S.L. Jesberger's Blog, page 2
November 14, 2014
Getting There!
Wrapping up Tempest has been slow going, but I can see light at the end of the tunnel for a first draft. One of the more interesting characters to emerge in this book is Tane Samuelson, Rafe and Cara's daughter, as per this tidbit:
“What? No sobbing? No begging?” Boru dragged Tane down the hallway by her arm, slowing just a bit when she stumbled to allow her to gather her skirts.
“Would it change anything if I begged?”
“Not a thing, m’dear.”
Tane huffed and gathered up more of her skirt, trying desperately to keep up with him. “Mama said you were a sadistic bastard.”
He laughed. “You mother wasn’t here long enough to make that assessment.”
“No, but I understand my grandmother was.” She gave him a baleful glare.
As soon as she said it, she wanted to call it back. A chilly wind blew down the hall, so cold she could see her breath.
He slowly turned, his eyes glowing red. “Be careful, Tane. Emara loved me.”
“Liar!” Tane twisted out of his hands and took a step back. “Women like her don’t love men like you! I know what you did. She hates you!”
He struck her with a closed fist, fast and hard, driving her into the stone wall behind her. She fell to her knees and went still, her breathing ragged as anger warred with fear inside her.
He crouched beside her. “You may look like your mother, but you’ve a bit of your father in you, haven’t you?”
The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She wiped at her split lip. “So what if I do?”
“Rafe Samuelson. Interesting man. I tried to have him killed several times, but the bastard had more lives than a cat and the luck to go with it. I want you to understand me, Tane. Your mother had value. Real value, unlike you and your mongrel blood. None of Àlainnshire’s princes have offered for you. Not a single one. I could’ve used Cara to forge a lucrative alliance with Strathmore, but your father stole her from me, just as Midhir stole Emara.” He tipped her chin up with a finger. “I want revenge, pretty girl. Your mother wants you. So…” Boru jerked her roughly to her feet. “I’m going to wait until she’s standing right in front of me to break your neck.”
“What? No sobbing? No begging?” Boru dragged Tane down the hallway by her arm, slowing just a bit when she stumbled to allow her to gather her skirts.
“Would it change anything if I begged?”
“Not a thing, m’dear.”
Tane huffed and gathered up more of her skirt, trying desperately to keep up with him. “Mama said you were a sadistic bastard.”
He laughed. “You mother wasn’t here long enough to make that assessment.”
“No, but I understand my grandmother was.” She gave him a baleful glare.
As soon as she said it, she wanted to call it back. A chilly wind blew down the hall, so cold she could see her breath.
He slowly turned, his eyes glowing red. “Be careful, Tane. Emara loved me.”
“Liar!” Tane twisted out of his hands and took a step back. “Women like her don’t love men like you! I know what you did. She hates you!”
He struck her with a closed fist, fast and hard, driving her into the stone wall behind her. She fell to her knees and went still, her breathing ragged as anger warred with fear inside her.
He crouched beside her. “You may look like your mother, but you’ve a bit of your father in you, haven’t you?”
The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She wiped at her split lip. “So what if I do?”
“Rafe Samuelson. Interesting man. I tried to have him killed several times, but the bastard had more lives than a cat and the luck to go with it. I want you to understand me, Tane. Your mother had value. Real value, unlike you and your mongrel blood. None of Àlainnshire’s princes have offered for you. Not a single one. I could’ve used Cara to forge a lucrative alliance with Strathmore, but your father stole her from me, just as Midhir stole Emara.” He tipped her chin up with a finger. “I want revenge, pretty girl. Your mother wants you. So…” Boru jerked her roughly to her feet. “I’m going to wait until she’s standing right in front of me to break your neck.”
September 13, 2014
Aaaand...A Little More of Maeve
Teaser from Tempest (As always, subject to change in revisions):
A black horse raced around the corner in the distance, but the forest shadow made it hard to see detail. Aislin tightened the grip on her pike, assumed a defensive stance, and called out, “Stop where you are!”
The animal didn’t slow at all. Her heart pounded as it grew closer. She hated to kill a good horse but she would have to run the pike into its chest if it proved to be an enemy. The rider was evidently small, hidden behind the neck and flying mane as it raced toward her. For that matter, the horse appeared to be quite young.
She blew out a breath of relief when the rider brought the horse to an abrupt stop. The animal skidded in the dirt and leaves and whinnied as a familiar face peeked out around its neck. The blonde rider was dressed in an elven tunic and tights that were three sizes too big for her; she had a sabre strapped to her waist.
Aislin felt the anger start in her toes. “Maeve! What the blazes do you think you’re doing?”
“I wanted to come along and I knew you’d say no.”
“Little girl...” Aislin gritted her teeth. There was no good response to that. “Is that Fayla?”
Maeve patted the horse’s neck. “Yes.”
“Is she broken to the saddle yet?”
“No. But I didn’t put a saddle on her. See?” Maeve tugged gently on the reins; Fayla took a few steps to the side. The girl was riding bareback.
“You shouldn’t be riding her like that. You’ll break your neck if she throws you.”
“She won’t throw me. She likes me.”
“Whose clothes are you wearing?”
“I borrowed them from Faron.”
“You _stole_ them.”
“I _borrowed_ them. I intend to give them back.”
Aislin ran a hand over her face and blew out another breath.
Maeve giggled. “You look just like Roderic when you do that.”
“You’re going to turn around this instant and go back to Arianrhod. That’s an order.”
“But I’ll have to go back all alone.”
“You came this far all alone.”
“That was different.” Maeve was trying not to smile which made Aislin even angrier. “Fayla was skittish. She scared me a little. I don’t want to go back by myself. Just let me come to Sweetwood with you. Please?”
Tane giggled behind her. “We’re already halfway to Sweetwood.”
“Your mother has no idea where you are, young lady, and you’re not going to make this little adventure my fault. Turn around and go back.” Aislin reached for the reins but Fayla shied away from her hands.
A black horse raced around the corner in the distance, but the forest shadow made it hard to see detail. Aislin tightened the grip on her pike, assumed a defensive stance, and called out, “Stop where you are!”
The animal didn’t slow at all. Her heart pounded as it grew closer. She hated to kill a good horse but she would have to run the pike into its chest if it proved to be an enemy. The rider was evidently small, hidden behind the neck and flying mane as it raced toward her. For that matter, the horse appeared to be quite young.
She blew out a breath of relief when the rider brought the horse to an abrupt stop. The animal skidded in the dirt and leaves and whinnied as a familiar face peeked out around its neck. The blonde rider was dressed in an elven tunic and tights that were three sizes too big for her; she had a sabre strapped to her waist.
Aislin felt the anger start in her toes. “Maeve! What the blazes do you think you’re doing?”
“I wanted to come along and I knew you’d say no.”
“Little girl...” Aislin gritted her teeth. There was no good response to that. “Is that Fayla?”
Maeve patted the horse’s neck. “Yes.”
“Is she broken to the saddle yet?”
“No. But I didn’t put a saddle on her. See?” Maeve tugged gently on the reins; Fayla took a few steps to the side. The girl was riding bareback.
“You shouldn’t be riding her like that. You’ll break your neck if she throws you.”
“She won’t throw me. She likes me.”
“Whose clothes are you wearing?”
“I borrowed them from Faron.”
“You _stole_ them.”
“I _borrowed_ them. I intend to give them back.”
Aislin ran a hand over her face and blew out another breath.
Maeve giggled. “You look just like Roderic when you do that.”
“You’re going to turn around this instant and go back to Arianrhod. That’s an order.”
“But I’ll have to go back all alone.”
“You came this far all alone.”
“That was different.” Maeve was trying not to smile which made Aislin even angrier. “Fayla was skittish. She scared me a little. I don’t want to go back by myself. Just let me come to Sweetwood with you. Please?”
Tane giggled behind her. “We’re already halfway to Sweetwood.”
“Your mother has no idea where you are, young lady, and you’re not going to make this little adventure my fault. Turn around and go back.” Aislin reached for the reins but Fayla shied away from her hands.
A Pleasant Surprise
I am delighted to see increased downloads for Aislin of Arianrhod and Winter's Child. I don't expect this series of books to catapult me into superstardom, but I LOVE writing these characters. I look forward to sitting down and visiting Alainnshire at my keyboard. The two women in these books are very different, but I think they will surprise you in Tempest.
I've been posting teasers from Tempest on Facebook but neglecting to copy them to Goodreads. Here are two, one from August 2014 and the second I posted just today. Maeve is turning out to be a fun character. If she keeps it up, she may just get her own book one day.
August 2014 teaser (Subject to change in revisions):
Tristan turned, rotating both his ears forward. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
He stepped away from the stall and turned toward the barn entrance. “Someone calling for help. It was distant, but—“
“Don’t forget—you have better hearing than the rest of us,” Maeve pointed out.
There it was again. A man screaming for someone to help him. Tristan tilted his head and pivoted his ears, trying to determine a direction.
“Help me! Someone help me!”
Maeve’s eyes grew round. “I heard that.”
“It sounds like it’s coming from the road near the orchard.” Tristan spun on his heels and ran from the barn.
“Wait for me!” Maeve called behind him.
He couldn’t wait. There was a note of terror in the man’s voice that sent a chill up his spine.
Tristan had been edgy since the moment they’d ridden into the village. At first, he attributed it to the many humans setting up for the market, but then realized it was something else altogether.
None of them wanted to say anything, but Roderic, Aislin, Emara—they were all on edge, waiting for something terrible to happen. Hopefully, this man’s cry for help wouldn’t be that terrible something. The market needed to be a peaceful event, for all their sakes.
Dashing across the orchard, he broke out into the meadow and saw him almost immediately: a man on a large brown draft horse, no saddle, with something draped across his lap. Slowing a bit to take stock of the situation, Tristan sped up when he realized the man cradled a woman in his arms. She was wrapped in a dark cloak, a wide hood covered her head. She appeared to be ill.
Relief flooded the man’s features when Tristan reached him. “What’s the problem, man? Is your woman sick?” he asked.
The man’s eyebrows shot up as he jerked the horse to a halt. Normally amused at the reaction to his appearance, Tristan felt nothing but impatience now. “Yes, I’m an elf, the husband of the Princess Aislin of Arianrhod. My name is Tristan, and I am Chieftain of the Sylvan elves.” He gestured toward the limp figure across the man’s lap. “The woman you carry. Is she sick?”
“She’s not sick.” The man looked down at the bundle he held. “My name is Ellis Mayhew. This is my wife, Joria. She’s...she’s having our baby. Her birth waters have broken. Is there someone who can help us?”
Tristan shook with a chill. “Gods, man. A baby?”
Maeve had caught up to them by this time. “She’s having a baby? Not on the horse!”
“I have to get her to a midwife. Or somewhere that I can get her off the horse. She’s in terrible pain. I think she’s about to deliver,” the man said, eyes wide with fear. “The ride here made it worse, no matter how slow I tried to go.”
Tristan turned to Maeve. “Go get Roderic or your aunt or your mother or someone. I don’t care whom, but tell them what’s going on. I’m going to try to get her up to the manor house with her husband on the horse, but if I can’t, I’ll make a clean place for her in the barn. Go!”
Maeve tore off as if she were an arrow released from an elven bow, long hair flying behind her.
September 13, 2014(Subject to change in revisions):
“Bryce!”
The frantic whisper from the other side of the young king’s door jerked him out of a sound sleep.
“Maeve? What are you doing up at this hour?” He threw the covers back and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Open up! I have something to show you.”
“I have council first thing in the morning. Can’t it wait?”
“Fine. You can just be jealous and surprised when I join you and Eduard for sword lessons.”
Bryce rolled his eyes. The chances of their mother allowing Maeve to wield a sword beside him were slim, but she’d piqued his curiosity.
“Hold on a moment.” He slipped on a robe then lit a candle and carried it to the door. Maeve stepped in with a wide smile and held a silver scabbard up in front of his nose.
“Where did you get that?”
“From one of the sword eaters. It’s a beauty.” His sister slid the weapon from the scabbard with a soft hiss. The blade shone like a full moon in the light of the candle.
Bryce gave a low whistle and reached out to touch it. It was a short sabre, slightly curved, but both edges were razor sharp. Capable of a forward strike and an equally deadly backswing. He_ was_ jealous.
Bryce lifted his brow. “And no mention was made of presenting one of these to the king of Arianrhod?”
“You were given three beautiful thoroughbred horses during the market’s opening ceremony.” Maeve planted her hands on her hips and scowled. “You’re going to take the sword away from me, aren’t you? I swear I’ll never speak to you again if you do, Mister Fancypants King.”
“I’m not going to take it from you, Maeve, but you know Mother isn’t going to let you have it. And if she doesn’t then I might as well...”
Maeve shoved the sword back into the scabbard so fast he barely saw her move. “Aunt Aislin said she’d talk to Mother. She said I needed a defensive skill, so I’m never caught flat-footed like she was when that man invaded Arianrhod.”
“She’s teaching you the pike. Isn’t she?”
“I don’t like the pike. I want a sword.” Maeve marched to the door, turned, and gave him a look. “It’s a new age, Bryce. Women are smart and we can do things. Eduard will soon be teaching both of us. You’ll see.”
I've been posting teasers from Tempest on Facebook but neglecting to copy them to Goodreads. Here are two, one from August 2014 and the second I posted just today. Maeve is turning out to be a fun character. If she keeps it up, she may just get her own book one day.
August 2014 teaser (Subject to change in revisions):
Tristan turned, rotating both his ears forward. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
He stepped away from the stall and turned toward the barn entrance. “Someone calling for help. It was distant, but—“
“Don’t forget—you have better hearing than the rest of us,” Maeve pointed out.
There it was again. A man screaming for someone to help him. Tristan tilted his head and pivoted his ears, trying to determine a direction.
“Help me! Someone help me!”
Maeve’s eyes grew round. “I heard that.”
“It sounds like it’s coming from the road near the orchard.” Tristan spun on his heels and ran from the barn.
“Wait for me!” Maeve called behind him.
He couldn’t wait. There was a note of terror in the man’s voice that sent a chill up his spine.
Tristan had been edgy since the moment they’d ridden into the village. At first, he attributed it to the many humans setting up for the market, but then realized it was something else altogether.
None of them wanted to say anything, but Roderic, Aislin, Emara—they were all on edge, waiting for something terrible to happen. Hopefully, this man’s cry for help wouldn’t be that terrible something. The market needed to be a peaceful event, for all their sakes.
Dashing across the orchard, he broke out into the meadow and saw him almost immediately: a man on a large brown draft horse, no saddle, with something draped across his lap. Slowing a bit to take stock of the situation, Tristan sped up when he realized the man cradled a woman in his arms. She was wrapped in a dark cloak, a wide hood covered her head. She appeared to be ill.
Relief flooded the man’s features when Tristan reached him. “What’s the problem, man? Is your woman sick?” he asked.
The man’s eyebrows shot up as he jerked the horse to a halt. Normally amused at the reaction to his appearance, Tristan felt nothing but impatience now. “Yes, I’m an elf, the husband of the Princess Aislin of Arianrhod. My name is Tristan, and I am Chieftain of the Sylvan elves.” He gestured toward the limp figure across the man’s lap. “The woman you carry. Is she sick?”
“She’s not sick.” The man looked down at the bundle he held. “My name is Ellis Mayhew. This is my wife, Joria. She’s...she’s having our baby. Her birth waters have broken. Is there someone who can help us?”
Tristan shook with a chill. “Gods, man. A baby?”
Maeve had caught up to them by this time. “She’s having a baby? Not on the horse!”
“I have to get her to a midwife. Or somewhere that I can get her off the horse. She’s in terrible pain. I think she’s about to deliver,” the man said, eyes wide with fear. “The ride here made it worse, no matter how slow I tried to go.”
Tristan turned to Maeve. “Go get Roderic or your aunt or your mother or someone. I don’t care whom, but tell them what’s going on. I’m going to try to get her up to the manor house with her husband on the horse, but if I can’t, I’ll make a clean place for her in the barn. Go!”
Maeve tore off as if she were an arrow released from an elven bow, long hair flying behind her.
September 13, 2014(Subject to change in revisions):
“Bryce!”
The frantic whisper from the other side of the young king’s door jerked him out of a sound sleep.
“Maeve? What are you doing up at this hour?” He threw the covers back and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Open up! I have something to show you.”
“I have council first thing in the morning. Can’t it wait?”
“Fine. You can just be jealous and surprised when I join you and Eduard for sword lessons.”
Bryce rolled his eyes. The chances of their mother allowing Maeve to wield a sword beside him were slim, but she’d piqued his curiosity.
“Hold on a moment.” He slipped on a robe then lit a candle and carried it to the door. Maeve stepped in with a wide smile and held a silver scabbard up in front of his nose.
“Where did you get that?”
“From one of the sword eaters. It’s a beauty.” His sister slid the weapon from the scabbard with a soft hiss. The blade shone like a full moon in the light of the candle.
Bryce gave a low whistle and reached out to touch it. It was a short sabre, slightly curved, but both edges were razor sharp. Capable of a forward strike and an equally deadly backswing. He_ was_ jealous.
Bryce lifted his brow. “And no mention was made of presenting one of these to the king of Arianrhod?”
“You were given three beautiful thoroughbred horses during the market’s opening ceremony.” Maeve planted her hands on her hips and scowled. “You’re going to take the sword away from me, aren’t you? I swear I’ll never speak to you again if you do, Mister Fancypants King.”
“I’m not going to take it from you, Maeve, but you know Mother isn’t going to let you have it. And if she doesn’t then I might as well...”
Maeve shoved the sword back into the scabbard so fast he barely saw her move. “Aunt Aislin said she’d talk to Mother. She said I needed a defensive skill, so I’m never caught flat-footed like she was when that man invaded Arianrhod.”
“She’s teaching you the pike. Isn’t she?”
“I don’t like the pike. I want a sword.” Maeve marched to the door, turned, and gave him a look. “It’s a new age, Bryce. Women are smart and we can do things. Eduard will soon be teaching both of us. You’ll see.”
February 25, 2014
Snippet from Tempest, Book Three of the Series
Thought you might enjoy a little snippet from the other team. I am going to have so much fun with Boru in this book. Hehe.
Teaser from Tempest, Book Three of the Alainnshire series.
“Do you have something else to tell me?” Boru asked.
“No.” Brock cleared his throat. “ Your Majesty.”
“Then get out of my sight. And stay there until you do.”
Brock bowed, spun on his heels, and headed for the door. Two guards swung them open then slammed them behind him in an insulting dismissal.
He kicked at a one-eyed, gray cat sitting along the wall in the hallway as he strode toward the front door. He hated Boru as much as Jariath had, but he had no future in this kingdom if he couldn’t convince the king to put his trust in him as his son had. It was clear the old man had a very low opinion of him. What could he do to turn that around?
He scowled as he stepped outside into the sunlight. These types of warm, humid days made the stench from the swamp that much stronger. He took a deep breath anyway and gave the situation some thought.
Aislin. As far as Brock knew, she’d been the last one to see him alive. Had Wyndham’s soldiers gotten there and rescued her before Jariath could flee? He narrowed his eyes. He knew how the prince thought. He’d had her trapped in the room with him. She wouldn’t have been able to outrun him. If the prince heard the army coming, he’d have run her down, bound her hands, and used her as a hostage.
What then? Had a sharpshooter killed him as he made his escape with her? Wyndham used those damned blade arrows, a four-pronged razor-sharp knife secured to a feathered shaft capable of piercing the skull. That scenario was entirely possible.
He could make assumptions all day long, but the answers lay with the princess. What if he found a way to drag Aislin into the throne room and throw her at Boru’s feet? The king would have to respect him then.
So Arianrhod was having a market, were they? It wouldn’t be hard to blend in and walk among them, just to see who showed up. A patch over one eye, three or four days of beard, and a cloak and ragged clothing would disguise him enough.
Brock took the steps in front of the castle two at a time, feeling better than he’d felt in a year.
Teaser from Tempest, Book Three of the Alainnshire series.
“Do you have something else to tell me?” Boru asked.
“No.” Brock cleared his throat. “ Your Majesty.”
“Then get out of my sight. And stay there until you do.”
Brock bowed, spun on his heels, and headed for the door. Two guards swung them open then slammed them behind him in an insulting dismissal.
He kicked at a one-eyed, gray cat sitting along the wall in the hallway as he strode toward the front door. He hated Boru as much as Jariath had, but he had no future in this kingdom if he couldn’t convince the king to put his trust in him as his son had. It was clear the old man had a very low opinion of him. What could he do to turn that around?
He scowled as he stepped outside into the sunlight. These types of warm, humid days made the stench from the swamp that much stronger. He took a deep breath anyway and gave the situation some thought.
Aislin. As far as Brock knew, she’d been the last one to see him alive. Had Wyndham’s soldiers gotten there and rescued her before Jariath could flee? He narrowed his eyes. He knew how the prince thought. He’d had her trapped in the room with him. She wouldn’t have been able to outrun him. If the prince heard the army coming, he’d have run her down, bound her hands, and used her as a hostage.
What then? Had a sharpshooter killed him as he made his escape with her? Wyndham used those damned blade arrows, a four-pronged razor-sharp knife secured to a feathered shaft capable of piercing the skull. That scenario was entirely possible.
He could make assumptions all day long, but the answers lay with the princess. What if he found a way to drag Aislin into the throne room and throw her at Boru’s feet? The king would have to respect him then.
So Arianrhod was having a market, were they? It wouldn’t be hard to blend in and walk among them, just to see who showed up. A patch over one eye, three or four days of beard, and a cloak and ragged clothing would disguise him enough.
Brock took the steps in front of the castle two at a time, feeling better than he’d felt in a year.
S.L. Jesberger's Blog
- S.L. Jesberger's profile
- 47 followers
S.L. Jesberger isn't a Goodreads Author
(yet),
but they
do have a blog,
so here are some recent posts imported from
their feed.
