Excerpt From "Initiation and Other Stories Based on the Novel Dragon's Tempest"

For readers looking for a greater understanding of the novel Dragon's Tempest, Initiation might be what you're looking for. A collection of ten new stories, each story gives new insight into the characters of the original novel. Whether it's filling in some details between Arianna's Tale and Dragon's Tempest or continuing the story immediately after the conclusion of the original novel, all the stories found within its pages help enhance the plot of the entire Imperial Series. Initiation is available as a trade paperback or as an ebook (in most formats, including Kindle, Kobo, and Nook).

Read on for "Rising Darkness", one of the ten stories included in Initiation:

A loud crash and the sound of tearing hide filled the air. When Orlean turned, he saw one of the younger dragons with a foot inside a tent, looking confused and out of place. The Sky Lord on its back flushed and mumbled an apology to the distraught tent owners.

Orlean sighed. These young dragons were sometimes more of a hazard than they were worth. They broke things, got in the way, and occasionally stepped on people. And their Sky Lords weren’t any better. Young Kin, hardly out of diapers, did not make the most effective Sky Lords, but they seemed to be the only ones connecting to any of the hatchlings. An older Sky Lord hadn’t been bound to a dragon in more than twenty years.

It was shame, at least in Orlean’s mind. He was of the firm opinion that the younger Sky Lords should train until their thirtieth year before bonding to a dragon. But it wasn’t his decision. Sky Lords bonded to the dragon that matched the tattoo emblazoned on their abdomens. Age had nothing to do with it. If the dragon never hatched, the Sky Lord was never chosen. And a great talent was wasted.

As a gust of wind warned him of the approach of his own bonded dragon, he considered sending the free Sky Lords up into the mountains. There were plenty of wild dragons up there. Perhaps wild dragons could bond to the free Sky Lords and fill the ranks of the Lords once more. This wasn’t the first time he’d has such a thought. But it was the first time he’d seriously considered it.

His dragon thudded to the ground and rumbled over to his side, knocking over a stack of supplies with a long and flexible tail. Orlean flinched but said nothing. It’s not like the dragon could understand him anyway. They were stupid beasts, entirely lacking in basic communication skills. Oh, they were loyal enough, but stupid. Yelling at the poor beast wouldn’t accomplish anything.

Orlean reached out and brushed a hand over grey scales. His dragon wasn’t the prettiest of the Tribes, but the large male was certainly the strongest. And the beast had served him well over the years. As First Sky Lord of the First Tribe, Orlean and his dragon were responsible for patrolling the boundaries of the Wastes and ensuring that their way of life remained pure and untouched. But this was a difficult thing to do as he and his dragon grew older. These young pups just didn’t have the experience to be of any real help.

With those thoughts foremost in his mind, Orlean climbed onto his dragon’s back and urged the beast into the air.

***

The morning flew by as Orlean soared on the back of his dragon. Powerful wings sliced through the air and muscles bunched and coiled beneath his body. Orlean shifted his weight with the thrusts of the dragon to minimize the strain on the beast’s wings. He wasn’t the only one getting older.

As the sun rose overhead, Orlean rotated his shoulders to relieve the tension building there. At just over sixty years old, he wasn’t as young as he used to be. He was just waiting for the day when one Sky Lord was qualified enough to do this job. Then he could retire and spend his days carving dragons out of old bones. A much more respectable thing for an elderly man to do.

They were about to turn back for the day when something caught his eye. There, on the eastern horizon, was a strange form that appeared dark and twisted. At first he thought it was nothing more than a wisp of cloud. But it was moving too fast, and against the wind. No, it wasn’t a cloud.

A shift of his legs and a low clicking sound told his dragon to move toward it. Some instinct told him to turn back, to seek help, but he couldn’t do that until he knew what this thing was. Never one to run from any threat, Orlean and his dragon moved ever forward, ever closer to the wisp of cloud that was no cloud.

They drew closer to the darkness and it grew colder. It never grew cold in the Wastes. With the sun beating down and the mountains to trap the heat, the Wastes were always warm enough to bake a man if he wasn’t careful. The heat could kill, but it was never cold, not here. Despite this well-known fact, Orlean shivered though his thin leather breeches and short tunic.

Closer still and the sun itself seemed to dim. Orlean glanced up, but there were no clouds to block the sun’s rays. It was simply darker than it had been. He’d never seen anything like it, and it filled his heart with a cold dread.

But he still didn’t have anything to report. So on he went, urging his dragon forward. The dragon balked as they continued into the darkness, but Orlean refused to turn back. He couldn’t return to his Tribe with the news that there was a dark cloud in the east. He needed something more concrete. He needed information.

And the only way to get that information was to keep moving forward. So when the dragon balked again, Orlean dug his heels into the soft flesh behind the forelegs of the beast. They were going, trepidation or no trepidation. There was no other option. Not yet.

The air grew thick and it became difficult to breathe. His dragon had to fight to stay airborne. The very air they both inhaled turned into a toxic fume and Sky Lord and dragon slowly drifted downward. Orlean might have tried to keep his dragon in the air, but his head felt heavy. He leaned forward until his forehead rested on the dragon’s powerful neck. His eyes drifted closed as the air turned to black smoke.

***

Molten flame tore up his nose and down his throat, pooling in his lungs. His chest burned for an instant before he coughed and the flames ripped back up his throat, scorching his mouth and nose. Pain consumed him, filled his every sense, until nothing else existed. He vomited and it was like coughing up liquid fire.

It was some time before he heard the sounds. Something scraping against bone. Tearing flesh. A tongue lapping at some unidentified liquid. A moment later he could detect the metallic scent of blood and something more putrid. Someone or something was leaking fluid from the intestines. Maybe the bowels. Orlean panicked, thinking that smell came from his own bowels.

He struggled to move, to search his body for wounds, but his arms were weighed down by something heavy. He pulled against the bonds that held him as his eyes flew open.

The first thing he saw was his dragon. The poor thing was lying on its side, wings twisted at what might have been a painful angle. Except that this dragon would never feel pain again. The dragon’s head was thrown back and Orlean could clearly see the large eyes, dull with death. Those eyes would never shine again.

Orlean tried to rise, tried to go to his dragon, but he was held back. He moved his head from side to side and his eyes widened. Thick chains were wrapped around his wrists. The chains were attached to spikes which had been driven into the hard earth. A quick glance down revealed his ankles similarly bound. He pulled on the chains, but he was well and truly caught.

A low growl came from the dragon and Orlean turned his head, hoping the dragon was alive but knowing it was not. He could sense the emptiness on his belly, knew instinctively that the tattoo had faded as it always did when a Sky Lord’s dragon was killed. The dragon was dead and could not have growled.

But the growl had come from somewhere. Orlean’s breath caught as something large and thin moved behind the dragon’s corpse. A pair of wings, thinner and finer than a dragon’s, rose up from behind the dragon and snapped through the air. A serpentine head appeared and Orlean jumped. It looked like a dragon, but not any dragon he’d ever seen. Its fangs were too long for a dragon and they dripped with what he assumed was poison. Dragons were not poisonous. As it moved around the dragon’s dead body, Orlean noted that its long and thin form, almost like a snake, was as long as a dragon but not half so wide. It had legs, but it moved across the dusty Wastes with powerful thrusts of its snake-like body. The legs ended in sharp claws, so Orlean could only assume they were used for ripping and tearing into enemies in battle.

The thing was covered in blood and gore. Its fangs dripped with it and Orlean realized it had been feasting on the dragon’s flesh. Orlean felt gorge rise in his throat as the thing slithered toward him.

“What do you think of my pet?” came a deep voice from somewhere behind him.

Orlean craned his neck back in an attempt to locate the voice. All he saw was a dark mist. Soon this mist became thick enough to be a cloud. And eventually this cloud became a man. The man was cloaked in black silk, his hair just as dark as the slippery fabric, but it was his eyes that held Orlean’s attention. Those eyes had no whites. They were simply darkness. Or the darkness that darkness fears.

Staring into those eyes, Orlean felt his chest grow tight. As the man moved forward, Orlean couldn’t resist the urge to flinch away. Something about the man with skin as pale as moonlight caused his body to tremble. Orlean closed his eyes and tried to summon some vestige of magick, something to defend himself, but all he felt was emptiness.

“Oh, it’s well and truly gone,” the dark figure said. “Your dragon is dead and with it your magicks. You’re mine now. Whether you live or join your dragon in death is up to me.”

Orlean heard the subtle growl of the creature as it slithered around the dragon’s corpse but he refused to open his eyes. “Who are you?” There might have been better questions but none came immediately to mind.

The hiss of fabric and the brush of silk against his cheek let Orlean know that the man was hunched down beside him. Or perhaps kneeling. “I am Darcet. But you will learn to address me as Master.”

Now Orlean did summon his courage and opened his eyes, gazing into the overwhelming darkness. His heart constricted, but he managed to keep his voice relatively steady. “I am Kin. We have no master.”

A disturbing smile crossed the man’s face. “You will learn.”

***

Orlean squeezed his eyes shut and was rewarded with a blinding pain across his abdomen. His eyes snapped open as the flame withdrew, leaving his body in peace. But his mind … nothing could leave his mind in peace.

He was lying naked on an altar of black stone in a tower of metal and obsidian. Or what appeared to be obsidian. The chains bit into his wrists and ankles, holding him in place. His torso was a mass of cuts, burns, and bruises. All a result of trying to hide, trying to close his eyes against the images he could not escape.

All around the altar were obsidian globes, and each globe glowed with a series of images. The pictures were so clear he might have been watching the events in person. He might as well have been, for the globes channeled both sight and sound.

The visions tore at his heart. He could see dragons and their Sky Lords tangling with what Darcet had called wyverns. The dragons were most assuredly losing. They might be larger and stronger, but they were also slower. And the wyverns had a sly intelligence that the dragons just couldn’t match. The dragons might have magick, magick that was channeled through their Sky Lords, but the wyverns seemed to repel every bit of magick thrown at them. The magic didn’t even touch the serpentine beasts. It was as if any magick was nulled when it came within just a few feet of the writhing wyverns.

Other globes showed images of shamans, those among the Kin who could wield magick without dragons, being slaughtered by the dozens. Their magicks were as ineffective as those the Sky Lords commanded. Orlean could see the tattoos of his own Tribe, the First Tribe, and knew his friends and family would not survive the attack. But it was more than that. The tattoos of other Tribes came to his eyes and he knew that all the Kin were a part of this. This man who controlled the wyverns was destroying all his people, not simply one Tribe.

“Why?” he finally gasped, desperate for an answer.

Darcet’s voice floated through the air. “Why? Why you? Or why them?”

Orlean craned his neck but could see only smoke and mist in the darkened chamber. “Why … us?” he asked the mist.

The darkness grew darker as Darcet took on his man-shape again. He strode forward with a hiss a silk and came to stand beside Orlean’s bound body. “You are Kin.” White hands stroked over Orlean’s sun-kissed flesh as Darcet licked his lips.

“But why?” He tried to ignore the hands that touched him and refused to look at Darcet’s face. The man was too beautiful to be evil, yet evil he certainly was. To look was to lose his mind, and Orlean knew it.

Darcet drew back his lips in a frightening snarl. “You ask that? You who are chosen by the Light, favored by my brilliant sister?”

A gloved hand rose in front of Orlean’s eyes. As that hand grew and twisted, Orlean let out his first real scream.

***

Collapsing back against the stone, Orlean tried to breathe through the pain. But his throat was a bloody mass and his chest was nothing more than a gaping hole. His still-beating heart lay on the cold stone altar somewhere near his feet. Orlean thought that he could still hear it throbbing and beating, echoing through his ears, but he knew it was nothing more than his own vivid imagination.

He hurt, but it was in a detached sort of way. It should hurt more. But then there were the waves of pleasure that tightened his body in ways a man his age rarely experienced. The pleasure distracted him from the pain, gave him something to focus on. Even something to look forward to. Before long he was just waiting for the pain, wishing for the pain, because he knew it would be closely followed by the intense pleasure that would wash over his body and give him sweet relief.

Darcet stood over him, and Orlean knew, he simply knew, that this man’s magick was the source of both the pleasure and the pain. And it was that same magick that kept him alive without a heart to sustain him. At first Orlean let his being fill with hatred, but this hatred faded to mere resentment. Candlemarks passed and even the resentment faded, leaving behind only the purest desire.

As Orlean writhed and gasped, Darcet spoke to him in a soft voice. The tone was as musical as it was soothing. Darcet spoke of the wyverns and how he himself had formed them from the dead bodies of both dragons and a sea serpent called a muradeen. He spoke of his sister, a woman named Crystal, a woman as good as he was evil. He spoke of the dragons that he hated for their brilliant perfection. He spoke of elves, distant ancestors of the Kin and how they could not be corrupted.

Through all these words, Orlean began to understand. Corruption. That’s what this was all about. Corruption and power. Darcet wanted to corrupt the servants of the Light, to turn them into his own minions. But his plans hadn’t seen much success. He’d wanted to corrupt the elves, turn them to his purposes, but the elves simply died. They could not be turned. So Darcet had decided to corrupt those most closely related to elves. The Kin. Part elf, part man, but evolved to their own species, they were as close to elves as you could get without resorting to half-breeds.

And then there were the dragons. For whatever reason, Darcet saw the dragons as a threat. So he’d given his wyverns orders to destroy the dragons at all costs. Those images still played in the dark crystals surrounding the altar, though the images were fewer than they had been. There were fewer and fewer dragons gliding over the Wastes and none survived once they were found by the wyverns. Orlean guessed that in less than two days’ time, all dragons would be gone.

Except perhaps for the wild dragons. They were larger and faster than the bound dragons. Whenever a wyvern came near one, the dragon managed to escape, fleeing into the great Southern Range. But not once did the wild dragons try to fight, try to come to the aid of their bound brethren. They simply fled the Wastes, winging to the north.

Stupid beasts, Orlean thought to himself. He supposed it was too much to expect that the wild dragons might do something to stop this … genocide, Orlean realized. The wyverns were exterminating any dragon they could find. It was genocide. There was no word that better described the extermination of the great beasts.

Another wave of pleasure had Orlean looking away from the globes and into Darcet’s dark eyes. Those eyes seemed to sparkle now, and Orlean shivered. Those unnatural eyes framed by the delicate features of Darcet’s face were terrifying. A hand came into view and danced with black flame. Placing that hand in the gaping hole of Orlean’s chest, Darcet smiled gently.

Black flame glittered and shone from Orlean’s chest and the bound man screamed. His flesh was torn asunder by claws as his bones turned to ash. Air could no longer reach his lungs and his vision was blurred by thick smoke. And though it all he could only wait for the pain to end and the pleasure to begin.

And so it did, but it was different this time. A gentle breeze brought air to his seared lungs as cool water soothed his flesh. He was whole, or as whole as he had been before the flame had danced through his body. Ice was plunged into his chest, but it was so much better than the black flame and its unending pain. He would worship anything that promised such sweet relief.

Darcet chuckled, but Orlean didn’t care. He cared for nothing but the cool peace he felt now. As his vision cleared, he looked down at his own body and could not recognize it. The flesh was charred and blackened, the limbs broken and twisted. The bonds had fallen away but he still did not move.

The hole in his chest was still there, but from it glittered a frightening black light. Orlean glanced at Darcet in confusion.

The man smiled and stroked a gentle hand around the ragged edges of the gaping hole. “Your heart is mine. Your body is mine. Your soul is mine.” Darcet leaned closer and laid a kiss on Orlean’s torn lips. “You will live as I bid. Defy me and …”

Pain ripped through Orlean’s body and a twisted cry came from his lips.

“But serve me well and …”

The pain disappeared, swallowed by the soothing pleasure that tightened Orlean’s body and left him gasping for more. Darcet awaited an answer, but still Orlean hesitated. Until another bolt of pain racked his aching body.

Orlean did the only thing he could. Putting his friends and family from his mind, Orlean rolled toward Darcet and allowed himself to fall from the altar. Once at Darcet’s feet, Orlean forced his twisted body into a kneeling position. His own clawed hands were awkward and gouged the stone beneath his feet. Finally, he bowed his head, putting himself willingly at Darcet’s mercy.

Darcet trailed a hand along Orlean’s jaw, raising the ruined face to better see it. “Will you serve?”

“I will.” Those words came uneasily to his lips, but they did come.

“Will you tame the shamans and Sky Lords?”

“I will.” The answers were coming with greater speed now.

“And will you rule the Wastes in my name?”

“I will.” His hesitation disappeared and with it, the last of what made him Orlean.

A truly happy smile lit Darcet’s face. “Then rise, my dear Rider. Rise and do to some of the others what I have done to you. Build my numbers. Increase my strength. Kill the dragons, convert or sacrifice the Sky Lords and shamans, and rule the Wastes as I would.”

The Rider stood with some difficulty, eventually finding his feet but still keeping his head bowed out of respect. “With pleasure.” And it was no lie.

Darcet laughed again and the sound of shattering glass filled the night air. His body became nothing but smoke and even this eventually drifted off, leaving only his laughter echoing through the dark tower. That and a dark wyvern that coiled and twisted, awaiting the Rider’s orders. The Rider ran a hand over the slick scales and smiled.

Excerpt From "Son's Betrayal", Book 5 of the Imperial Series, by LA Quill

Just released in November of 2014, Son's Betrayal is the fifth and final novel in the fantasy-based Imperial Series. Follow the misadventures of Emperor Damuk's youngest child, Rowan. What starts out as a harmless boyhood crush quickly turns into something much more dangerous. Son's Betrayal is available in trade paperback and as an ebook (in most formats, including Kindle, Kobo, and Nook).

Read on for an excerpt from the book:

Hearing his mother’s voice echoing through the garden, Rowan moved further into the bush. It was dark under the foliage, but enough sun made its way through the leaves to allow him to read well enough. He had to squint, but he could read. He lowered himself further, laying on his belly and bringing his nose closer to the open book. He could hide and read at the same time.

“Rowan!”

He glanced over his shoulder at his feet, making sure his boots wouldn’t be visible from the garden path. Under normal circumstances, he didn’t mind being caught reading, but these weren’t normal circumstances. He was supposed to be studying for his history exam. And since the book in front of him wasn’t his history text, his mother wouldn’t be at all pleased.

“Rowan! Come here this instant!”

She was right on top of him. Taking a deep breath, he hunched a little more, hoping she wouldn’t look in the bushes. Just in case she did, he slid the book under his chest. He wasn’t supposed to have this particular book, and not just because it wasn’t his history text.

He could hear his mother moving about, could even see her bright blond hair through the leaves. He said a quick prayer and blessed his own raven locks. He’d blend right in with the dark undergrowth and would hopefully pass unnoticed. Hopefully…

But then she turned toward him and he knew it wasn’t to be.

“Rowan, come out of that bush right now.”

She didn’t sound happy. Knowing he was well and truly caught, he crept out of the bush, leaving the book behind. He did not want her to see that book.

“What were you doing in there?” his mother asked, arms folded over her chest.

Rowan frowned. Never in all his fourteen years had he had to think so fast. What could he possibly be doing in a bush that didn’t involve reading forbidden books?

“Well?” Her green eyes flashed, revealing her rapidly-retreating patience.

“Nothing.” Swallowing hard, Rowan prayed she would believe him.

She clearly didn’t. “Nothing? You were hiding in a bush, ignoring me for a quarter candlemark, all the while doing absolutely nothing?”

Rowan flushed and looked at his boots. It wasn’t easy, lying to his mother. Even his father couldn’t do it successfully. He swallowed hard.

With a disgusted sigh, his mother dropped to her knees. Rowan went to stop her, but was halted by a slender finger pointed straight at him.

“Don’t,” was all she said.

When he had backed up a step, she reached into the bush and withdrew an ancient and weathered book. A look of horror spread across her face as she turned its pages.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered.

Knowing better than to answer that question, Rowan kept his mouth shut. Neither lie nor truth would help him now. His eyes stayed on his boots and he kept his feet planted. All the while he was searching for a way out of his current predicament and trying to escape the feeling of impending doom that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

His mother scrambled to her feet, book clutched to her chest.

“Myron,” she called. “Myron!”

Rowan turned to see Admiral Myron pause, then head toward them.

“Your Majesty.” He gave her a low bow. “Your Highness.” A smaller bow was given to young Prince Rowan.

“Take my son to his bedchamber and make sure he stays there.” She clutched the book to her chest. “I have to find my husband.”

“Mother—”

“No.” That finger came out again, halting the words he would have spoken in his own defense. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to discuss this with your father. Until then, you will stay where Myron puts you.”

Anger raced up his spine and he had to resist the urge to snap something rude and unflattering at the woman who had given him life. Straightening his back, Rowan stomped away, smacking a bush and kicking a few pebbles along the way.

Myron followed at a brisk pace.

***

Empress Arianna watched as her very-angry youngest son stormed off in the general direction of the palace. She trusted Myron to do as she’d asked, but she still kept a wary eye on Rowan until he was beyond her view. When he was gone, she turned away, green eyes sparkling with frightened tears.

Since she did not want to encounter her son while he was on his way to his bedchamber, she moved through the gardens and around the stables. From there she cut through a small wooded area, emerging onto a marble walk. Turning right, she spotted just the young man she was looking for.

“Payton,” she called, raising her voice so he could hear her.

Payton turned, saw who was calling him, and moved straight toward her.

“Majesty,” he greeted with a low bow. He also took her hand and laid a gentle kiss upon it. Only a few guards enjoyed such a privilege, and he was one of them.

Arianna waved a nervous hand and clutched the book harder. “Where is my husband?”

“In the throne room.” At her startled look, he chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. “I know, I know. He hates it in there just as much as you do. But he’s receiving those elven envoys this morning. Can’t do that in the study. Not properly, anyway, and we do want to impress the elves.”

Nodding her understanding, she let out a frustrated sigh. “Can you quietly inform him that I need to see him at his earliest possible convenience? I don’t want you to interrupt, but get the message to him.”

Her tone set off an alarm in Payton’s head. “His earliest convenient or as soon as possible?” He was her eldest son’s best friend. He knew her too well to be fooled by her attempt at serenity. She was scared and he knew it.

She clutched at the book again, unsure of how to answer Payton’s deliberate question. How urgent was it? Enough to pull her husband away from official business? She’d only rarely interrupted him while he was working, but she’d only rarely been this upset.

Seeing the Empress freeze in indecision, Payton took the liberty of placing one hand at the small of her back. He guided her up the wide marble steps and into the palace. Ignoring the inquiries of a nearby guard, he kept walking, moving directly to the Emperor’s study. He kept his hand on the Empress’s back while he opened the door and ushered her inside.

Closing the door softly behind them, he led her to the long couch against the wall. When she was seated, he walked straight to the sideboard and poured her a glass of sherry.

“Here,” he murmured as he pressed the glass into her hand. “Do you want me to send for Tristan? I don’t think he’s doing anything all that important.” And her eldest son might be of some use right now.

But she shook her head. “Just my husband.”

Payton nodded and left the room.

Left alone, Arianna sipped her sherry in silence. It calmed her nerves but did nothing to assuage her worries. The book in her hand burned, urging her to throw it to the floor, but she clung to it stubbornly. She watched the timing candle on her husband’s desk, silently begging him to appear with each flicker of the flame.

A quarter candlemark had passed before the door swung inward and Damuk, Emperor of the Abital Empire, sailed into the room. He saw his wife’s pale face and tense expression, but that wasn’t what worried him. It was the fear coursing across the bond they shared that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

“What is it?” he demanded as he settled himself beside her and took her into his arms.

By way of an answer, Arianna released her death grip on the book. He caught it before it hit the floor, opened it, and let out a healthy stream of curses.

“Where did you find this?” he growled as he flipped a few pages.

His ire was already aroused, so she didn’t want to answer him right away. “It’s one of yours. It’s marked.”

Damuk checked the inside front cover and saw his seal. It was indeed one of his own books from his own private collection. Again he cursed, this time louder and more fluently.

“This was taken from the cabinet in our chambers.” He let out a sigh as his hands turned the yellowed pages. “From the locked cabinet protected by one of my own spells.”

“Have you lent any out?” Arianna asked, hoping Rowan had come by the tome by honest means. Perhaps he’d found it in the library or in his father’s study.

“Some, mostly to Calinda, but not this one.” Damuk showed her one of the pages. “This one details blood magick. Everything from how to efficiently gut sacrifices to how to weave death spells powerful enough to destroy an army. I only have it because my father had it, and he only had it because it once belonged to his sister.”

Arianna trembled at her memories of Cybil, but she quickly refocused on the problem at hand. “You’re sure this one never left the cabinet?”

“Not in years. And even then it was only to show Tristan what true blood mages are capable of.” He shook his head. “Should have destroyed the damned thing.”

He was so sure that Arianna had no choice but to believe him. Rowan had not found the book lying around the palace or carelessly left out on his father’s desk.

“Where did you find this?” he repeated.

A great sadness filled her. “I caught Rowan with it. He was in the gardens, hiding from me and hoping I wouldn’t notice he was reading one of the few books forbidden to the children.”

Damuk himself was rarely sad; anger was his default emotion. He defaulted to it now.

"Where is he?”

Cuddling closer, she ignored his rising tension. “I had Myron escort him to his bedchamber. And gave him orders to keep our dear youngest son from running off.” She grinned up at him. “I think he gets that from me.”

Clearly not amused, Damuk frowned at her.

She only blinked at him. “You do know that forbidding scowl has no effect on me?”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “What happened to…” There was no point in that particular conversation. “Never mind that. Are you sure Rowan will stay put?”

“If he knows what’s good for him.” She stroked a finger over the forbidden book. “How did he get it?”

Not having an answer quite yet, Damuk rose and took her hand. “Come.”

Arianna walked beside her husband, thoughts consumed by the book he carried. That book detailed magicks only the foulest of blood mages would dare touch. The very idea that her youngest son might have some interest in such things tore at her heart. The only blood magick she’d ever known had been wielded by her husband’s aunt, and that woman had tried to kill her. Oh, first she’d have used her as an incubator, but Cybil had wanted her dead. And now her own youngest son…

“Stop thinking about it,” Damuk whispered.

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” she snapped back. “Are you invading my thoughts?” As a mage, he was fully capable of doing so.

He’d have been offended if her arm hadn’t been shaking. “I would never,” he replied evenly. “But after thirty years, I think I know you well enough to guess at your thoughts.”

“And what are my thoughts?”

He dropped a kissed on her temple as he opened the door that led to their chambers. “You’re thinking about Cybil, about those things that still give you nightmares.”

Not wanting to talk about it, she strode into the outer chamber and moved to sit before the expansive fireplace nearest the windows. It was unlit, but since it was still warm in the chamber, she was grateful. Crown City was always too warm during the day. Kicking off her slippers, she waited for her husband to join her.

Damuk glanced from his trembling wife to the cabinet behind the large desk that graced one end of the outer chamber. Eventually he tossed the book on the desk, pulled a blanket from a nearby chair, and went to sit by his wife. She was stressed, and it wasn’t just about the book or the trouble they’d been having with Rowan. Their daughter-in-law was pregnant with her fourth child, their daughter was pregnant with her seventh, and neither one was having an easy time of it. As a skilled healer, his wife had been caring for them both. She was justifiably tired.

She was so tired that when he sat beside her, she curled up against him, closed her eyes, and promptly fell asleep. When he was sure she wouldn’t wake, he lifted her in his arms, kicked open the door to their comfortable bedchamber, and laid her on the bed with the greatest care. She turned on her side and he took the opportunity to loosen the laces of her gown. When she didn’t move, he realized she wouldn’t wake until at least evening. It was possible she would sleep until morning. He drew a blanket over her and dropped a kiss on her cheek.

Chuckling to himself, Damuk moved back to the outer chamber, closing the door softly behind him. He was sixty years old and he was still carrying his wife to bed. At least she was willing now. That thought made him laugh outright.

He spotted the book on the desk and all thoughts of laughter fled. He’d almost forgotten about it. He’d almost forgotten about Rowan and his most recent transgression. With a heavy sigh he moved toward the cabinet. In here was where he kept all the most forbidden material. Some of the more innocuous texts were kept in his study for any of his children to read, but the book his wife had brought him was far from innocuous. It belonged in the cabinet in his private chambers.

Calling a spark of magick to his hand, he touched the lock. He knew immediately it had been tampered with, and that it was Rowan who had done the tampering. Impressed, Damuk ran his hands over the locks. Rowan was a mage, but not a powerful one. For him to get past Damuk’s simple protection spell… he shook his head at the direction his thoughts had taken. He should be furious, not impressed.

He flung the cabinet doors wide and ran his fingers over the books within, studying the titles and counting tomes. Only Advanced Blood Magick was missing, and that one was lying on his desk at the moment. When he was sure all the other books were exactly where he’d left them, he exerted his magick once again. There was a hidden drawer he just had to inspect, so he magicked it into its open position. He slid the drawer out and reached inside.

It was immediately apparent that a few things were missing. The most obvious was his aunt’s ritual dagger. It had been used for more sacrifices than he cared to count. For many years, he had thought she didn’t have a dagger, but eventually her spells had faded. Most spells faded with the caster’s death, and hers were no exception. When hers had gone, he’d found the dagger hidden in a wall. As soon as he’d found it, he’d placed it in this drawer and there it had remained. Until now.

There were other items missing as well. A few candles. An amulet. Three charms he probably should have destroyed. A deck of cards that weren’t actually magickal but his wife swore were cursed. The only other thing missing was a piece of rock Damuk had found attached to his youngest daughter’s shift four years ago. Why would Rowan take that? He didn’t know of its existence. His daughter Calinda didn’t know about it. Even his wife didn’t know about it.

Frowning heavily, Damuk closed the drawer, shut the cabinet, and took a seat at his desk.

He picked up the book and started to turn the pages. He examined each page, trying to determine which pages Rowan might have been reading. Knowing where Rowan’s interest had been focused would tell him how to react when he eventually confronted his youngest child.

A knock on the door interrupted him.

‘Father?’ came his eldest son’s respectful mind voice.

‘Come,’ Damuk responded, trying not to sound annoyed.

The door eased open and Tristan stuck his head in. “Am I interrupting?”

Damuk shook his head and waved his son forward. When Tristan was nearly at the desk, Damuk kicked out the chair nearest him, indicating that Tristan should sit beside him instead of across from him. Tristan obliged.

“Where’s Mother?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Asleep.” Damuk scowled at his son. “Leave her be. Between Marella and Jewel, she’s exhausted.”

“Jewel’s really not feeling well,” Tristan complained. “She really could use Mother’s help.”

The book shut with an audible snap. “Why don’t you try looking after your wife yourself for an afternoon? And tell William to do the same.”

Tristan shrugged. “I’m not very nurturing. And William just stands there wringing his hands.”

“Can neither of you take care of your women?”

“Talk to him.” Tristan was more than a little defensive. “He’s the one with four daughters he can’t control.”

Damuk raised a dark eyebrow. “And yet it was your daughter who broke three lamps and a mirror in my study just the other day.”

Tristan laughed. “Yeah, but she can get away with it.”

“She does look remarkably like your mother.” Which explained why he hadn’t cared about the mirror. He couldn’t stay angry with Ally any more than he could stay angry with his wife. “Still, you’d be well advised to marry her off as soon as possible.”

“She’s five.”

Shrugging, Damuk fingered the book. His mind immediately turned back to Rowan.

Tristan studied his father for a moment before leaning forward. “What is it?” When his father only looked at him, Tristan frowned and ran a hand through his raven hair. “Something is bothering you, and I don’t think it’s Ally and the broken mirror.”

Without another word, Damuk pushed the book toward his son. He watched Tristan’s green eyes widen as he flipped through the ancient tome. Finally, Tristan looked up.

“Did you just take this out?”

Damuk shook his head. “Your mother caught Rowan with it. He was hiding in the gardens.”

Green eyes blinked at him. “He took it from the cabinet?”

“I was just as surprised. He shouldn’t have been able to get around my enchantments.” The idea that his son might already be practicing blood magick was a chilling one.

Tristan put the book back on the desk and wiped his hands on his breeches as if he felt unclean. “I will say this. If any one of us would turn to blood magick, it would be Rowan.”

The Emperor’s blue eyes flashed. “I would have thought Calinda.”

But Tristan shook his head. “Callie only used blood magick to save herself, and she never spilled the blood of another. She might be attracted to blood magick, but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to actually hurt someone.”

“And Rowan?” Damuk knew his eldest son could be amazingly insightful when it came to his siblings.

“Rowan is a worry.” He tried to put his feelings into words that made sense. “Rowan is the jealous type. He resents the fact that he’s not as powerful as Callie or even me. He wants power, and his morals are a little questionable right now.”

“Because he’s an adolescent.” Damuk sighed and leaned back. “And adolescents want what they want, and they want it now.”

Tristan nodded. “And right now, he wants power. Blood magick might be the only solution he can see.”

None of that made Damuk feel any better. 

Excerpt from Mage's Rebellion, Book 4 of the Imperial Series, by LA Quill

Just released in December of 2013, Mage's Rebellion is a full-length novel and the fourth book of the popular Imperial Series. Written for all the fans who thought I didn't have enough strong female characters, this story follows the adventures of Emperor Damuk's youngest daughter Calinda. What starts out as an attempt to prove she's more than a marriage prize quickly turns into something darker. Mage's Rebellion 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:

The wind whipped through her midnight hair, blowing it out behind her like a dark nimbus. Her hands gripped the thick leather reins as she leaned forward and rocked her hips in time with the horse’s powerful movements. The sun kissed her face, warming her cheeks and bringing a smile to her face. A sense of bliss filled her as she gave the horse its head and they all but flew across the desert.

Calinda glanced over her shoulder at her companion. He was keeping pace with her, which was unusual. Most people, no matter how much time they spent in the saddle, simply did not ride as well as she did. But this man wasn’t typical, so she should not be surprised that he could keep up when very few others could. He was one of the most skilled warriors the Empire had ever produced. Currently, he was second only to her father.

Thoughts of her father were like a black cloud settling around her, so Calinda turned her face back to the sun. Its warmth was more than physical. It filled her very being as they raced across the desert. Her horse, a beautiful black mare given to her by her parents, thundered over the sand, never putting a foot wrong. With Sesi moving between her thighs, Calinda had no need to watch the path ahead. She could just give herself up to the brightness of the day and the serenity of the desert.

Finally, after galloping for what felt like the better part of a day, Calinda drew to a halt. The other horse came up beside her and Calinda smiled saucily at its rider. She had a plan, and this man was a part of that plan. If only he would cooperate…

“Don’t give me that look,” Payton drawled, determined not to be taken in by Callie’s bright smile and dancing eyes. “A ride. That’s it. That’s what you told your brother and that’s what we’re going to do.”

Calinda dismounted and laughed. “Why do you think I didn’t tell my father we were going for a ride?” His look of confusion had her laughing harder. “Because he’d have seen through the lie.”

“Get back on the horse, Your Highness.” She was his best friend’s sister, and he usually didn’t bother with the title, but he was trying not to strangle her. A little formality would help remind him that she was royalty. And Royal Guards did not strangle royalty. Usually.

“I’m not getting on. You’re getting off.” Her hand glowed a soft purple and she snapped a tiny bolt of energy through the air. Her magicks were powerful, but she also had more control than most mages her age. At eighteen, she could destroy a building or light a candle. It was all a matter of degrees.

She hadn’t hit Payton that hard, but he still went flying off his horse. Landing on his ass in the sand, Payton groaned. The sound made her smile as she skipped across the sand to his side. He didn’t stand, but he did rise up on his elbows to glare at her. Calinda flopped down on the ground beside him, trying not to laugh at his plight.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Payton complained. Then his eyes widened as Calinda began to unlace her gown. “Don’t do that!”

“Oh, relax.” She continued to work the laces. “It’s not like I’m naked underneath.” The gown slid down to her hips and Calinda rolled onto her back, kicking her feet in the air to throw the silk gown across the sand.

Payton’s eyes widened, though he was not surprised. Clad in black leather breeches and a grey leather tunic, Calinda reclined on the sandy ground. Her riding boots matched the breeches and she pulled a pair of grey gloves out of the belt that cinched her waist. Once the gloves encased her slim hands, the young princess jumped to her feet and struck a casual pose.

“How many blades are you carrying?” There was a twinkle in her eyes as she looked down at him.

Crawling slowly to his feet, Payton just shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. We’re not doing this.” If he didn’t keep some control of this situation, it was going to spiral out of control.

“We’ve done it before,” she reminded him with a slight singsong to her voice. “What makes today any different?”

Payton threw his hands up in the air. “It’s different because last time Tristan caught us. Your brother might have thought that it was a big joke, but he did promise to tell your father next time. And I, for one, do not want to have to deal with Emperor Damuk when he’s in protective father mode.” Just the thought made him shiver.

“Where is your sense of adventure? It’s not like I’m asking you to sleep with me.” She stubbornly planted her feet in the sand and stared up at him, willing him to obey her wishes.

“What happened to the sweet young girl we used to know?” he retorted, more than a little appalled by her words. Ladies did not discuss such things. Ever.

To that question she had a ready answer. “Squashed by my father.”

“That’s not fair. Your father is a good man.” One of the few things he was proud of was his loyalty to the Emperor. He couldn’t let anyone besmirch the man, even if that anyone was his youngest daughter.

“It’s fair enough.” Realizing that Payton wouldn’t respond to demands, she changed her tactics. “Please, Pay. How am I ever supposed to prove myself if you don’t help me learn?” She put her hands on his chest and smiled sweetly up at him. Few men could resist that smile.

And Payton wasn’t one of them. “Fine.” He rolled his eyes as he drew the sword at his hip. He tossed it to her and noticed the ease with which she caught it. “But only for a candlemark. Then we go back before we get caught.” The sword across his back made a hissing sound as he pulled it free and twirled it in his right hand.

Calinda flexed her calves, stretched her shoulders, and made sure her grip on the sword was secure. Then she waited for him to come at her, anticipation rushing through her. 

***

“I don’t know. I think William can handle it.” Tristan pushed his jet-black hair out of his eyes as he reined in his horse. This one was young and jumpy and not fully gentled yet. It took all his concentration to keep the steed under control.

Damuk glanced at his eldest son out of the corner of his eye. “It’s far too much for a former thief to take on.” Tristan might be Crown Prince, Commander in Chief of the Imperial army, and a father in his own right, but the young man was still naïve in many ways.

Since he was quite fond of Marella’s husband, Tristan might have defended his brother-in-law. But he saw his father’s concentration drift and immediately came alert. “What?”

The Emperor pierced his son with his icy blue gaze. “Why is your sister outside the city?”

He couldn’t outright lie to those eyes. “She wanted to go for a ride. Payton took her. They… might be around here.”

“That wasn’t what you were going to say.” Something was happening with Calinda and he was quite sure he wasn’t going to like it. For just a moment he considered using his magick to look into Tristan’s mind, but ultimately dismissed the idea. He was too moral a man to invade his son’s thoughts, but it was a near thing. Especially when it concerned his youngest daughter. His errant youngest daughter.

Tristan wanted to tell him. He didn’t exactly approve of what Calinda was doing, even if all she was doing was wandering outside the city without their father’s permission. He suspected there was much more to it, and he should immediately tell his father. But she was his sister and he’d promised he would say nothing unless he caught her a second time. Finally he said only, “I can’t tell you. But we could… wander in that direction.”

Damuk raised an eyebrow. “You want me to find her.” It was a statement, not a question. But Tristan nodded, encouraging Damuk to guide his horse toward his youngest daughter’s aura. He shielded his own aura, and that of his son, so that Calinda would not sense their approach.

But Calinda was more than a mage. She had excellent hearing. So he held his steed to a fast walk in an effort to muffle the hoof beats. Phoenix moved like a ghost, hardly disturbing the sand as he walked. The roan was young, barely two years old, but he’d proven himself in battle more than once. It was unusual to see the Emperor mounted on a horse that wasn’t black, but Phoenix was singularly intelligent, loyal, and steadfast. Besides, the horse had been a gift from his wife. He’d have ridden the roan if the beast had been a ragged nag. He was only glad the beast had proven to be so much more. His wife had excellent taste.

Tristan came up beside him and Damuk held up a hand. His son slowed his pace and together they moved in silence. The sound of swords clashing echoed through the air and Damuk reached for his sword. But Tristan shook his head and Damuk eased the blade back into its sheath. His son might be naïve, but he knew his little sister. Possibly better than her own parents did.

They crested the sand dune a moment later and Damuk’s eyes widened. There was his youngest daughter, but she wasn’t going for a scenic ride through the desert. No, she was grasping a sword and sparring with Payton. More than that, she was dressed in leather and scrambling across the sand like a trainee. And she was not a trainee.

Anger darted through him at her blatant disobedience. Weeks ago, when she’d asked if she could join the guard, he’d clearly refused to entertain the idea. Women did not wield weapons, especially not women in his family, with the sole exception of his daughter-in-law. There had never been a woman in the guard, and his daughter would not be the first.

And yet here she was, scuttling around in the sand. He urged Phoenix forward, no longer caring if the pair heard him. And hear him they did, for they sprang apart as if they’d been burned. When Payton caught sight of both the Emperor and the Crown Prince, he stood immediately at attention but said nothing. He did, however, drop his sword in the sand.

Calinda also stood, but she was slower about it and she didn’t drop the sword she held. Instead, she stood glaring at her father, defiant and angry. But Damuk could tell that she was also uncertain and afraid. Good, he thought to himself, let her fear what I will do. He was angry enough to beat her, but this wasn’t the time or the place. He’d never struck one of his children in anger. It was his belief that if he was going to strike one of them, it would be only for discipline. And discipline and anger were never a good pair. No, discipline could wait. After he got her back to Crown City and had managed to control his burning rage.

But his anger was fresh and ready for a target. It found one in Payton. “Tristan,” he said over his shoulder, “Take your friend into custody.” His voice was quiet and controlled, almost calm. But anyone who knew him would also know this was when he was at his most dangerous.

Tristan shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “On what charge?” He and Payton had been friends for almost twenty years, since they were just six years old. They’d been through a lot together, nearly died together. Arresting him just didn’t seem right. Especially when he’d not really done anything to deserve it.

“Treason. Lock him up.” His gaze shifted to his daughter, still so defiant. “And you will get on that horse and accompany me to Crown City.”

“I will not!” she snapped, clearly not willing to give in.

Damuk dismounted in one quick motion and advanced on her. He stopped when he saw her gown lying in the sand. It was the yellow silk riding habit that looked so stunning against her black hair and sun-kissed skin. Her mother had bought it on the other side of the mountains, deep in the Yarian Republic. And Calinda had just thrown it in the sand like a piece of trash. He picked it up and flung it toward her.

“Put it on!” Instead of waiting to see if she complied, he strode over to her horse. Sesi was high-strung and pulled away from him, but Damuk simply grabbed the reins and tied them to the pommel of Phoenix’s saddle. The roan would keep the mare in line. When he glanced over his shoulder, Calinda was clutching the gown to her chest. A single raised eyebrow had her scrambling to pull the yellow silk over her head.

When she’d tied the laces, he grabbed her elbow and almost tossed her on her horse. He considered having her ride pillion behind him, but he wasn’t entirely certain he wouldn’t throttle her if she was that close. Calinda opened her mouth to say something, but a sharp look silenced her. He wasn’t in the mood for her excuses.

Remounting Phoenix, Damuk shifted his gaze to Tristan. “I’ll see you back in Crown City. After I’ve dealt with your sister.” He didn’t so much as glance at Payton.

Tristan just nodded and watched as the pair rode off toward the capital. As they disappeared over the nearest sand dune, he urged his own horse closer to Payton. “That was stupid, Pay.”

“She said she just wanted to go for a ride,” he protested. “How was I to know she’d pull this again?”

“You could have refused. She can’t be doing this.” Tristan ran a frustrated hand through his hair, looking and sounding remarkably like his father in that moment.

Payton moved to pick up both swords. “Why can’t she? Your wife isn’t exactly the prim and proper lady.”

In that, Payton was certainly correct. Jewel, Tristan’s wife, wore breeches more often than not, had her hair cut short, and carried several small blades at all times. Still, Tristan shook his head. “Jewel is Kin. She was born and bred to be… well, not a lady. Callie is a lady and should act that way.”

“All she wants to do is serve in the guard.” Sheathing both swords, he gathered his own horse. “You’d let Jewel serve if she asked.”

“I would not,” Tristan said sharply. “Women don’t serve in the guard. Doesn’t matter who they are.” He firmly believed that. Women and men just… shouldn’t serve together. At all.

“But she’s good, Trist,” Payton insisted as he mounted his horse. “She moves like… well, like your father. She could maybe be as good as he is with a little training. She could certainly be as good as you are.”

“It doesn’t matter. And now she’s going to pay for your serious lack of judgment.” He set off toward Crown City, Payton slowly following behind him. After several long moments of silence, Tristan glanced over his shoulder. “She’s really that good?”

Payton just nodded, thoughts elsewhere. “Are you going to arrest me?”

Tristan snorted. “Of course not. But do yourself a favor and stay out of my father’s line of sight for a few days. Give him time to cool down.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Payton had already decided that it was better if he and Emperor Damuk didn’t cross paths for a while.

Silence reigned until Tristan quipped, “It was still stupid.”

Payton had to agree.