R.L. LaFevers's Blog, page 8

Weaknesses: Our Hidden Strengths

Over on Writer Unboxed I was talking about how our weaknesses can often be our hidden strengths. And this doesn’t only apply to writing.

It’s one of the first rules of characterization we writers learn—give our protagonists a fatal flaw. Even better? Use that fatal flaw to bring about the character’s ultimate triumph. It is one of my favorite character arcs, how that flaw can end up being the thing that saves us, given the right set of circumstances.

As writers, we need to remember to apply it not just to our stories, but to ourselves . . .

You can read the full article HERE.

DARK TRIUMPH: Chapter One

In honor of the ARCs going out, I thought I would post the complete first chapter of DARK TRIUMPH. (There is a partial first chapter posted on Amazon, but it cuts off far too soon!)

 

Nantes, Brittany 1489

I did not arrive at the convent of Saint Mortain some green stripling. By the time I was sent there, my death count numbered three, and I had had two lovers besides. Even so, there were some things they were able to teach me: Sister Serafina the art of poison, Sister Thomine how to wield a blade, and Sister Arnette where best to strike with it, laying out all the vulnerable points on a mans body like an astronomer charting the stars.

If only they had taught me how to watch innocents die as well as they taught me how to kill, I would be far better prepared for this nightmare into which I’ve been thrust.

I pause at the foot of the winding steps to see if I am being watched. The scullery woman scrubbing the marble hall, the sleepy page dozing against the doorway—either one of them could be a spy. Even if neither has been assigned to watch me, someone is always willing to tattle in the hopes of earning a few crumbs of favor.

Caution prevails and I decide to use the south stairs and then double back through the lower hall to approach the north tower from that side. I am very careful to step precisely where the maid has just washed, and I hear her mutter a curse under her breath. Good. Now I can be certain she has seen me and will not forget if she is questioned.

In the lower hall, there are few servants about. Those who have not been driven out are busy with their duties or have gone to ground like wise, clever rats.

When at last I reach the north wing of the palace, it is empty. Quickening my pace, I hurry toward the north tower, but I am so busy looking behind me that I nearly stumble over a small figure sitting at the base of the stairs.

I bite back an oath of annoyance and glare down to see it is a child. A young girl. “What are you doing here?” I snap. My nerves are already tightly strung, and this new worry does them little good. “Where is your mother?”

The girl looks up at me with eyes like damp violets, and true fear clutches at my gut. Has no one thought to warn her how dangerous it is for a pretty child to wander these halls alone? I want to reach down and shake her—shake her mother—and shout at her that she is not safe, not on these steps, not in this castle. I force myself to take a deep breath instead.

“Mama is dead.” The child’s voice high and quivery.

I glance to the stairs where my first duty lies, but I cannot leave this child here. “What is your name?”

“Odette,” she says, uncertain whether to be frightened of me or not.

“Well, Odette, this is no place to play. Have you no one to look after you?”

“My sister. But when she is working, I am to hide like a little mouse.”

At least her sister is no fool. “But this is not a good place to hide, is it? Look how easily I found you!”

For the first time, the girl gives me a shy smile and in that moment, she reminds me so much of my youngest sister Louise that I cannot breathe. Thinking quickly, I take her hand and lead her back to the main hallway.

Hurry, hurry, hurry, nips at my heels like a braying hound.

“See that door?” She nods, watching me uncertainly. “Go through that door, then down the stairs. The chapel is there and it is a most excellent hiding place.” And since d’Albret and his men never visit the chapel, she will be safe enough. “Who is your sister?”

“Tilde.”

“Very well. I will tell Tilde where you are so she may come and get you when her work is done.”

“Thank you,” Odette says, then skips off down the hall. I long to escort her there myself, but already risk being too late for what I must do.

I turn back around and take the stairs two at a time. The thick, wooden door on the landing has a new latch, stiff with disuse. I lift it slowly to be certain it will not creak out an alarm.

As I step into the cold winter sunshine, a bitter wind whips at my hair, tearing it from the net that holds it in place. All my caution has cost me precious time and I pray that I have not brought up here only to see those I love slaughtered.

I hurry to the crenellated wall and look down into the field below. A small party of mounted knights waits patiently while an even smaller party confers with that braying ass, Marshal Rieux. I recognize the duchess immediately, her dainty figure poised on her gray palfrey. She looks impossibly small, far too small to hold the fate of our kingdom on her slender shoulders. That she has managed to hold off a French invasion for this long is impressive; that she has done so in spite of the betrayal of a full half of her councilors is closer to a miracle.

Behind her and to the right is Ismae, sister of my heart and, possibly, my blood, if what the nuns at the convent told us is true. My pulse begins to race, but whether in joy that I am not too late or panic at what I know is coming, I cannot tell.

Keeping my gaze fixed on Ismae, I gather up all my fear and dread and hurl them at her, much like a stone in a catapult.

She does not so much as glance in my direction.

From deep in the bowels of the castle, off toward the east, I hear a faint rumble as the portcullis is raised. This time when I cast my warning, I fling my arms out as well, as if shooing away a flock of ducks. I hope—pray—that some bond still exists between us that will allow her to sense me.

But her eyes remain fixed on the duchess in front of her, and I nearly scream in frustration. Flee, my mind screams. It is a trap. Then just as I fear I must throw myself from the battlements to gain her attention, Ismae looks up. Flee, I beg, then sweep my arms out once more.

It works. She looks away from me to the eastern gate then turns to shout something to the soldier next to her, and I grow limp with relief.

The small party on the field springs to life, shouting orders and calling to one another. Ismae points again, this time to the west. Good. She has seen the second arm of the trap. Now I must only hope that my warning has not come too late.

Once Marshal Rieux and his men realize what is happening, they wheel their mounts around and gallop back to the city. The duchess and her party move to fall into a new formation, but have not yet left the field.

Flee! The word beats frantically against my breast, but I dare not utter it, afraid that even on this isolated tower, someone from the castle might hear. I lean forward, gripping the cold, rough stone of the battlements so hard that it bites into my gloveless fingers.

The first line of d’Albret’s troops ride into my sight, my half brother Pierre in the vanguard. Then, just when I am certain it is too late, the duchess’s party splits in two and a paltry dozen of the duchess’s men turn their mounts to meet the coming onslaught. Twelve against two hundred. Hollow laughter at the futility of their actions escapes me, but is snatched up by the wind before anyone can hear it.

As the duchess and two others gallop away, Ismae hesitates. I bite my lips to keep from shouting. She cannot think she can help the doomed knights? Their cause is hopeless and not even our skills can help the twelve who so valiantly ride to their death.

“Flee.” This time I do utter the word aloud, but just like my laughter it is caught up by the cold, bitter wind and carried high above where no one can hear it. Not the one it is meant to warn, nor those who would punish me for the betrayal.

But perhaps something has carried my warning to her all the same, for she finally wheels her mount around and gallops after the duchess. The iron band squeezing my lungs eases somewhat, for while it is hard enough to watch these men meet their deaths, I could not bear to watch Ismae die.

Or worse, be captured.

If that happened, I would kill her myself rather than leave her to d’Albret, for he will grant her no mercy. Not after she ruined his plans in Guérande and nearly gutted him like a fish. He has had many days to hone his vengeance to a razor-sharp edge.

It is folly for me to linger. I should leave now while there is no chance of being discovered, but I cannot turn away. Like the rushing water of a swollen river, d’Albret’s forces swarm the duchess’s guard. The resounding clash is like thunder as armor crashes into armor, pikes break through shields, and swords meet.

I am astounded at the ferocity of the duchess’s men. They all fight as if they have been possessed by the spirit of St. Camulos himself, slashing through their attackers much as a farmer scythes through stalks of grain. By some miracle, they hold the oncoming line, and their efforts delay d’Albret’s forces long enough for the duchess’s party reaches the safety of the trees. D’Albret’s greater number of men will be less of an advantage if they must duck and dodge branches and bracken.

From the east, a trumpet sounds. I frown and look that way, fearing d’Albret had thought to arrange for a third mounted force. But no, the black and white banner of the Rennes garrison stands in stark relief against the crisp blue sky as an additional dozen men ride into the melee. When the duchess and the others finally disappear over the horizon, I allow myself to draw my first full breath.

But even with the infusion of new troops, it is a crushing defeat. The duchess’s guards have no chance, not against so many. My hand itches for a weapon, but the knives I carry will do no good from this distance. A crossbow would work, but they are nigh unto impossible to conceal, and so I watch helplessly.

D’Albret had only ever planned for a trap—a quick in and out, thrust and parry, and then return with the prize. Once he realizes the quarry has escaped and he no longer has the element of surprise, he gives the signal for his soldiers to fall back behind the castle walls. Better to cut his losses than waste any more men in this failed gambit.

The battle below is nearly over. Only one soldier continues to fight, a great big ox of a man who doesn’t have the sense to die quickly like the others. His helm has been knocked from his head and three arrows pierce his armor, which is dented in a dozen places. His chain mail is torn and the cuts beneath it bleed profusely, but still he fights with a nearly inhuman strength, stumbling ever forward into the mass of his enemies. It is all right, I long to tell him. Your young duchess is safe. You may die in peace, and then you will be safe, as well.

His head jerks up, from the blow he has just taken, and across the distance our eyes meet. I wonder what color they are and how quickly they will film over once Death claims him.

Then one of d’Albret’s men lunges forward and cuts the knight’s horse out from under him. He gives a long, despairing bellow as he goes down, then like ants swarming a scrap of meat, his enemies are upon him. The man’s death cry reaches all the way up to the tower and wraps itself around my heart, calling for me to join it.

A fierce wave of longing surges through me and I am jealous of that knight and the oblivion that claims him. He is free now, just like the gathering vultures who circle overhead. How easily they come and go, how far above danger they fly. I am not sure I can return to my own cage, a cage built of lies and suspicions and fear. A cage so full of darkness and shadow it may as well be death.

I lean forward, pushing my body out past the battlements. The wind plucks at my cloak, buffets me, as if it would carry me off in flight, just like the birds or the knight’s soul. Let go, it cries. I will take you far, far away. I want to laugh at the exhilarating feeling. I will catch you, it whistles seductively.

Would it hurt, I wonder, staring down at the jagged rocks below. Would I feel the moment of my landing? I close my eyes and imagine hurtling through space, rushing down, down, down, to my death.

Would it even work? At the convent, the sisters of Mortain were as stingy with their knowledge of our deathly skills and abilities as a miser with his coin. I do not fully understand all the powers Death has bestowed upon me. Besides, Death has already rejected me twice. What if He did so a third time and I had to spend the rest of my life broken and helpless, forever at the mercy of those around me? That thought has me shuddering violently and I take a step away from the wall.

“Sybella?”

Fresh panic flares in my breast, my hand reaches for the cross nestled among the folds of my skirt, for it is no ordinary crucifix but a cunningly disguised knife designed for me by the convent. Even as I turn around, I widen my eyes as if excited and curve the corners of my mouth up in a brazen smile.

Julian stands in the doorway. “What are you doing out here?” he asks.

I let my eyes sparkle with pleasure—as if glad to see him rather than dismayed—then turn back around to the battlement to compose myself. I shove all my true thoughts and feelings deep inside, for while Julian is the kindest of them all, he is no fool. And he has always been skilled at reading me. “Watching the rout.” I am careful to make my voice purr with excitement. At least he did not find me until after I warned Ismae.

He joins me at the wall, so close that our elbows touch, and casts me a look of wry admiration. “You wanted to watch?”

I roll my eyes in disdain. “It matters not. The bird slipped the net.”

Julian tears his gaze away from me and looks out onto the field for the first time. “The duchess got away?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He glances quickly at me but I keep the look of contempt plastered to my face like a shield. “He will not be happy,” Julian says.

“No, he will not. And the rest of us will pay the price.” I look at him as if just now noticing he is not dressed for battle. “Why are you not on the field with the others?”

“I was ordered to stay behind.”

A brief spasm of fear clutches my heart. Is d’Albret having me watched so very closely, then?

Julian offers me his arm. “We need to get back to the hall before he does.”

I dimple at him and cozy up to his arm, letting it almost but not quite brush against my breast. It is the one power I have over him—doling out favors just often enough that he does not need to grab for them.

As we reach the tower door, Julian glances back over his shoulder at the battlement then turns his unreadable gaze to me. “I will not tell anyone that you were up here,” he says.

I shrug, as if it is of no difference to me. Even so, I fear he will make me pay for this kindness of his.

Already I regret not jumping while I had the chance.

 

DARK TRIUMPH ARC’s

I just received word that DARK TRIUMPH ARC’s have arrived at the publisher! Yay! And eeeep!

As promised, here is information on how to request one. Please note: I do not have any. And when I get some, it will be a very small amount, usually enough to give my local booksellers and to host a contest or two. So if you email me asking me for one, the answer will likely have to be no. You will have much better chances with Houghton Mifflin’s publicity department!

To request an arc, email Houghton Mifflin Harcourt’s publicity department.

To expedite your request, I suggest linking to your blog and mentioning your blog stats. You might also link to your GRAVE MERCY review, if you reviewed it.

Aaaand, while we’re on the subject of ARC’s, I wanted to talk about them in general. I remember there was a discussion about ARC’s in the blogosphere a few weeks ago and I remember learning that some ARC readers were fairly surprised (and sometimes unforgiving) about errors or typos or awkward language, reasoning that the publisher shouldn’t send the ARCs out if they’re not ready.

So I just want to remind you all that absolutely ARCs will often have errors in them, and there is often no way to avoid that, although since each copy edit and set of galley proofs get at least six read throughs, you’d think there would be. But there isn’t–which also why in addition to first pass pages (the first set of galley proofs) there are also second and third pass pages. Also, sometimes small continuity type things show up only after everything else has been smoothed out and fixed, so then those corrections need to be made as well.

For example, DARK TRIUMPH’s ARCs were made straight from the copy edited manuscript. The only problem is, there there were a number of instances where I changed wording during the copy edits, and when the new verbiage was corrected on the electronic copy, not all of the old verbiage was deleted. I solemnly swear to you, I did not think “if I was my father’s daughter flowed in my veins” was well constructed phrasing. (Yes, that really is in the ARC.)

In GRAVE MERCY, the publisher learned they had to move up the pub date by three weeks which provided us with a nearly impossible decision: Print ARCs from the non-copy edited manuscript (akin to waltzing before everyone in my rattiest pajamas) OR accept ALL copy edited changes–knowing there would be awkward phrasing, anachronistic terms used by the copy editor, and phrasing or words that were simply suggested changes rather than approved by anyone. We compromised and I entered one of the longest weekends of my life where I did a frantic copy edit scan, looking for the most egregious phrasing and anachronistic terms or simply awkwardly changed language. But it was a 550 page manuscript and my proofing skills are only human. Plus many of the changes often require time to consider. Now that we’ve identified something that clunks or is incorrect, IS the new wording the best way to rephrase it? Sometimes yes and sometimes no.

ARCs have such an enormous lead time (six months) due to the requirements of the print review journals such as PW, Booklist, SLJ, Kirkus, and Horn Book, to name a few. In order to assign the ARCs to reviewers, have them read, reviewed, and then be included in their print edition of their publication before said publications are sent to the printer simply requires six months lead time. Book bloggers receiving ARCs is a fairly new component (and HUGELY WELCOME!!) but clearly the timeline makes no sense for blogs as they do not require the same amount of lead time.

And therein endeth my explanation about ARCs.

Monthly Columns

It occurred to me that I haven’t mentioned here that I blog once a month over on Writer Unboxed. My last post talked about how finding our writing voice brings us closer to finding our personal power:

Find Your Voice–Find Your Power

“The act of writing is an act of courage, not because of all the industry rejection that awaits, but because we are daring to step more fully into the very essence of who we are as people, and that is a scary, scary thing. No more masks, no more pretend, no more façade. Just us and those things we find of vital importance.”

 

I also had a very illuminating interview with Egmont USA Publisher Elizabeth Law last month. You can find my other entries here.

 

 

DARK TRIUMPH Cover

 

The fierce look on her face is SO Sybella!

Also, I just learned that I hadn’t actually mentioned it before, but the His Fair Assassin books are a trilogy, so there is a third book planned after this one. It will tell Annith’s story.

DARK TRIUMPH Update!

Hello, hello!

Lest you are wondering, no, I have not been the victim of one of my own political type assassinations, I have just been beyond busy getting DARK TRIUMPH ready so you can all read it as soon as possible. (It releases April 2, 2013, for those of you wondering.)

I am finishing up proofing the galley pages this weekend, then off it goes to the printer! Wheee! And YIKES.

Even better, next week we will be revealing the cover for DARK TRIUMPH, so stay tuned. Also, to get you in the mood, here is the flap copy for the book:

Sybella arrives at the convent’s doorstep half mad with grief and despair. Those that serve Death are only too happy to offer her refuge—but at a price. Naturally skilled in both the arts of death and seduction, the convent views Sybella as one of their most dangerous weapons.

But those assassin’s skills are little comfort when the convent returns her to a life that nearly drove her mad. Her father’s rage and brutality are terrifying, and her brother’s love is equally monstrous. And while Sybella is a weapon of justice wrought by the god of Death himself, He must give her a reason to live. When she discovers an unexpected ally imprisoned in the dun geons, will a daughter of Death find something other than vengeance to live for?

This heart-pounding sequel to Grave Mercy serves betrayal, treachery, and danger in equal measure, bringing readers back to fifteenth century Brittany and will keep them on the edge of their seats.

ARCs are at the printer right now, so I’m guessing the actual ARCs should start going out mid to late September. I will post information on how to request them next week.

So, apologies for being so absent, but now that book two is DONE, I will be posting more: more deleted scenes, more teasers, more of the world and mythology, as well as answering some of the many questions I’ve been getting . . .

Thanks for all your patience!

Summer Events

Just a head’s up that I have two upcoming events I want to be sure and let you know about.

I’m hugely excited about the first event because I will be appearing with three other YA authors whom I admire tremendously, but have never met: Marie Lu, Kiersten White, and Cynthia Hand! I know, right? How. Awesome. Is. THAT?

We’ll be speaking at the Oceanside Public Library on Tuesday, July 24 at 4 pm. (330 North Coast Highway.)  Following the talk at the library, we’ll all be signing at the Oceanside Barnes and Noble at 6 pm. I’m sure it will be loads of fun and will hopefully see some of you there!

The second event will happen a little closer to the Los Angeles area, Anaheim to be exact. I will be one of mAnY authors signing at RWA’s Reader’s For Life Literacy Signing at the Anaheim Convention Center on Wed.,  July 25, 5:00 to 8:00 pm. I’ll be located at table #605. (Because this is a charity event, no books may be brought in for signing–they will need to be purchased on site.)

 

 

Best. Flash Mob. EVER.

Apparently I have a thing for flash mobs. This is my new favorite.

 

Ta Da!

DARK TRIUMPH, she is done–whisked away to copy editing just in time. Of course, it will be back on my desk in two weeks and I will then need to go through it with a fine tooth comb, a pair of tweezers, and many brightly colored pens and post-its, but until then, I can call it done.

Truly one of the best feelings in the world. Especially with regard to THIS book, The One That Nearly Killed Me.

It’s not that I can’t write a 400 plus page manuscript in nine months. It’s just that it takes me  a minimum of six or seven drafts to produce a book that I’m happy with, and writing SEVEN drafts of a 400 plus page manuscript in nine months is a bit of a pressure cooker.

(And lest you doubt that I have been truly working, here is the evidence:*)

 

 

Note to Universe: In my next life, I want to be a more efficient writer.

And before you ask, word on the street is that ARCs will probably start going out in late September/October.

Also, I have made a Pinterest Board for Grave Mercy and will be starting one soon for DARK TRIUMPH.

 

* And please ignore the messy desk. That was the first thing I did once I finished the book–cleaned off my desk!

Upcoming Appearances

I’ve gotten a few emails asking me if I’d be at ALA in Anaheim and I will! Which reminded me that I hadn’t updated my upcoming appearances, so here they are!

July 25, 5:00 to 8:00 pm  RWA’s  Reader’s For Life Literacy Signing in Anaheim, California (along with a ton of amazing authors!)

June 23, ALA Anaheim, California Signing at the Houghton Mifflin booth from 1:00 – 2:00 p.m

June 20, 7:30 pm Santa Barbara Public Library Book Club, meeting a the Carpinteria Branch

Hope to see some of you there!