Thoughts on a first Mother’s Day

As those of you on the mailing list know, this is my first Mother’s Day. At the end of last year, my husband and I welcomed our first little one, who has proceeded to upend our lives ever since.

One thing that was immediately apparent to me was how the perspective of my writing shifted. Some of it was subtle – a focus on guidance and mentorship. Some of it was less so, such as parental perspectives in stories I was working on. Without my own little one, I doubt those pieces of the stories would ever have occurred to me to write.

What has been surprising, I think, is how little I feel like a mother – or, perhaps, how little my expectations of motherhood have lined up with reality. I said to my husband a few weeks ago that I feel more like I imagine a big sister would feel: loving the hell out of Sprog* and being so proud of each developmental accomplishment, but not feeling like “mom” yet. Today, as I watch the series of posts about people being proud to be mothers, I still don’t quite feel it.

I think what I haven’t understood was this: I’m not proud to be Sprog’s mother, as such, because I don’t feel any ownership of this process. That’s not a “Jesus Take the Wheel” sentiment (one of my least favorite songs, but that’s definitely a rant for another time), but instead a very joyful expression of the fact that I see how much this process is not mine at all. Much like a gardener, I can water, I can guide, I can prune, but I cannot do the growing. I do not create the beauty of the garden, I simply enable it. I am a resource.

I have never before experienced a love that is so rooted in letting go. As my child learns to sit up, to watch the world, each little step away is part of an adventure. I am a haven for him. Someday soon he will be crawling away from me, and it will be profoundly Good (then it will be walking, and running, and biking, and evenings out at movies, and dates, and college, and….).

Perhaps those are the wrong type of thoughts for today, because Mother’s Day is, after all, about mothers. Nevertheless, these are the thoughts I have about motherhood: that it is stewardship, not any sort of ownership; that it lies in the launching forth and not in the holding. That I can watch and I can pray and I can encourage, but in the end, there is no control I have over this process, only help I can offer.

I would never have expected that feeling to be as wonderful as it is. It is a blessing, as is my son.

So I am wishing you all a very happy Mothers Day today: to the mothers of birth or choice (or both). To those who have had a hand in raising children. To the fathers, as well, as my blogging record isn’t fantastic and I don’t want to miss you all in a month or so! May today be a wonderful day for all of you.


* Not his actual name, I promise you

Happy N7 Day

A note for my readers – November 7 is known as N7 day, an informal celebration of the Mass Effect series (N7 being the name of the elite military unit the main character of the series is part of). So, today, I want to share another example of how important stories can be, and what they can mean.



We never know which stories are going to catch us sideways. I had known the sort of stories video games could spin, but I hadn’t realized how important those stories would be to me.

And … I wasn’t very good at Mass Effect. Journey was the first console game I ever played, but that was just running and hopping. Mass Effect needed a bit more from me, and I spent an absurd amount of the early game getting stuck in corners, getting lost in the spaceship, and barely staying alive on easy mode. Timed missions filled me with anxiety. I got characters confused. I didn’t know to upgrade my equipment.

None of that mattered as I got farther into the story.

I got to be Jane Shepard: war hero, respected, by turns brash and uncertain. I got a taste of what it was to have everyone watching, and know that however unfair it was, the other races in the game were going to judge all of humanity by my actions. I was plunged into a world far bigger than I was, was accused of interfering where I didn’t belong, and took all the help I could get. I learned about my crew members’ families. I sacrifice friends and saved enemies. I watched people consumed by the same forces that stalked me and my crew.

I’ve remarked before that I find it amusing how differently people respond when I say I’m off to read a book … or play a video game.

Books tell us stories and force us to build worlds in our head, put ourselves in others’ shoes. Video games force us to make choices and live with the consequences.


Video games are important. In an increasingly polarized world, games us allow the privacy to explore our morality and find our limits. They show us what kindness can build, and how even the most well-meaning choices can go horribly wrong. They show us the impossibility of living a full life without annoying someone, and they show us the importance of drawing boundaries.

I, almost paralyzed by my fear of conflict, learned that I could say angry things and the world wouldn’t come apart at the seams. Was I ever going to find myself in a back alley med clinic on a millennia-old alien space station, yelling for a mercenary to release hostages? No, of course not. But video games weren’t teaching me how to deal just with the exact situations I found there, any more than books were. They were teaching me about justice, about putting myself out there when it was important.

In Mass Effect 1, I learned not to back down when everyone though I was jumping at shadows. In Mass Effect 2, I learned that I could still do the right thing even when everyone who had stood by me disappeared – and that other people, people I might never expect, would step up. In Mass Effect 3, I learned the petty depths people would sink to even when there were vastly more pressing problems, and I learned that sometimes things go so wrong that there’s no getting out of them without sacrifice. (I also learned that I’d probably make a terrible leader during a protracted apocalypse.)

Games are important, because stories are important – but more than that, because games force us to be active participants in the story. If your friends are playing video games, if your children are playing video games, take a moment before shaking your head and rolling your eyes. I’m reminded of a post I saw on social media, about a woman who had written a college paper about Mass Effect. Her English teacher came in the next week, clearly low on sleep, raving about the games. He was in his sixties, and had never played a video game before in his life. He could see, after trying his hand at it, that games were another form of storytelling: like song, like books, like movies.

Happy N7 day. May you always find the stories you need, and may they open horizons beyond your wildest imaginings.


Character Post: Daughter of Ashes

Dear Readers –

I’ve edited this post as Daughter of Ashes is now out on Amazon!

(If you read on another platform, please contact me – the choice between Amazon-exclusive and wide distribution is complex, and hearing from you helps me choose!)


With release day fast approaching (!), I thought I would give you a peek into the characters of Daughter of Ashes.

If you haven’t gotten to Instafreebie for your sneak peek yet, head on over! You’ll get the first 3 chapters, and also get signed up to hear when the book is live on Amazon!

So, without further ado …



Aesthetic Board for AlmericElder brother. Protector. Warrior. Noble. Orphan. Only ten years old when his parents were killed, Almeric survived from sheer instinct, driven by honor and love to protect his little sister.

It was Alleyne who had the vision of what they might accomplish – but Almeric who helped that dream become reality. Training his little sister in swordplay and knife fighting, teaching her what history and languages he remembered from their former life, making ends meet and keeping a roof over their head, Almeric did everything necessary to give Alleyne a fighting chance.

Only, when she gets one, it’s in a way neither of them intended or anticipated, and now Almeric faces the greatest test: stepping back, and letting Alleyne operate alone.



margery-aestheticServant. Merchant. Daughter. Spy. As a child, Margery traveled the length of the Nahida River on her family’s barge, learning the true power and scope of trade between allies and enemies alike. At the age of twelve, she left her family to serve in the Imperial Palace, and a new world opened up to her: one of unbelievable wealth, ancient privilege … and deadly secrets.

Margery has spent the past years serving a hard apprenticeship. Overlooked and used by turns, she has learned to keep her eyes open and her mouth shut, and she has learned, too, to mark what she sees. Why, she is not entirely certain – until at last she finds the woman who might make use of such knowledge.

The woman who might one day become Empress.



darion-collageMurder. Emperor. Monster. Scholar. Darion inherited his father’s throne at fifteen, and stepped from the shadows of his uncle’s regency six years later. At seventeen, he made the choice that put a mark on his head. But now …

Who is Aiqasal’s emperor?

Unwed, learned, rebellious, and deadly, Darion is about to meet his match in Alleyne – and she in him.


The City

aiqasal-city-aestheticBuilt on the ruins of empires, Aiqasal has become the fabled City of Three Walls. Within, it is a city of surpassing beauty, rich on the fruits of the empire’s fields, seas, and rivers.

Beyond the walls, however … there, the city truly begins. Unfettered trade along the Nahida brings as many whispers as bolts of silk and strings of beads, and a young woman might grow up wild, knowing her blood and yet a child of dust and ash as well.

It is a city wild and untamed – and yet fiercely kind, for it is the city beyond the wall that sheltered a child defenseless and alone. And it is this city that she would give anything to protect.



alleyne-aestheticOnce a child of the court, Alleyne left everything behind when she made her choice: she would be an assassin and nothing else. By day she works at the docks, overhearing whispers and learning the heartbeat of the city that is her true home. She watches the sun set over the Nahida, and she dreams of the day that she will put a knife in Darion’s chest and rid Aiqasal of a murderer.

She is no courtier – and yet, she must play the part, for the perfect chance has presented itself at last, and she cannot deny destiny’s call.

But in a world of jewels and secrets, cut off from her brother and the city she so loves, will Alleyne lose herself entirely … or find a greater calling than she ever dreamed possible?


Intrigued? You can pick up Daughter of Ashes here!

Happy reading! -M



Process Post: Daughter of Ashes

Dear Readers,

I haven’t ever shared one of these posts before, but Daughter of Ashes has been an important book for me in many ways, and I’d like to give you a peek into the process of creating it, from the impetus and inspiration behind it, to the guts of how it got written. I hope you enjoy!




Aesthetic Board for Almeric

Daughter of Ashes came to me at a time when I had just faced one of the most gut-wrenching realizations of my life: I no longer took joy in writing. I am not sure anyone else will understand the terror this provoked. Disappointment, perhaps. Disillusionment. We’ve all had low points, after all. But this wasn’t that. This was like realizing that I could no longer breathe.

I’ve been becoming gradually more and more open about the fact that I struggle with depression, and there have been times in my life when the simple act of existence was so energy consuming that all I could do was drift from one moment to the next, exhausted not only by being, but by the terrible fear that life was always going to be this way, and that it was always going to be this hard. There were times when I was so afraid, so trapped and powerless, that I remember willing myself away to fantasy worlds I had read of and played games in because that was the only way I knew how to survive.

Stories of faraway lands and epic struggles kept me going. I could imagine I had as much courage as Alanna, or as much humor as Morwen, or as much stubborn grit as Shepard. I dreamed myself in Tanaris and Azuremyst, Endor, Terre d’Ange …

And I no longer loved the stories I was writing.

So there I was, sobbing at my computer. As one does. The weird thing was, I was fine.




I really mean it. It was like admitting the one reality I’d been so afraid to face, that my own lifeline was now dragging me under, allowed me to change things entirely.

I began to play. I temporarily set aside Battlemage, a series I had imbued with the (quite possibly contradictory) needs of being a seminal work of epic fantasy, a literary masterpiece, and bestseller material. I knew I wasn’t quite ready to start ramping down expectations on a series I’d spent so much time on, and so I allowed myself to go rogue and break the rules, haring off after a rogue idea that had appeared in the back of my mind.

(Now, ordinarily it makes sense not to go haring off after those ideas. They tend to appear, delightful and seductive, right around the time you reach the messy guts of a manuscript and don’t know which way to turn. Keep following those side projects and you’ll never finish anything. But clearly, the rules weren’t getting me anywhere.)

I realized that I had to re-learn how to play.




What did it mean to play?

It meant that my usual blow-by-blow chapter outlines went out the window. In fact, it meant that my usual full outline went out the window. At one point, I was looking at this in my word document:


It meant that I tossed out my usual word count guidelines. I had goals for each chapter, and however long it took me to get there, that was how long the chapter would be.

It meant that I allowed myself to linger on the scents and images of a scene, sinking into the world until I felt as if I were truly a part of it.

It meant that if I got to a scene I’d been envisioning and I no longer felt that it fit, I allowed myself to go with my instincts, telling myself that the worst thing that could happen was that I would lose 30 minutes or so. I never did.

It was a first draft, and I allowed it to be messy. (And lest you think this produced a work of stunning perfection, let me set the record straight right now: it was unbalanced. Characters changed names halfway through. Character motivations got complicated, pieces of court intrigue went suddenly sideways and conversations from earlier in the book didn’t quite work yet. It was extraordinarily messy.)

But I wrote it with a feverish intensity. I didn’t take my computer with me on a family vacation, remembering long nights spent typing after the family had gone to sleep and trying to enjoy vacation activities while sleep deprived, but I was writing anyway. I’d brought a notebook and my husband would come into our room to find me scribbling away at whole chapters. I wrote 16,000 words of the course of a four day vacation – about 20% of the book.

(I really enjoy writing longhand. It seems to unstick me from writers block, and I get a built-in round of editing as I type in what I wrote. I will say, however, that 16,000 words is a lot to transcribe. A lot. I don’t want to do that in one chunk ever again.)



Of course, it had to be edited, but whereas before I would have begun with a rigid outline and tried to smash scenes in exactly to the word count that would allow for a balanced 3 act structure with pinch points, a midpoint, and well-paced character revelations, this time I stepped back and allowed the existing manuscript to be my guide.

I really wanted to show you a picture of my notes for this, because the process was fairly cool, except that most of them contain spoilers, so … yeah. Maybe I’ll update this post at some point. Suffice to say, I went along with many pretty colored pens and a looooong sheet of paper (okay, lots of printer paper taped together) and listed each scene: the characters in it, where it happened, what happened, and what I thought needed to be fixed. Issues appeared in my head without prompting – there, I’d missed a plot point in discussion; there, I’d written a scene before I had a good handle on the character, and a lot of mannerisms needed to be changed; there, I really needed a lull between two action chapters.

It was a mountain of work, but by now the idea of play had taken hold. I swung into edits with a mood that was about halfway between cheery and completely #$%*ing obsessed. It was like untangling old lace. I couldn’t stop. “Are you working late tonight?” my husband would ask, helping me (as I had asked him to do) with keeping my work hours reasonable. “Oh, of course not,” I would say airily, with all the good intentions in the world, and then sometime later I would surface to find it dark outside and my tea cold and my evening gone.

And yet … I was happy again. I was happy writing. I was happy editing. I was happy tracking down typos and swearing at myself.


A new series …


And so here we find ourselves. I’m diving into a new series – Rise of Aiqasal – and I am so excited not only to bring that series to life, but also to dive back in to Battlemage, continue on with Catwin & Miriel’s adventures, bring the world of Novum to a close, and explore worlds I haven’t even conceived of yet.


I’ve edited this post as Daughter of Ashes is now out on Amazon!

(If you read on another platform, please contact me – the choice between Amazon-exclusive and wide distribution is complex, and hearing from you helps me choose!)





Sneak Peek: Daughter of Ashes, out 10.20.2016!



Dear Readers –

I am delighted to announce Daughter of Ashes, out 10.20.2016! It will be the first in a new series full of vengeance, court intrigue, dark magic, and – yes – a touch of romance … ! Read on for the first chapter, and stay tuned for release day!

Don’t want to miss it? Sign up for the mailing list HERE to make sure you get an email on launch day!



Chapter 1

Her brother’s sword came down on hers with a clang and Alleyne gave an agonized cry. She struggled to keep her hold. Her muscles were screaming and Almeric’s sword was inching down slowly, closer and closer to her. His eyes were locked on hers, black as jet and just as uncaring.

Behind him, the door seemed impossibly distant. If she could only make it to the door, everything she had wanted for thirteen years would be hers. She could not reclaim what had been lost, but she could get her revenge: she could sink her dagger into her target’s chest and let him know—if only for a moment—what it felt like to run, scared, knowing there was a knife in the darkness.

She just had to get to the door first, and that meant getting past Almeric.

Down, the sword crept. Down. The hallway was closing around her, claustrophobic; the need for freedom was growing nearly as strong as her desire for revenge. She knew she should not let panic overtake her, but she was losing the will to fight it. She braced her feet. Her arms were shuddering. She was so tired, every part of her wanted to release her hold, let his sword sweep down and …. Pain? There would be pain, yes, but she didn’t care, anymore.


The moment an opponent drew blood, Alleyne knew, it could all be over. Strength could ebb and momentum could shift in a single moment; of two battered and exhausted combatants, the one who had drawn blood could taste victory, and the other could not.

“Almeric…” Her voice broke on the word. She hadn’t considered the plea before it came out.

Her brother said nothing. He was breathing hard now, she’d forced him into retreat more than once. But it wasn’t enough. He was taller, stronger. His sword was heavier than hers, and he was slowly bringing his weight to bear on her. Her sword wavered, and gave a downward jerk, and Alleyne bit her lip to keep back another cry. She could see death in those eyes.

She wavered—and at last summoned all of her fading strength. Power burst out of her, the strength in her shaking legs, in her hips, in her back, all driving up and into the sword with a despairing yell. Her foot swept up, planted on Almeric’s chest, and slammed out; he went staggering back with a grunt of pain.

The tip of her sword dipped down, almost brushing the ground as she swept it back up and over her head. She was on the advance now, and he was scrambling to regain his advantage as she circled out, trying to drive him toward a corner. She had to turn him about before he realized what was happening. In a fight, sweat dripping down and an opponent’s sword slashing, it was possible for even the best swordsman to be led.

But Almeric had always been better than she was. Four years with the best teachers money could buy, all of their father’s height, and a cool, calculating mind. His head came up as he parried her blows, and she saw the smile in his eyes.

There was one way into this, and that was to fight harder, faster. She only had to make it to the door. She could feel the latch on her palm, but the thought of pulling it open was too much.

No. She would face that when she got to it. For now she just had to—

She almost missed the opening, she was so preoccupied. Cursing herself, hoping she wasn’t too late, Alleyne slid her sword into the gap in Almeric’s guard and jerked her arms sideways. His sword tumbled out of his hands to clatter away on the floor and she spun. Her heel caught him on the temple and he went down in a sprawl.

She didn’t wait for him to get up. If she did, she was dead. She pushed off with all her strength and threw her own sword away from her. Two steps to the door and she was wrenching it open.

Get to the door, kill the target, and then she would be safe. Safe to run, jump into the edge of the broad river and lose herself in the current. The river was crowded with boats, but Alleyne could outswim anything and anyone, and it was three stories down. Few people could make that jump, and Almeric was not one of them.

A hand closed around her shoulder. Almeric dragged her back, spun her, and his gloved hand came down across her face. He threw her at the door and the back of her head hit the wood with a crack that sent stars bursting through her vision.

When her gaze cleared, she was on the floor. It was only instinct that kept her moving, but her arms weren’t strong enough to push herself up. In dazed horror, she watched her brother stroll to pick up the sword. The world was spinning and she closed her eyes against tears as he came to crouch next to her, sword held easily.

“Do you know where you went wrong?” His voice was soft.

Despite her best efforts, the tears were leaking out. She knew where she’d gone wrong, and she didn’t want to hear it. “Don’t.”

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” he warned. “I was down. If you’d ended it there …. ”

He let the words hang.

Alleyne said nothing. The air was dragging into her raw throat. Breathing hurt, but her body seemed determined to do it.

He wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the sword. “Up. Again.”

Her eyes opened at last and she stared up at him. Fantasy was fading away, until all that was left was the length of their tiny set of rooms and the heavy wooden door at the end. No marble hallways, no incense heavy in the air. Only the endless, endless game of Get to the Door.

“Not again. Not tonight.”

“Yes.” He stood and went to retrieve his sword. “And this time, no weakness. If you can’t even beat me…how are you possibly going to get past the Imperial Guard? Revenge is worth nothing if you’re dead.”



I hope you enjoyed this sneak peek!

I’ve edited this post as Daughter of Ashes is now out on Amazon!

(If you read on another platform, please contact me – the choice between Amazon-exclusive and wide distribution is complex, and hearing from you helps me choose!)


P.S. Not to worry – Battlemage is still in the works!



A New Excerpt of Battlemage

Dearest readers –

As you wait (so patiently!) for the Malichon Pentalogy, I will be bringing you sneak peeks and excerpts, and today’s is a poem written by one of the central characters. Poetry will be a recurring theme throughout the series, and this poem explores the analogy between the human beloved and the divine, a common motif in Sufi poetry.



Speak to me, beloved

Pour out ichor from your lips

That I may drink it like sweet wine

The garden is shrouded in darkness

Snow covers the reaching arm of the cypress

Sing to me of your face, beloved

For I am blinded by your brilliance

Weave for me a shroud of your dreams

And let them guide me to the promised dawn

Let me lay my head down among the crocus blossoms

And whisper promises to me

That none shall part us

That at the dawn you will guide me to your gardens

For others tell me of its wonders

They speak to me of its orchards

And still pools that reflect the glories of heaven

But the night is long, beloved

The moon has hidden her face

The stars are cloaked in shadows

My feet are pricked and I cannot see if my blood adorns roses or brambles

Sharp rocks litter the path

My mouth is stopped and I cannot cry out to the wind

Speak to me, beloved

Tell me that I walk in the gardens that were promised

Once you told me that I was the one for whom you longed

Speak to me

Sing to me of the gardens

For the night is ending

And I would steal away with beautiful lies in my heart

Rather than face dawn’s truth

Battlemage Update

Dear Wonderful Readers,

One of the things I have struggled with the most lately is taking my time on writing projects. There’s a definite advantage to writing quickly, especially since readers can finish a many-months-long project in a couple of days, and I want to give you all the stories you want to see, from Light & Shadow to Mahalia’s world, Haven (the final book in the Novum trilogy), and more! I want to do it now. Today. All at once. I had grand plans, when I quit my day job, of working 16 hours per day, 7 days per week. “Aha,” I said to myself. “Since I was able to write other books while I had a day job, surely it will be easy to work on freelance projects 10 hours per day while simultaneously speeding up my own production to one book per month!”

There was just the small problem (a teeny tiny problem, really) that this was a completely absurd plan. Yes, I would love to have all of the books I mentioned above done today – it’s just as much fun for me to write them as it is for you to read them! I love immersing myself in those worlds and learning new things about the characters. But the truth is, if I rein in my impatient nature and allow those stories to breathe, they become even more wonderful, and I can do things that I have never done before.

My new series, Battlemage, is a wonderful example of this. It tied together narrative threads and characters that I had wanted to use for ages, but that hadn’t found their story yet. I knew that I wanted to use a world that involved pseudo-European cultures, but that deeply explored Arab and Persian cultures as well, showing the incredible wealth of scientific, medical, and philosophical advances of the Islamic Golden Age. I don’t know as much about the Islamic Golden Age as I do about medieval Europe and Tudor England, however, and it became clear to me as I wrote that the world was deeply lacking.

…to make a long story short, I now have a two-foot-tall stack of books on my dining room table, and the world of Battlemage is coming alive as I immerse myself in poetry, literature, history, and science. (Related: reference librarians are the coolest people in the world.) The melting pot of languages and cultures that called to me has come so much more alive than it would have if I had forced myself to keep writing without taking the time to read.

And so I am reading. I am taking copious notes, quotes and poem fragments interspersed with plot details, scenes emerging from the history portrayed. I am so excited to see the changes that ripple through the plot. Characters whose motivations were heretofore unclear to me have come into sharp focus, their stories poignant and gripping.

I just wrote, “I cannot wait to share this world with you.” The truth is, though, that I have to. It’s all still coming into focus. For it to be the world that it should be, as rich and engrossing as I want it to be, I have to allow it to breathe and to grow. As Robin McKinley so eloquently said, “every once upon a time for me is another experience of white-water rafting in a leaky inner tube.” One never knows, when the muse calls, just what each project is going to require: what darkness and honesty, what grief, what surprising humor, what craft. Each story brings a thousand new little skills to master.

I am so, so excited to share it all with you. As a deeply impatient person, this has been a trying experience in some ways – but it is going to be a fantastic story.


Introducing: The Malichon

Dearest readers –

I have something wonderful for you today. This project came into my head in a rush, combining orphaned ideas that had been written down on tiny scraps of paper over months and months. Lured by the siren call of this world, I am taking a rather unexpected detour from my current project, and hope to share dribs and drabs as the series takes shape! Today, there is an excerpt from what I believe may be a part of Book 2 (writing a series can be a fairly messy process at times – I apologize if I’m shattering any illusions).

Happy reading, M


Battlemage 1

“They say everyone just knows when they see it.”

Harmakis snorted. “That’s never true when it comes to power.” He turned one shoulder forward and pushed his way through the crowds of people in the hallways, ice-blue eyes narrowing at the sight of huddled conversations.

“Harmakis. Harmakis! Slow down.” Eiji struggled to keep up, unwilling to shove people aside. He was breathless when he caught up again. “They said she went through the Rite.”

“She didn’t go through the Rite.” Harmakis did not look back.

“They say she did,” his cousin insisted.

“Boy, there’s no way in the seven hells that anyone could survive that. The Old Kings made that lie and the malichi have wisely let it die down for fear someone would ask them to go through it.”

“Well, but what would happen if someone did?” Eiji challenged him.

Harmakis spared a glance over his shoulder. “Did you go in there? Did you see her?”

“No. I waited for you.”

“Then why are you talking about it like that?” The mage stopped, grizzled eyebrows drawing together. “I’d believe it if you saw whatever smoke-and-mirrors show she has set up in there, but you haven’t even had a look.”

“It’s the way people are talking when they come out.” Eiji’s own voice was hushed. “Like they just saw a God or something.”

Harmakis snorted again and started moving. The crowds were growing thinner as they approached the throne room, not thicker. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like the smell of power in the air, either.

“Listen up, boy.” He kept his eyes forward, but he could feel Eiji’s attention on him like a hound on point. “This is an Empress who’s holding her throne by a thread. She needs a miracle.”

“It sounds like she got one,” Eiji said, with a stab at humor. He paled when Harmakis rounded on him.

“You asked what would happen if someone had gone through the Rite. This city would be a smoking crater. That’s how I know.” He leaned forward, his gaze boring into the younger man’s eyes. “This is a lie, another court lie told to help a dying dynasty keep power. Remember that.”

Eiji fixed his eyes on the floor and said nothing. As Harmakis turned away, he followed dutifully. But whatever he wanted to say was so evident that at last the mage looked over at him.

“Out with it.”

“They said she’s glowing,” Eiji said. He looked over warily, as if afraid that Harmakis would cuff him on the ear. “Have you ever seen something like that?”

“I’m a battlemage. I make people glow.”

“No.” Eiji looked faintly queasy. “You set them on fire. That’s different.”


Let me know what you think in the comments!

Also, if you haven’t already done so, now is definitely the time to sign up for the mailing list. I promise maximum cool things (freebies, sneak peeks, new releases), and ZERO spam. Also, I solemnly swear I will never give away your email address. You can sign up HERE.










52 Stories: A Journey

Inspired by this post over on Amanda Patterson’s tumblr, I will be writing 52 short stories this year. Some, like this one, very short, and some longer! If you’re joining me in this endeavor, leave a link in the comments so we can find your stories!

This week’s story takes place sometime before the start of City of the Shroud, a video game I am writing the story for that just went live on Kickstarter!



The Journey

He walked, feet pounding on the sun baked road, the cracked stone of the highways. They had not been tended in years, but who would tend them? Not Gayyan, the city that lived only in name and memory. When he passed her walls, arrows had followed his path, but only from habit—the desert raiders who owned Gayyan’s streets now would not fear a lone soldier, arm in a bloody sling, half-gone from the sun and the journey.

He was not sure if he could feel his feet any longer, or if they hurt so much that he did not comprehend it. He knew his feet met the ground only from the jolt that traveled through him. At some time, he’d had a walking stick. He must have dropped it somewhere. No sense going back now. He could walk, and that was enough.


The dawn that day was beautiful, stars fading from a brilliant night into a riot of red and orange, wind blowing the distant salt-scent of the sea…unless it was blood he smelled. With dawn, came peace. The voices that had troubled him in the night had fallen silent one by one. He was not sure if he had cried out with them. He knew only that his arm was gone, and that if he wanted to survive, he must look at it to see that it was gone, accept that, and drag himself from the battlefield.

He did not look for a very, very long time. What was a man with one arm, after all? Not fit for a sword or a spear, not fit for a laborer. A scribe, perhaps, but only in the back rooms, where no one would see him. His family would have to tend to him.

It was midday when the thirst broke him, and he turned his head to look. The bone had shattered, but the arm remained. He looked at it for a long moment, considering. He should take it off here, himself, but he had little strength left and he needed to find the others, wherever they might be.

He rolled himself onto his good side, and began to crawl.


He thought of her often: black-haired and green-eyed, her skin a deeper brown than his own, her fingers long and graceful. In her silk, the blue silk she favored above all other gowns, she was a vision. He remembered her passion now, the exultant laugh as she looked down on the city.

“We will own half the world someday,” she told him. “The whole world, perhaps. Our children will make port in any city, and be welcomed.”

She believed it. She believed it even when he marched away.


They did not want to set the bone, and he argued with them. He promised gold, influence. He promised anything that came to mind. The surgeon was not swayed, her dark eyes flat. Later, he would think that she had seen too much pain, that she was beyond caring because so many had died under her hands. Then, he felt only rage.

It was her assistant who helped him, the man’s pale face unmoving as his fingers set the bones in place.

“I have nothing for the pain. If you want to keep your arm, you must keep still without opium.”

It was an eternity before the man sewed the wound shut.

“Will I keep the arm?”

“Only the gods know that.’”

When he left, a voice spoke from the darkness: “You’re lucky.”


“There are few they help anymore. There are no bandages left. Camp fever took the chief surgeon last week.”

He looked over at her. She had the paler skin of Gayyan. “How were you wounded?”

“They took my leg.” She looked back at the ceiling.

She died in the night.


He was close to the city when he realized his little sister would have had her second birthday by now. He’d been gone long enough for that. Eighteen, and old enough for the army. He wondered if she’d been hidden away; they were already starting to do that when he was drafted, and the City Guard bribed neighbors to inform on who was keeping their children from the army.

He would find the money for a bribe, he decided. The priests might help him hide her, or perhaps the Merchant Queen would take her on one of the ships.

Anything but this.


“If we don’t leave, we’ll die.”

“Do you honestly believe we’ll make it back to the city?” The man eyed him with weary contempt.


“Then you’d best start thinking about what will happen when you get there.”

“What does that mean?” He cradled his arm in the sling and let his fingers trail over the bandage on his arm. The wound itched; he thought he remembered that was good.

“They left us here to die for a reason, boy. What will you do, go back and say the war is failing?”

“It is failing.”

“And they’d welcome you for saying that? For coming back with that arm, and telling everyone how it is in the north? You’re more of a fool than I thought. Go if you want.”


He could stay here, not return to the city, take a job on one of the outer holdings. They were kind, these farmers—more often than not, when he awoke in the hollow of a clearing or the corner of a barn, he found a loaf of bread and a jug of clean water for him, olives salty and sweating, perhaps a slice of crumbling cheese. He could work for his keep.

These people had enough trouble feeding their own; he kept walking until the city walls appeared from the shimmer above the road. It was only then that he hesitated. They did not know what had happened in the north—and he did not know what had happened here.

They would welcome him.

He started walking again, his arm aching. The others had given them their meager gold to see him home, and he had not used a single coin. The leather pouch was sweaty against his palm.

They would welcome him. They would.

There was no line at the gates, no one coming to Iskendrun to sell or barter. The guards watched him approach, eyes narrowing to see him.

They would welcome him.

He limped up to the doors.

“Citizen?” The word was curt.



They would welcome him. And he would see a flash of fear in his mother’s eyes when she opened the door. He knew that now. The others were right. He could keep them safe…with his silence.

Or perhaps there was another way. He held out the pouch carefully.

“How about you say I had no name?”

The guard considered him for a moment, and then he stood back, snatching the purse away.

“Welcome to Iskendrun…citizen.”


52 Stories: What Has Been Lost

Inspired by this post over on Amanda Patterson’s tumblr, I will be writing 52 short stories this year. Some, like this one, very short, and some longer! If you’re joining me in this endeavor, leave a link in the comments so we can find your stories!

This week’s story takes place sometime before the start of City of the Shroud, a video game I am writing the story for that just went live on Kickstarter!



What Has Been Lost

Iskendrun is not what it once was, my darling.

At night, she goes to the windows to look out—not over the balcony that overlooks a quaint little courtyard, or even to the windows that gaze out above the streets paved with white stone and adorned with flowers. She goes silently through the house, brushing her fingers across the hangings as she walks, and she creeps up the back stairs that only the servants use, climbing to the roof itself.

Once, every citizen had gold in their pockets, and they had the proper respect for a lady such as yourself.

She looks out over the city, the sea of crooked roofs that is, her father tells her, a crumbling wreck of what it once was. From the walled gardens with their cypress trees and the tiny lemon grove, she cannot see the city, cannot hear it. Only music is fit for a lady’s ears, and only beauty is fit for her eyes.

So they say.

They make vile threats in the city now. They forget the Temple we built and the market we created.

Often when she goes out into the streets of the Nobles’ Quarter, strolling through the shaded boulevards with her friends, she wants to stop and ask the City Guard what they see. They leave the Nobles’ Quarter every night and descend into the chaos of the docks, the markets, the Refugee District. While she leans over the walls, squinting to make out the metal shanties and the bright-painted banners, they see such things every day. What is it like now? She would give anything to know.

A young lady, she is told, does not ask such questions. A young lady does not wonder about the slums and the merchants.

She dreams of walking in the alleyways of the Refugee District with the smells of roasting meat and curry. In her dreams, she is alone—she cannot even imagine the refugees. On the docks, she imagines pirates with curved swords and jaunty headscarves. Sometimes she hears of Azura, the merchant queen, and she imagines what it would be like to sail up the coast on Azura’s ship, the famed Fateh with its blue prow. She might go to sea one day, of course; her father tells her that they are arranging a marriage for her in Tirwall, with the terms to be concluded when the war is over. But then, she would not go on a merchant ship.

Iskendrun is not what it once was…

She remembers what it once was. She remembers going to the markets and the docks, peeking out from the curtains of he sedan chair to see the traders with their hats and cloaks. Her mother chided her, but with an indulgent smile. She was only a child, with everything before her. She would rule the city someday.

No one wanted to tell her when it all went wrong. It took threats and pleas and three gold coins before she could make her maid tell the truth—about Dahilah perishing in screams and cannonfire, about the troops marching north, about the market stalls standing empty. They made a bargain, lady and servant, and the girl comes to her every night with tales from the marketplace. She won’t venture to the Old Docks, where she says the rebels hide, or the Refugee District with its strange songs and capricious ruler. But she tells the lady everything she knows.

Someday, the lady promises herself, she will rule Iskendrun as she was meant to. She has no intentions of going north to her unknown bridegroom. She will bring gold to Iskendrun once more, and the citizens will love her, and she will be able to walk the streets of her city without even a guard. The citizens will see that the rebels are nothing more than troublemakers, and she will hang them for their lies and the city will be free. It is a harsh punishment, but then, their crimes are grave—they tell slanderous lies, and everyone must know that she is strong as well as kind. In time, they will see that she is just and fair and generous, and all will be as it once was.



Want to know more about Iskendrun? Read more about your character, the Traveler, in this sneak peek, and then head on over to Kickstarter to back the game – there’s an exclusive short story campaign running during the month of February!