who could see, and feel, and reach across the barrier to touch his heart – Maureen’s heart – were bright dots that lit the earth. And night after night, they winked out of existence.

The earth darkened – lit only by the fires of those who burned.

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