Published at the very end of 2011, Dragon's Tempest is a full-length novel full of action, adventure, and yes, dragons. It is the second book in "The Imperial Series" and follows the tale of Tristan, oldest son of Damuk and Arianna (the main characters of Book 1). Dragon's Tempest is available as a trade paperback or as an ebook (in most formats, including Kindle, Kobo, and Nook).
Read on for an excerpt from the book:
Prince Tristan, first-born son of Crown Prince Damuk, and future Emperor of the Abital Empire, was bored. He sat in the Emperor’s study and tried not to fidget, or at the very least, to not let his father catch him at it. He listened to the conversation flowing around him, but really didn’t absorb any of it. He was only here because, as his father so frequently explained, it was expected of him.
Tristan was slouched in one of the many comfortable chairs, as far away from his grandfather, Emperor Raewkon, as he could possibly get. No one was paying him any attention, which was probably for the best. He didn’t have anything to say anyway. If someone had asked him what his opinion was, he’d have to admit that he didn’t even know what they were talking about at this point. And if he did that … well, to say his father would be less than pleased was a massive understatement. Just the idea of facing his father’s wrath — again — had him paying a little more attention. He sat up a bit and pushed his jet black hair out of his emerald green eyes, trying to look as if he cared about what was going on. He began to catch snatches of the conversation around him.
His gaze wandered to his parents, sitting on the long couch against the wall. His father, Prince Damuk, was in the middle of explaining how the economy of the desert would eventually crash if they didn’t do something about the declining desert wolf population. It was true, of course, but only someone like his father, who had spent years away from Crown City, and who had an avid interest in ecology, would really understand it. Tristan knew, because his father had told him, that desert wolves were an important part of the desert ecosystem, and when an ecosystem was in trouble, so was the economy, even if that didn’t appear to be the case at first. It was the reason overhunting was so dangerous. The state of the environment had a direct impact on the state of the Empire, though that fact was often disputed by less-learned men.
There were several Councilors in the room, and they were all staring blankly at their Crown Prince as he proposed a ban on the hunting of desert wolves. Tristan rolled his eyes, though he made sure no one was looking at him first. It was a good thing that they actually didn’t have to gain the agreement of the Council to act, or nothing useful would ever get accomplished. The Emperor or the Heir would simply issue the order, expecting the Council to see it done. A good system when the Council was full of stupid old men, totally convinced of their own importance. If Tristan had his way, the Council would be replaced with those young men who could keep an eye on the future, men who had a care for something other than how many crowns they had in their pockets. He had this fantasy that when he eventually became Emperor, he’d dissolve the Council permanently, instead having some very wise, very close friends to advise him. With that thought in his head, he returned his attention to his surroundings.
His mother, Princess Arianna, was curled up next to her husband, her head resting on his shoulder, while his arm was draped casually around her. Every so often, his hand would lightly caress her side, and the Councilors pretended not to see the blatant display of affection. Women were generally not present at these semi-formal meetings, but his mother was the exception rather than the rule. She had been heavily involved in everything her husband did since before Tristan could remember, from governing to internal politics. It was unusual, but then, his parents were soulbonded, and that alone made both of them unique. Though everyone had heard of soulbonds in the tales of old, they were extremely rare, practically unheard of. Actually, now that Tristan thought about it, he didn’t know of another soulbonded couple, not in the whole of the Empire, or its neighbor, the Yarian Republic. He supposed that it made his parents rather legendary. For certain their relationship was something every young girl dreamed of, and many young boys as well.
His parents were in stark contrast to each other. His mother had pale skin, so white that it nearly glowed, and hair the color of golden wheat, with the same emerald green eyes that Tristan had. Damuk was the image of the Emperor, with hair and skin just as dark as Tristan’s. The only real difference between Raewkon and Damuk were the eyes — Damuk’s eyes were a sky blue, while his father’s were almost black. The three of them — Raewkon, Damuk, and Tristan — were obviously related; they all shared the same angular facial structure, with jaw lines that were both strong and intelligent.
Tristan caught his mother’s eye, and she smiled softly at him. He returned her smile with genuine affection. He and his mother were very close. She’d always been there for him, and she had never judged him, never made him feel inferior, not once in his nineteen years.
Unlike his father. That thought wiped the smile from his face. His father was a good man, and no one doubted it. Arrogant, maybe, but that arrogance was well earned from years of patriotic service and sacrifice. And yet … Tristan and Damuk had never really been close. Not even when Tristan had only been a small child. He knew with certainty that his father loved him. Love was never the question. It was more that they just didn’t understand each other. And Tristan knew that he was a disappointment to his father, that he never could really live up to the Crown Prince’s expectations of him.
His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the study door. Since there were two guards directly outside, there were only three people who would be allowed to enter, and one of them was too young to be wandering about the palace on his own. That left only one of his two sisters. Tristan closed his eyes in despair when he saw which one it was.
Marella slipped into the room, practically bouncing, though gracefully so. She almost fell onto the couch at Arianna’s side and pouted prettily. All this was done quite dramatically, and it made Tristan roll his eyes once more; this time his father saw it, and frowned at him. Tristan inclined his head towards Marella, and received a small nod from his father. Tristan almost sighed in relief. His lapse had been excused by Marella’s entrance.
Marella was his sister, sixteen now, and she wanted nothing more than to be sent to their Uncle Darian’s court in the Yarian Republic. Apparently, there were just not enough eligible young men in the Empire to satisfy her extremely finicky tastes.
Marella was the picture of everything that was exotic in the Empire. She had hair so blond that it was almost white, and her eyes were an even clearer blue than her father’s. Her body was exactly what every young man yearned for in a young woman, and she had the same natural grace their mother possessed. Her utter perfection, at least physically, irritated just about everyone, including Tristan.
Tristan and Marella did not get along, and they didn’t bother to pretend they did. Of course, Tristan didn’t really get along with any of his siblings. Maybe that was a little unfair to his younger brother, Rowan, since the boy was only four years old, but still …
Even if he and Rowan eventually learned to tolerate each other, there were still the girls. Marella was in what their mother called a ‘phase’ right now. Everything was all about her, her clothes, her hair, her presentation at court … it was more than Tristan could possibly bear, even if she was his sister. And now their younger sister, twelve-year-old Calinda, was beginning to act just like her. He could only hope that his mother was right, and that they would eventually grow out of it. If they didn’t, Tristan wasn’t entirely certain that he wouldn’t commit murder.
Marella was tapping her foot now, obviously impatient to be heard. If the Councilors hadn’t been in the room, she would have immediately launched into whatever tirade was building inside her now. In fact, she had done that before, but only once. Their father, who would not permit a lapse in manners from any of his family, had reacted immediately and forcibly removed her from the study. All her crying and pleading hadn’t prevented the beating that had followed. It hadn’t been a serious beating, just enough to make a point.
He had then locked her in her room and ordered her kept from court for a full month. No amount of crying or screaming on Marella’s part had made him change his mind. It had been the perfect punishment for her, since court was the one thing she valued above all else. Marella had never again interrupted the adults. She was probably a little afraid of what Damuk would do if she did. Their father was very good at coming up with the perfect penalty for each child, and it tended to make all his children just a little wary. Since he rarely repeated the same punishment twice, his children were never sure what was coming. Tristan smiled, thinking that it was a good system, one which he would one day use with his own children.
Finally, after what must have seemed like candlemarks to his little sister, the Emperor called a halt to the meeting. He did this rather abruptly, with a distinct edge to his voice, obviously having had his fill of the Councilors. He was an old man, and very ill, and no longer suffered fools easily.
The moment the men had filed out of the room, Marella spoke up. “I want to go west,” she whined. It was hardly unexpected. For the past month she’d taken every opportunity to remind everyone that she was sixteen now and no longer a child. She wanted to go to visit their uncle, King Darian, at the Republican court. She made no secret of the fact that she was more than interested in the young men there. She was convinced that she’d find her perfect mate if only her father would allow her to explore the many possibilities available in the Republic.
“Not now, Marella,” their father said softly. Too softly.
“But —”
“Marella.” Damuk’s voice hadn’t changed at all, but a single eyebrow was now raised. Knowing from experience that pursuing the issue wouldn’t get her anything more than a scolding at the very least, Marella rose and almost stormed from the room, deliberately sending a carefully sorted stack of papers flying on her way past the desk.
Damuk sighed and almost rose to go after her, intending to take her to task for such unseemly behavior, but Arianna smiled and placed a restraining hand upon his arm. “We should just let her go,” she said, shifting slightly so that she could look into her husband’s face. It was no secret that Arianna favored allowing her daughter to travel to the west.
It was Raewkon who responded. “She’s too young. When she’s eighteen, maybe.” He shifted, having a sharp pain in his chest. Since there was nothing to be done for it, the others in the room pretended not to notice, trying to preserve the old man’s pride. He wouldn’t even take anything for the pain, since he felt it diminished him, especially in the eyes of his only son. It was nonsense, of course, but that didn’t change the way the Emperor felt about the issue.
Arianna laughed slightly at Raewkon’s comment, facing her father-in-law. “I know she’s your little darling, your favored granddaughter, but we’re all going to have to let her go eventually. And the Republican court might just be good for her. At the very least, she’ll learn what it’s like not to be the very center of attention.” She shrugged. “When I was her age, I was already pregnant with Tristan. Most girls are at least engaged at sixteen.”
Tristan privately thought that it was a wondrous idea. Marella was the pet of the entire Imperial court right now. She was the only princess of marriageable age, and every eligible man, young or old, was determined to have her, to marry into the royal family. There had even been duels fought over her, and that only made Marella’s attitude worse. At the Republican court, she would have to contend with their cousin, Princess Boann, who was about the same age as Marella. Boann was the only child of their uncle, King Darian, and she was just as obsessed within finding a husband as Marella, but she tended to be more subtle. She was also a stunning example of a western beauty. Seeing another girl of equal status and loveliness getting the attention of the male courtiers might be good for both of them. Besides, the two girls acted more like sisters than cousins, so they’d certainly enjoy each other’s company.
As the other three discussed sending Marella west, Tristan’s thoughts turned completely inward. Marella’s plight had given him an idea, a possible solution to his own problem. Maybe his sister wasn’t the only person who needed time away from Crown City and the pressures of the Imperial court. Maybe he could go somewhere as well, if only for a little while, just long enough to find himself.
He even had an idea of where he would go. The far north was entirely unexplored. A long sea voyage would be just what he needed to take his mind from his own difficulties. And it might even give him the chance to prove himself worthy in his father’s eyes, to show that he had some redeeming qualities.
If only his father would listen.
***
That evening, Tristan paced impatiently in the outer chamber of his parents’ quarters. He had asked to speak with his father privately after dinner, and had been told to wait. Waiting was not his strong suit. Especially now, when there was something he wanted so much, more than he’d wanted anything in recent years. The thought that he might be denied this opportunity was not to be borne. His nervousness was increasing by the moment.
Before Tristan had the chance to work himself into a nearly-panicked state, Damuk emerged from the bedchamber. The Crown Prince was immaculate, as always, resplendent in a blue velvet doublet, and wearing a short black riding cloak. He had a second cloak draped carelessly over one arm.
All he said was, “I thought we might ride out.”
Tristan nodded and accepted the cloak, but remained silent.
Father and son walked side-by-side to the stables, neither choosing to speak. Damuk declined the services of a groom, and they both saddled their own horses; the Crown Prince had always tried to instill personal responsibility into his children, and saddling their own horses was a symptom of that. As they did so, he regarded his son carefully, wondering what was on the boy’s mind. Tristan was obviously nervous, and Damuk knew that he intended to ask for something. He just didn’t know what it could be; it must be important for his son to be so anxious. Whatever it was, Damuk knew he wasn’t going to like it. He gave a purely mental sigh at the thought, and decided to use a hackamore instead of a bridle, preferring not to use a bit. He noticed that Tristan chose a bridle, and wasn’t surprised. Tristan wasn’t quite the horseman that his father was, though Damuk tried not to think less of him for it. Damuk had been practically been raised in the saddle. Tristan had not.
The two mounted and rode through the palace gate after a brief confrontation with the palace guard. The guards weren’t too pleased that the Heir and his son were riding out without any escort at all, but they had little choice. Damuk, as Heir, was the Commander in Chief of the military in the Empire, and his word was law, at least as far as the military was concerned.
Damuk and Tristan descended into the city, taking the ancient path that followed the side of the mountain. The palace sat atop a mountain that rose hundreds of feet from the very center of Crown City. The only way to get to the palace itself was to travel up the path that spiraled around the mountain. This path had a mountain wall on one side, and open sky on the other. At least, it would have been open sky, if the homes of the aristocracy hadn’t been floating upon what looked to be light-filled clouds, all around the single path. These homes were huge manors, and each had a team of mages whose only job was to keep the estates in the air. It was shocking to anyone who had never visited the capital before. Damuk and his son, both having been raised in the Empire, took it in stride.
The pair finally reached the base of the mountain, and Damuk led the way, intending to leave the city entirely. The sun had already set, and the desert was cold now, which was why they were both wearing cloaks. The Abital Empire was all desert, so while the days were scorching hot, the nights were bone-chilling cold. The people who had been born in the desert were used to it, but those who hadn’t been … well, Arianna still hated the climate, even after twenty years. She claimed she’d never get used to it, and she was always either too warm or too cold when outdoors.
As they exited the city, Tristan thought he knew where his father was heading. “You’re going to see Faylene?” he asked, speaking for the first time. He wasn’t interested in making conversation at the moment, but thought he should say something.
Damuk nodded, his hand going instinctively to the packet inside his doublet that his healer-wife had given him. “Your mother asked me to deliver some salve for her aching joints.”
While his father said nothing more, Tristan could hear veiled emotion in his voice. Faylene had been Damuk’s nurse when he was a boy, and they were still close. Faylene was almost a mother to him, since his own had died in childbirth. The old woman, once a midwife, was nearly eighty now, and suffered for her age every day. Her joints pained her greatly, and she had a cough that never really went away. Arianna didn’t think that the midwife would make it through another season, though not very many people knew that.
The thought made Tristan sad, since he knew Faylene well. Until her health had failed her roughly six years ago, she had been midwife to his mother whenever she was pregnant and nurse to her children. She’d been friend and teacher to Tristan, Marella, and Calinda; Rowan was too young to have really known the old woman. When she’d fallen ill, Arianna and Damuk had ensured that she was well cared for. Faylene now had a small but beautiful cottage just outside the city and had only to send a message to the palace if she had any needs at all, and either Prince Damuk or his wife would respond personally. No other person in the whole of the Empire enjoyed that privilege. Faylene had definitely earned it.
Finally, the small cottage came into view. The lights were still on, even though the sun had set. Obviously, Faylene was expecting them. As they pulled their horses to a halt just outside the cottage, Tristan took a deep breath. He did not want to go in there. Even if his mother hadn’t told him that Faylene was dying, Tristan would have known. The small cottage felt of death as strongly as any graveyard. Any mage would have been able to sense it.
His father dismounted and looked at his son, utterly patient. He said nothing, but Tristan could almost hear his voice, reminding him of his ‘responsibility.’ Tristan took a deep breath. If she can bravely face death, he thought to himself, well aware of the fact that his father could probably hear him, I can at least sit in her cottage. His decision made, he slid off his horse and joined his father. He was rewarded with a slight smile and a strong hand on his shoulder. Well, at least he approves of something I’ve done. Tristan clamped his shields tightly over that thought, not wanting his overly-powerful father to hear it. He realized very quickly that he’d failed when his father’s hand tightened painfully on his shoulder for a moment, right before releasing him.
Tristan regretted the thought, and wondered if his father would say anything. Probably not. Damuk usually respected the privacy of another’s thoughts, no matter what he overheard. And he overhead a lot, being now the most talented mage in the Empire, even more so than the Emperor, who was beginning to decline with age. Tristan envied his father, even though he too was a mage; he couldn’t even come close to rivaling his father’s power, not now, and not anytime in the future. He often found himself wondering if perhaps he and his father would be on better terms if Tristan himself was more of a mage, or more of a warrior, or more of … well, anything.
His thoughts ended abruptly as he found himself being ushered into the small cottage by his father. Tristan did his best not to show his reluctance. Both men stopped to remove their cloaks once in the tiny entryway, hanging them on the pegs provided for that purpose, then proceeded into the parlor. Faylene was seated there, before the blazing fire. Her slave, a small dark man who had been gifted to her by Damuk, was nowhere in sight at the moment.
Her withered face broke into a smile as she saw the two of them. “I’d get up,” she said with humor in her voice, “except that I can’t get up.” She chuckled softly as Damuk leaned down and kissed her cheek.
“I’d never ask you to,” Damuk assured her, watching as his son followed his lead. Finding nothing to criticize in the boy’s manner, the Crown Prince turned his attention back to his one-time nurse. He removed the packet from his doublet and handed it to Faylene. “From Arianna. She says it’s stronger than the last batch.” Damuk seated himself on the couch opposite the old midwife.
Tristan took a seat beside his father as Faylene opened the packet and smoothed some of the violet-colored salve over her hands. He smiled as he saw her eyes widen in appreciation. He felt guilty for not coming to visit his old nurse very often. He knew that his mother often took Calinda and Marella to visit, but he always declined to accompany them. He resolved to visit once a month, as his father did. Surely he owed the woman that much.
Damuk and Faylene chatted amicably for almost a full candlemark, mostly about court gossip. Faylene might be removed from the palace now, but she still wanted to know everything that Damuk could share. Finally, the conversation turned to Marella, and her increasing desire to leave the Empire for a time. Faylene completely agreed with Arianna’s assessment of the situation, and made no secret of it.
“Let her go, young man,” Faylene said in her no-nonsense way. Even though Damuk was fifty this year, she still insisted on calling him ‘young man.’ What was even more shocking was that Damuk didn’t mind. She was the only person in the Empire to enjoy such an intimate relationship with the Crown Prince, other than his immediate family. In fact, Faylene had a better relationship with Damuk than most of his own children.
Damuk sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. “That’s what Arianna says.” He didn’t exactly sound happy about it.
Faylene nodded briskly. “When will you learn to listen to your little wife? She’s got a good head on her shoulders. You should have learned that years ago.”
Tristan took note of that comment. If his father wouldn’t listen to him, maybe his mother would. He resolved to go to his mother with his request if his father turned him down.
Several more moments of light conversation passed before his father rose and bid Faylene a good evening, and Tristan did the same. The two men stepped once again into the dark of the night, swinging their cloaks about their shoulders.
As they remounted, Damuk looked at his son once more. “What is it you wanted to discuss?” he asked without preamble. It was late, he was tired, and he’d rather deal with whatever his son wanted now.
Tristan hesitated. He knew that his father wasn’t going to react well, but he had to try. There was nothing to do but ask. “Father … I want … that is, I would like …”
Damuk took a deep breath. He would not deliberately invade his son’s privacy and read his thoughts, though it was tempting. Earlier, Tristan had been thinking so clearly and so strongly that the thoughts had been there, on the surface, for anyone with the ability to read. Now, his thoughts were buried and confused, and unless Damuk purposely pulled the thoughts from his mind … no, he’d never do that. Still, his patience was running thin. “Just tell me,” he ordered.
Tristan swallowed. His thoughts were still in disorder, but he tried again. “I want to leave,” he blurted out, and visibly flinched. He hadn’t meant to say it like that.
Despite the anger Damuk found rising within him, he couldn’t help but notice how very like his mother Tristan was. Arianna, when she was upset, tended to blurt her thoughts out as well. That trait had been the cause of more than one of their arguments over the years, and probably would cause many more in the years to come.
Forcing his anger down, Damuk replied calmly, “Leave? Where, and why?” The least he could do for his son was to hear him out. Besides, Arianna was always telling him that he was too quick to anger where Tristan was concerned. He’d try it her way, staying calm and composed until he’d heard what his son had to say.
Tristan sighed and stared between the ears of his horse, very deliberately not looking at his father. “I don’t know. I was thinking of sailing, maybe. North, I guess. We don’t really know what’s up there; it could be anything. I could lead an expedition …” His father was already shaking his head.
“No, Trist. You’ll stay close to home. You have responsibilities.” In Damuk’s mind, that statement ended the conversation.
Not so for Tristan. “But, maybe I could open up new trade routes, or establish alliances, or something. Or I could …”
“Did you not hear me the first time?” Damuk asked, his voice as smooth as silk. That tone usually warned his offspring that he was approaching the point where he would stand no more.
Tristan recognized the warning, but was not ready to give up before he’d had his say. “Maybe, if I talk to Mother …”
“No!” Damuk snapped, letting his anger shine through at last. “You will not bring this up with your mother. She has enough to think about.” The Crown Prince dug his heels into the sides of his horse, galloping back towards the city. He didn’t even look back, fully expecting his son to follow.
Tristan did, but at a slower pace. He realized now that he’d just made a fatal error. He should never have mentioned his mother. The Heir to the Throne had just given him a direct order. Even more than that, Tristan was an Imperial officer. And his father was the head of the army in the Empire. To disobey this order could potentially get him court-martialed. It wasn’t likely that his father would court-martial him over speaking to his own mother, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
Now he was faced with a choice: to obey his father and give up the idea entirely, or to disobey the man who was his Commander in Chief and speak to his mother.
An impossible choice, it seemed. This was not his day.
Fiction for young adults and teenagers is a relatively new invention. Until recently, teenagers were considered adults and expected to read adult literature. It wasn't until the 1960s that authors began to realize that there was a gap in literature. We had books for children, up until about age 12, and books for those 18 and older, but nothing for the 13-17 age range. Young adult fiction sprang up to fill this hole.
Writing Fiction for Young Adults
Writing for teenagers can be tricky. It's too easy to assume that because they're young, they don't understand complex subject matter. This is far from the truth. Their interests might vary from adults, but they are just as smart and just as deserving of respect as adult readers. Take this into account when writing a young adult novel.
It's also tempting to pick the current trend or fad and use that as a basis for your book. Bad idea. Teenagers today are growing up at an extraordinary pace, so by the time you finish writing your book, the kids will have moved on and you'll have difficulty finding a publisher to take you on.
When writing fiction for young adults, younger characters should carry the story. Your principles should be 13-17 years of age so your readers can identify with them. You can certainly have characters older and younger than this, but try to have those characters who drive the plot and solve the problems as close to this age range as possible.
There are some things to avoid when writing for young adults. Teenagers are exposed to everything from drugs and smoking to sex and alcohol. However, that doesn't mean they things have to feature in your book. Try to make your characters into role models when dealing with sensitive topics. Don't imply bad behavior is okay, even if some of your characters do deal with some of the problems listed. Try to think of what you'd want your own children to read. This doesn't mean you can't have characters having sex, but you have to deal with it tactfully. And, for the love of all that is holy, do not have a graphic sex scene! It simply doesn't belong in a book for teenagers.
The other dillema you might encounter is the use of slang and profanity. In general, you should avoid popular slang. What's popular today could be gone tomorrow, so slang may simply date your book and limit its appeal. As for profanity ... it's probably better to not use it at all, or to use it sparingly. I know a lot of teenagers use excessive profanity, but not all of them do. Those who don't will be turned off and toss your book in the trash heap. Those who do are usually smart enough to read books that don't rely on the shock factor of profanity to entertain.
Other than these things, fiction for teenagers is basically like fiction for adults. They like fast-paced stories that engage and entertain. They also like a variety of genres, so don't confine yourself to the typical high school setting. If you like to write fantasy, write fantasy. If you prefer a good mystery, go right ahead. Teenagers enjoy a wide variety of material, just as you probably did when you were a teenager. With that in mind, go wild! Within reason.
Children's fiction is an entertaining genre that has been around for centuries and continues to expand. Though primarily written for children, children's fiction must also appeal to the adults who will have to read the book over and over and over and over ... if you have kids, you get my drift. The most successful children's fiction will appeal to both adults and children, so take the time to do it right.
Relive Your Own Childhood
You can't write fiction for children unless and until you can remember what is was like to be a child. What would have captivated you when you were small? Simple stories with vibrant characters are best, but never underestimate a child. You weren't an idiot when you were 7-11 years old. Assume your audience will be equally quick and intelligent.
To get yourself in the right mindset, go to your local bookstore and purchase a few books from the children's fiction section and start reading. Enjoy the books for what they are — simple stories designed to entertain younger readers. Think like a child and let yourself laugh and truly experience the story.
But also think like an adult. Read the book aloud and see if you could enjoy reading it to a child. If you can, that book is a winner. And while you certainly shouldn't use a book written by someone else as a template for your own, this little bit of research will give you an idea of what works. You can use this information when working on your own bit of fiction for children.
Writing Children's Fiction
Like most forms of fiction, the rules for writing children's fiction have changed in recent years. Fiction written for children now contains strong and vibrant characters with their own minds and own ways of doing things. However, it is important that these characters are appropriate for the age group, usually 5-12 years of age. The characters should be clean and your book should be free of material that is simply too mature for children. This means you should avoid characters that engage in things such as sex, drugs, and even smoking. Parents are still the ones purchasing the books for their children, and parents don't appreciate characters that might have a negative impact on their children.
Even though the typical age range for children's fiction is 5-12, you should narrow the age range for your book. You don't write the same things for a 5 year old as you would a preteen. So think about the age of the children you're writing for and write something appropriate and entertaining for that age group.
Avoid the use of slang and certainly don't curse or swear in your book. Again, parents don't like it and young children really shouldn't be exposed to it. And don't preach. Kids don't need someone to preach to them when they're simply reading a book. You also might want to avoid the darker themes often found in literature for teenagers. Most children are not ready for heavy themes.
One of the problems with writing for children is that children today have short attention spans and they're used to instant gratification because that's what they get from TV and video games. So engage children by using all five senses when writing your book. Make sure your characters experience their environment by sight, sound, touch, smell, and taste. If something smells terrible, describe it. Kids get a kick of it and it will make the experience more real.
But all of these little rules pale in comparision to this one — let your characters solve their own problems. We're talking about children's fiction, so your characters will probably include young people. Adults shouldn't come in and solve all the problems at the end of the book. Kids like books where people just like them solve the problems. So give them what they like and your books are more likely to be well received.
Writing fiction for children can be tricky, but if you can pull it off, its vastly rewarding. Remember to think like a child and definately find a few kids to try out your story on. They are the best judges of what children's fiction should be, after all.
Published in 2012, Return is a collection of ten short stories based on the novel Arianna's Tale, which was published in 2011. These stories further enhance and expand on the characters introduced in Arianna's Tale. Though these stories can be read on their own, they are perhaps better enjoyed as a part of the full-length novel upon which they are based. Return is available as a trade paperback or as an ebook (in most formats, including Kindle, Kobo, and Nook).
Read on for "Exiled", one of the ten stories included in Return:
Edwina lifted her head off her lover’s chest. She was certain she’d heard some sound, some bit of noise that was out of place. Tugging her wheat-gold hair out from under Marshall’s body, she sat up and gathered the sheet to her chest. She cocked her head to one side, listening for whatever had awakened her. Only silence greeted her.
Worried about being discovered, Edwina looked about for her clothing. The sun was just beginning to light the sky. It was time to go, time to leave Marshall before her absence was discovered.
Not that anyone would notice, she thought as she pulled on her clothes from the night before. Her husband had ceased to visit her bed five years before. He’d gotten the son he craved and abandoned her to her own devices. She rarely saw him these days, preferring her own company, or that of her current lover.
She glanced back at the sprawling bed and smiled, content to watch Marshall as he slept. He was only the most recent in a long line of lovers, but she was falling just a little in love with the man. He was everything her husband was not. Strong, confident, considerate, and an excellent lover, Marshall gave her the first snatches of true joy she’d known since her hasty marriage to King Cadfael almost six years before.
Settling her clothing into place over her thin body, Edwina leaned down to place a gentle kiss upon Marshall’s cheek. She was rewarded with a slight smile, but he didn’t wake. With a final stroke of his thick chestnut hair, she headed for the door.
As she reached for the handle, the door flew inwards, throwing her back against the wall. Edwina felt the handle of the door dig into her stomach as she was caught between it and the wall. She cried out a moment before strong arms seized her, forcing her to the floor.
Managing to glance up, she saw that Marshall was already on his feet, sword in hand, ready to defend her. He hadn’t bothered to clothe himself, but stood there, facing down the Royal Guards who had entered his chamber without leave. He was ready to fight. But as a captain in the Royal Guard, these men owed him their loyalty.
She watched this realization spread across his face as the point of his sword began to slip downward. “Put up your weapons,” he ordered.
They didn’t seize him, but they didn’t obey him either. There were few people in the country who outranked Marshall, few people who could have ordered these men to disobey their captain. Hearing a bellow behind her, Edwina groaned in despair.
“Seize them both!”
Edwina was already on the floor, but a guard pushed her head down so that she could not see what was happening in the chamber. She could still hear, however, and what she heard caused her stomach to wrap around her spine. There was a struggle as the guards moved to carry out their orders. Marshall was fighting them, trying to come to her. She heard him cry out in pain, but the struggles continued. He might be hurt, but he wasn’t dead.
He’d never had a chance. There were at least twenty guards in the chamber, though Edwina had difficulty coming up with an exact number with her face pressed into the floor. Two guards were almost sitting on top of her, forcing her to stay in place. Though what they thought she’d do if released was a mystery. It wasn’t as if a woman of her stature could hope to fight even a single guard.
The struggle stopped and silence reigned once more. A cold dread settled over her heart. She could hear ragged breathing and the scrape of leather on marble, but nothing else. She tried to raise her head, but the hand holding the back of her neck tightened in her blond hair and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.
“Take him away,” Cadfael snapped.
A tightness crept into Edwina’s shoulders and she started to tremble. She recognized that tone. It was the tone he used to order the death or torture of his enemies. Or the tone that crept into his voice before he beat his wife or son.
“Leave us.” If anything, Cadfael’s tone had deepened, become more frightening.
As the guards obeyed and released her, Edwina tried to disappear into the floor. She raised her head only enough to watch several men drag Marshall from the chamber. Other than that, she didn’t dare move.
When the door closed silently behind the guards, Cadfael stalked forward. Edwina squeezed her eyes shut. A strong hand closed over her hair and pulled her to her feet, drawing a gasp from her. She fought to keep the tears from her eyes, knowing from experience that any outward sign of pain would only encourage him.
Edwina saw his hand come up and braced herself, wishing he’d release her before he struck her. When his fist crashed into her jaw, her head snapped to the side and her vision exploded. She saw a brilliant flash of light and knew she would be tending her own head injury tomorrow. She slumped and would have fallen were it not for his hand in her hair.
She hoped he would just leave her now, visit one of his concubines to vent his rage, but it was not to be. Cadfael threw her into the wall and Edwina barely managed to keep her nose from hitting the hard marble. She heard the sound of a belt clearing belt loops and froze. She wanted to run like a frightened rabbit but knew that it would avail her naught. He would catch her, send his Royal Guards to hunt her down, and would be all the angrier for having to chase her. It was better to accept what he would do, bear it as she always did.
Managing not to flinch away from his hand, Edwina allowed him to drag her to the bed. She heard tearing cloth and dared not fight. Cadfael tore off her gown and threw her into the headboard. Holding herself carefully still, Edwina watched him as he moved toward her, belt raised for the blow.
During the beating that followed, Edwina didn’t move except to keep the worst of the blows from her head. When it was over, she lay curled against the headboard, clutching her left arm. She was certain it was broken, and broken badly. And she had at least three fractured ribs. She’d need a healer when this was over. It wouldn’t be the first time a healer-mage had been called to attend Queen Edwina. She waited in silence for him to leave her. He never cared for her after a beating. She would be left to summon a healer and find her own way back to her chambers.
When a hand wrapped itself in her hair and dragged her away from the relative safety of the headboard, Edwina couldn’t stop herself from crying out. The pain threatened to overwhelm her, to send her reeling into unconsciousness. Tears fell from her emerald green eyes as she fought to stay awake.
Edwina was thrown facedown onto the soft bed, but even the thick blankets and soft mattress couldn’t soften the blow. She hurt, and nothing could distract her from that.
Cadfael straddled her body, pinning her in place. He leaned down until his dry lips were barely brushing her right ear. “Little whore,” he whispered. “But you’re my whore until I choose otherwise.”
She might have responded but he placed his hand on the back of her head and forced her face into the thick blankets. Realizing she could no longer draw breath, Edwina started to struggle. But it was too late. He had her, controlled every movement she tried to make.
As his body moved against hers, she felt blackness rise up to overwhelm her.
***
She was awakened by pain. It hurt to move. It hurt to breath. It even hurt to open her eyes. After a few moments of trying to get up, Edwina lay back on the cold floor and took stock of her surroundings.
The scent of beeswax and honeysuckle assailed her senses. Marshall detested the scent of honeysuckle. It reminded him of the King. So she was no longer in Marshall’s chamber. There was cool marble beneath her and a gentle warmth to the chamber. For that she was grateful, for her bruised and naked flesh would not appreciate the cold. She wasn’t even covered.
It was then that she realized where she must be. Cadfael’s bedchamber. Why else would she be uncovered? Cadfael was too possessive to allow other eyes on his wife, even if he was furious with her. She was his, for better or worse, at least according to their marriage vows.
Listening carefully, Edwina decided she was alone in the chamber. She cracked one eye open and fought against the wave of nausea that welled forth. She had to move. Staying here, in this room, was not safe. Cadfael was always at his worst in this chamber. Edwina tried to force herself into a sitting position but quickly stopped. It felt as if the bones of her skull were sliding together in a most unnatural way and there was a deep ache between her thighs.
There was no hope for it. She wouldn’t be able to move on her own. Not yet. She lay back down on the marble floor, despairing. What had happened to Marshall? Was he imprisoned or perhaps dead? There was no way to know for sure. Cadfael’s temper was harsh, but thoroughly unpredictable.
And what about her son? Cadfael had a strange sense of justice. It wasn’t unlike him to punish a child for the crimes of a parent. Was he taking out his anger on Darian even now? Tears coursed down her cheeks at the thought. Now or later, Darian would pay for her mistakes. It was almost more than she could bear.
As she lay there, trapped in a prison of her own pain, she distantly heard the door creak open. Fearing it was her husband, Edwina pulled herself into a fetal position, expecting the worst. Footsteps approached, light and fast, and Edwina cringed.
A gentle hand touched her shoulder. “Your Majesty, you must get up. The King demands you appear before him.”
Edwina opened her eyes and stared at Marie, her own maid. As the maid’s words registered in her tired mind, Edwina started shaking in relief. The King would never beat her in public. If he was commanding her appearance, he must be in the throne room.
Nodding her head hurt too much and her throat was sore, so she acknowledged Marie’s instructions with her eyes. Marie helped her gain her feet, but it was slow going. The pain was too intense to allow for more than a few inches movement at a time. It took the better part of a candlemark to get Edwina standing independently.
Marie held out a gown and Edwina’s eyes widened. All of Edwina’s gowns were crafted of fine silks and soft wools, all in the brightest of colors. This gown was rough wool and a deep brown in color. It was also a little too large. It took a moment for Edwina to realize that it was one of Marie’s gowns. The gown of a servant. Her eyes flew to Marie’s.
Marie understood the look instantly. “The King’s orders, Majesty. You are to appear garbed as a servant.”
The maid hesitated and Edwina knew there was more. As Marie looked down at her feet, Edwina knew the news was not good. She glanced behind Marie to a nearby chair and what she saw stopped her cold. There was a yellow tabard draped over the back of the chair. A stained yellow tabard. The tabard of a traitor.
Edwina took a deep breath. “He’s to have me tried with treason, then?”
But Marie was shaking her head. “You’ve already been convicted,” the maid whispered. “You were tried as you slept. You are to appear for sentencing.”
The Queen stood unmoving as Marie dressed her, covering her soft skin with the roughened wool. She knew that Cadfael was acting within the bounds of the law. Technically, by sleeping with Marshall, she had betrayed him. And betraying the King was treason, regardless of the motivation. She’d been expecting this since she’d taken her first lover three years ago.
What she hadn’t expected was to be tried without being allowed to offer a defense. She had hoped that she could wheedle a divorce from Cadfael if she were permitted to testify in open court, as traitors were always allowed to do. To have their problems aired before the court would have been humiliating for the King, and Edwina had intended to promise silence in exchange for her divorce.
Cadfael must have known that. And he would never agree to a divorce, to allow her to reclaim her dignity. So he’d tried her, convicted her, without permitting her to defend herself. The idea shocked her, yet she was not surprised. It was so like Cadfael to look out for only his own interests.
“What of Marshall?” she finally asked her loyal maid.
Marie looked away suddenly. Like most women, she too had been fond of the handsome Captain of the Royal Guard. Her voice filled with regret as she answered her mistress. “He was executed immediately, my lady, just a few candlemarks ago.”
Edwina could not prevent the cry of despair that escaped her lips. Of all the men she’d known, Marshall had come closest to winning her heart. He’d made her happy, if only briefly. To have him taken from her so quickly … it was horribly unfair.
Her pride welled forth as she straightened her back and wiped the tears from her eyes. Marie reached for the tabard but Edwina stopped the girl with a quick flick of her wrist. She walked toward the chair, head held high. Without looking, she reached down and threw the tabard over her head. It smelled foul, but she refused to respond to the odor.
She didn’t even glance at Marie as she said, “Take me to him.”
***
Queen Edwina entered the throne room, back straight and head erect. She glanced neither left nor right as she approached the throne, ignoring the whispers of the courtiers to either side. Two guards flanked her, but she didn’t fight or resist, so they were unnecessary. She walked straight towards the throne, eyes locked on her husband.
As she reached the base of the dais upon which the throne was mounted, Edwina knelt and lowered her eyes. She kept her gaze on the bottom step of the dais and waited for him to speak.
She didn’t have to wait long. “Edwina,” he left off her title and didn’t refer to her as his wife, certainly a deliberate snub, “you have been found guilty of treason. You are here to be sentenced by the Senate.”
Pretty words, but she knew that he had already decided her sentence. He was her King and her husband. It was his right by law. He might pretend that the Senate had something to do with it, but she knew the truth.
“Your lover has been executed for his treason. I had thought to sentence you to the same fate.” His voice was cold and unfeeling, typical of the King.
Edwina heard his words and felt a pang of fear. He could do it, order her death. He wouldn’t lose a single night’s sleep over it. But his next words were even more frightening.
“However, I’d rather make an example of you.” Though she dared not glance up, she could hear the sinister smile on his face. “You are to be exiled.”
The gathered crowd gasped, astounded. Exile was an uncommon sentence, used only for the criminally insane. Exile almost always resulted in death, but it was not considered a death sentence. A kinder or crueler way to punish the insane, depending on how you looked at it. It was not a punishment for adultery.
Inside, Edwina was shaking. Outwardly, however, she remained composed and said nothing. She did not even acknowledge his words.
But he wasn’t finished yet. “Your son shall accompany you into exile.”
Her head snapped up and she whispered “No,” as a wave of protest went through the courtiers. To exile a child for the crimes of the mother was unheard of. Hushed voices and raised shouts filled the throne room.
“Silence!” the King commanded, furious at being interrupted.
It took several moments, but the crowd was calmed by the insistent presence of the Royal Guard. When silence reigned, Edwina met Cadfael’s eyes.
“My lord, may I approach?” She kept her voice soft so that he would not hear it waver. At his terse nod she rose and climbed the stairs until she was beside his throne. Edwina knelt once more and placed a trembling hand on Cadfael’s knee. She felt the tension there, the tightly-leashed anger. She must proceed carefully. Her voice was a bare whisper when she finally spoke. “Please, my lord, I made a mistake. I betrayed you. I am guilty as charged. Please do not punish your son for my crimes.”
His eyes narrowed. “Is he my son?”
“I swear he is.” She tightened her grip on his knee. “I will take any oath you require. No one but you shared my bed before Darian was born.” She’d said all she could. It was his decision now.
As his eyes held hers, Edwina could see the doubt, anger, and desire he struggled with. He wanted to believe her, but he was infuriated by the very idea of another man sharing her body. She was his, and no other had the right to touch her. She couldn’t blame him for that. But there was something more in his gaze, something she hadn’t expected. He still wanted her, at his side, in his bed. It was even possible that Cadfael regretted ignoring her since she had conceived their son five years before.
She saw all this in his eyes and couldn’t hate him. She’d loved him once, and such passionate love did not easily turn to true hate. She pitied him, she pitied herself, and wished for a brief moment that she could turn back time.
Then she made a critical error. Her mouth curved in a smile, her eyes softened, and she reached for him. Her hand moved from his knee up towards his face, slowly but surely.
Cadfael’s eyes darkened and his mouth tightened. He stood and moved away from her and Edwina knew she’d gone too far. She should have waited, should have let him make the first move.
But she hadn’t and it was too late now. She lowered her head to hide the despair she knew would be reflected in her brilliant green eyes. She didn’t move when his next words came, harsh and unforgiving.
“You will go from this place immediately, little whore. You will take your son, but nothing else.” He paused while the crowd shifted uncomfortably. “If you return to Scytha, now or at any point in the future, the city guards will be instructed to carry out your execution. Any Republicans who aid you, provide you with food or shelter, will be punished.”
She glanced up, a plea in her eyes.
He ignored it. “I hope you have a skill you can trade for food and lodging.” He smiled cruelly and raked his eyes over her body. “That shouldn’t be a problem for a whore.”
Edwina lowered her head in humiliation. When the guards took her by the arms, she didn’t protest. When they brought her son to her, she cradled him to her chest and walked proudly from the throne room, two guards at her heels.
***
Edwina gathered the tiny baby to her chest and laid back, exhausted. She’d had to deliver her own baby since she would allow none of the villagers to help her for fear of seeing them punished. It had been difficult, but she’d made it through and now had a precious baby girl to love and protect.
“Darian,” she called out as she fluffed the blanket in an effort to get comfortable. She knew he was waiting just beyond the tiny chamber.
The door opened and he slipped into the room, his eyes wide. She knew then that he must have heard her stifled cries and regretted that he had to be subjected to such things. It wasn’t right for a Prince of the Realm to live so.
She held out a hand. “Come, sweetheart. It’s all right. Come and meet your new half-sister.”
The boy moved forward and climbed onto the bed beside his mother. He watched the baby for a moment, smiling at her tiny wrinkled body. He poked at her hand and giggled as she pulled it away from him. “What’s her name?”
“Arianna,” she responded. “After my grandmother.”
Darian was silent for several moments more. Finally, he glanced at this mother. “Now can we go home?”
Edwina head the plea in his voice and forced back the tears. This was a happy day, and the new baby deserved no tears. “Not yet, sweetheart.”
She saw something close to despair in his eyes, something no child should feel. “When?” he all but wailed.
Glancing away, Edwina could only shake her head.
Published in 2011, Arianna's Tale is a full-length fantasy novel with a little romance thrown in for fun. It is the first book in the Imperial Series and introduces the reader to the fantastical world of Vorima as it follows the adventures of Arianna and her companions. Arianna's Tale is available as a trade paperback or as an ebook (in most formats, including Kindle, Kobo, and Nook).
Read on for an excerpt from the book:
She missed her brother. A lot. The village folk had been kind, and had helped her in the days following Darian’s departure, and continued to lend her assistance when asked. But their displeasure with Darian was made very clear, both then and now. He had left her without a male protector, which was nothing short of scandalous, and they made sure she knew how they felt. But they were always so nice to her, and were careful not to outright insult her brother while in her presence, though she was certain they did so behind her back. And she did try to be a healer to the village folk, though she wasn’t very skilled, contrary to what Darian seemed to think. She had worked hard to make a life for herself, to find where she fit in this world.
But … she missed her brother. Sighing, Arianna focused her mind on the original reason for her visit to the beach. Seaweed. She needed more seaweed for several of her herbal recipes, since it seemed every other remedy needed seaweed at some point in its preparation. And since it had to be dried for several days before it could be used, she had better gather at least some now; she had very little left in her stores. She figured she’d gather as much as she could find between the two rivers. She would not attempt to cross either river, not today. She probably wouldn’t need that much seaweed anyway. Besides, the mayor, not wanting to lose the only healer the village had access to, and been very clear in his instructions. She was not to leave the Valley without escort. If she did need to gather herbs from beyond the small inlet, she was to let him know, and he would arrange for a company of village men to go with her. He was her protector, since she had no male family here, and as such, she had no choice but to obey him.
She resented that a little; more than a little when she was honest with herself. Women had no rights, no freedom except that which was granted to them by the men in their lives — father, brother, husband, sometimes a cousin. All women were expected to obey, immediately and without question. She didn’t understand why, but it was the way things were. It made her more uncomfortable to be viewed as inferior, especially when she didn’t feel that way.
Arianna refocused on the seaweed. It could take the better part of the day to accomplish her task, so she needed to hurry. She wanted to be home well before dark, or the mayor might mount a search for her. Putting her errant older brother out of her mind, she began her trek along the beach, picking up any good piece of seaweed she found and adding it to her bag, made of a mesh so that the seaweed could at least start to dry in the breeze. The bag also prevented mold from growing, so she would be sure to have usable seaweed when she returned home.
A candlemark later, having gathered at least some seaweed, though not as much as she had hoped, she spotted something out to sea. It looked like driftwood, probably from a ship of some sort. Another shipwreck out on the rocks, she mused sadly, thinking about the last shipwreck she’d seen. In the past ten years, the number of shipwrecks had increased dramatically. Instead of the usual one per year, they were averaging six. There were eight last year alone, and those were only the ones that washed up on shore. Who knew how many more wrecks there had actually been out in the vast sea. The high number of shipwrecks only indicated one thing, as far as the village folk were concerned: there would eventually be an invasion from the east.
Every villager assumed that the ships came from the Abital Empire. Republic captains knew how to avoid the rocks that dotted the coastline, whereas the Imperial captains were most certainly inexperienced, at least according to what the villagers said. And inexperience spelled disaster on the open sea, and utter devastation along the rocky coast, but that wasn’t the only reason for their suspicions. The driftwood that washed up on shore wasn’t the same as Republican ships used; it was redder and smoother than anything the Yarians had access to. West of the Mountains of Mylara, most woods were a deep brown. The east was a desert, however, so the woods there would be very different from those found here. Combine those two factors, and it certainly spelled an invasion, at least as far as the mayor was concerned.
There had been war with the east for as long as anyone could remember. No one really knew why anymore, at least, no one Arianna knew; the reasons behind the war had disappeared into history. Any overture of peace was rejected out of hand; they knew that much from the yearly dispatches from the capital, Scytha. However, with the Mountains of Mylara separating the two factions, there had been no real movement on either side for over a hundred years; the mountains were just too difficult to cross for a large group, though small raiding parties crossed into the Republic once in a while. The Empire kept slaves, most of those stolen from the Yarian Republic. Since they stole the largest number of these from north of the Ardan River, the King usually ignored these raids.
Perhaps the Empire now thought that they could conquer by the sea. The Empire didn’t have much ocean exposure, but the Republic did. They were a mostly costal nation. It was theoretically possible to capture it with an attack from the sea, but only by experienced captains, captains who could out-sail their Republican counterparts; the Empire didn’t have those kinds of captains, at least to her knowledge. So how they thought to conquer by sea was really beyond comprehension; it just didn’t seem feasible to someone like Arianna. But then, she wasn’t a strategist. She was a simple peasant girl, and happy to be one.
The village elders had contacted Scytha with their concerns, but had been ignored, as was usual. No one from the capital really believed that the Empire would actually mount a sea assault, and even if the idea might have been believed, anyone from north of the Ardan River was mostly ignored by the King anyway. It was just the way the Republic operated, and had for many years now. Now that I think about it, Arianna thought, it seems rather unlikely, foolish, even, that the Empire would try a sea assault against us. It won’t happen, not in my lifetime, at least. Maybe the King is right in ignoring the mayor and his cronies; they are prone to panic. Maybe there really won’t be an invasion.
Arianna’s gaze returned to the piece of driftwood, which was slowly getting closer to the shore, bobbing in the waves. She’d be sure to report the shipwreck to the mayor; he would bring the men out to gather the wood for extra firewood once it reached the shore. The red wood burned very well, and made the homes of the village smell sweet. It was much in demand, and the profit from it would allow the mayor to fund one of the programs he was so enthusiastic about.
The clouds parted for a moment, and the sun reflected off something that wasn’t wood. She looked closer, and could have sworn she saw movement, faint, but definitely there. That alone sent her running into the ocean, lifting her skirts above her knees. If someone was out there, it was her duty, as a healer, to help. She wasn’t going to let a little thing like the ocean stop her from doing her duty.
She was up to her shoulders in water before she reached the man clinging to the small piece of wood as if his life depended upon it. She supposed that it had. He had very dark hair, so black that in this light, it looked almost blue. His skin was not fair like hers, but a deep bronze, as if it had been kissed by the sun for many years. He was strong and muscular, and far from ordinary. No ordinary man would have survived being trapped in the ocean for as long as he must have been there. He must have an extraordinary strength of will. That alone intrigued her.
As she hauled him to the shore, which was made easier by the buoyancy of the water, she decided that he probably wasn’t a sailor. His hands, while calloused, were not nearly rough enough to indicate that he’d spent his whole life aboard ship. His clothes were too fine, and the sword he wore was of a higher quality than any sailor could afford, no matter how successful he might be. No, definitely not a sailor, of that she was certain. Who he might be, she really had no idea, but it didn’t matter. He was hurt, and he needed her help. That was the only thing she needed to know about him, at least for the moment. Later, when he was safe and alive, she’d wonder who he was. Later she would ask questions, begin to wonder who he was and what had brought him here.
Finally on the sandy shore, she quickly looked him over. His breathing was shallow, but he was alive and even moving slightly. She needed to get him back to her cottage, right now, where she could properly tend to his hurts. But she couldn’t do that alone. He was just too heavy for a young woman to lift without any aid. It had been difficult enough to pull him onto shore. She’d never make it back to her cottage while trying to carry him. She was just too small for that.
Making sure he wouldn’t be swept back out to sea while she was gone, she quickly went for help. She knew from the condition of the man that he wouldn’t last long without her care. Arianna wasn’t about to let him die because she was too slow in fetching help.
* * *
Candlemarks later, she finally sat down, purely exhausted. The strange man was resting in her brother’s old bed. He was ill, and still cool to the touch, but alive. She had removed his wet clothing, and started a fire. Though it wasn’t yet cold, she knew the fire would help combat the natural cold his body would be feeling from his time in the ocean waters. He wasn’t shivering, so she wasn’t too worried about his body temperature. It was low, but not dangerously so.
She was most concerned with his breathing. It was still shallow, but she’d forced several different potions down his throat, and placed a warm pack with several herbs on his chest to aid his breathing, and there was nothing more to be done. He’d live or die by his own willpower now. Judging from the little she knew of him, she thought his chances of survival were very good, better than most, in fact. It took an extraordinary will to survive what must have been candlemarks in the frigid sea, perhaps even days. It was the first time anyone had ever washed up alive. There had been some bodies in the past decade, but that was it. No survivors, no one who was even close to alive.
The villagers were already wildly curious about the man. He was tall, and very dark, not like them at all. Everyone around here was small and blond. Occasionally, you would see someone with red hair, but not often, at least not in this part of the Republic. There was a lot of speculation about where this man came from. Some of the village elders were saying that he was from beyond the Mountains of Mylara, which would make him from the Abital Empire. It was common knowledge that anyone with dark hair was Imperial, they claimed. Arianna wasn’t sure of this, but since she had no other information at the moment, she decided to label him, in her mind, as a man from the east.
Exhausted, Arianna decided to go to sleep; she wasn’t sure she could keep her eyes open much longer. Tomorrow would be early enough to deal with all the mysteries this stranger brought to her tiny valley.
