E.A. Monroe's Blog, page 3
June 18, 2022
May 23, 2022
May 4, 2022
The Wind and the Wolf
5-4-22; 3:30 pm, CST. I finally finished round 5 of the edits! Here is the latest cover for The Wind and the Wolf, Book 8 in The Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time series.
Here is a list of the other books in the series:
Written in Omen — Book 1Fortune’s Hostage — Book 2
Cursed in Love — Book 3
Pale Imitations — Book 4
Under a Pale Moon — Book 5
Shadows and Substance — Book 6Mikuyi Moon — Book 7
The Wind and the Wolf — Book 8
What is the Winter For? — Book 9 (work in progress)
April 24, 2022
Mikuyi Moon, Book #7
Mikuyi Moon, the newest release in my Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time series is now available on Amazon!
FREE on Kindle Unlimited
Cover design by Monroe Media
February 18, 2022
Winter Trees, Mikuyi Moon
Through countless seasons, weather had eroded the land, but the mysterious, white granite stones of Sparrow still stood — silent sentinels of time, impervious to the brief lifespan of man. Like the silent, standing stones, scars of loneliness reamed Inali’s heart, forged from his own volition. Intricate structures, like frost and snow laced tree branches, revealed by the stark patterns created in pink, gold, mauve and azure-tinted sunsets.
A Stand of Bare Trees Against a Colorful Winter Sky at Twilight by Derrick Neill.
January 30, 2022
Escape into the world of El Nath…
The link to my Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time series page on Amazon.com
January 16, 2022
Mikuyi Moon, Book 7
Coming Soon!
Mikuyi Moon, Book 7 in the Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time series —
“When the war moon rises, stained crimson with the blood of the slain — I, Eridandi, Wolf Clan Chief of the Mikuyi — will ride again and claim my own.” ~ Ancient prophesy promising the return of the Mikuyi, banished into exile, to their place among the Objishanda tribes
Kieron Fayerfield left home, a young man seeking adventure and romance. He finds what he seeks among the Mikuyi’s Wolf Clan when he marries Uriate Canavar and together they raise five sons. Two decades later, Kieron’s peaceful life among the Mikuyi shatters when his second-born son Althar’s lover is brutally murdered and Althar wounded. A night of fire and blood vendetta sends Kieron and Uriate’s sons, Inali and Althar, fleeing to Fayerton and exile.
Inali and Althar’s journey from their northern home in the Unfaithful Mountains to their father’s family home in Fayerton, crosses the unexpected path of the elusive Gahada, one of the tribes of the Objishanda known for their healing gifts. Fearful for Althar’s life-threatening injury, Inali makes a decision that alters his destiny. Without any regard for the consequences of his actions, Inali kidnaps a young Gahada woman to save his brother’s life.
Thus begins an epic journey that brings Mikuyi Moon to life with a diverse and unruly cast of characters and fortuitous events. From sailing regattas and midnight muggings, to tavern brawls and domestic disputes, plenty of intrigue, unrequited love, jealousy, deceit, and treachery abounds.
Copyright ©2021 E.A. Monroe
__________
Keywords — fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, lovers, infidelity, friends and enemies, kidnapping, violence, treachery, long journeys, and homecomings, literary fiction: alternate reality, fantasy, romance, dynastic family saga, marriage, servants, slavery, Objishanda Starfolk, El Nath, shamans and witches, village life.
December 7, 2021
Excerpt ~ Chapter 52
Chapter 52— Excerpt from The Wind and the Wolf, Book 8 in the Voice of the Wind: the Shadows of Time series.
Zalan watched until Noji and the sleigh disappeared from sight before heeling Cloud around and heading back to his cottage. In the gathering twilight, the pearl ball of the sun slanting low in the west, the Sparrow Hills was an eerie setting: a stark world of rock, water, and frozen grass whistling icy tunes as the wind rushed past, bending close to the craggy bones of the rugged hills. The wind, relentless in its sculpting, had scoured the granite rock to bare outcrops among scatterings of oak, hickory, and pine woodlands. In the shallow soil depressions, mosses and lichens flourished, and perennial herbs flowered during the spring and summer months.
An unsettling watchfulness settled on the land — eyes of predator, eyes of prey scurrying into frozen burrows, startled birds taking wing. An owl hooted; a wolf bayed to the settling watchfulness of the descending night. A chorus of howls echoed from the surrounding ring of hills in answer, the wolves’ voices almost human sounding.
From the corner of his eye, Zalan glimpsed a fleeting gray shape loping parallel beside him. The beasts were brave, warily creeping closer despite the scent of man.
After a season of solitude, living at Sparrow Top, his only company Dog and the black-faced sheep he tended, Zalan looked forward to spending a pleasant evening in Oanada’s company. He was eager for the hearth fire, knowing his sheep were secure for the night against the looming threat of starving predators stalking the Sparrow Hills.
Oanada watched for his return. She stood silhouetted in the yellow light of the window that fronted the cottage. She pushed open the door; her welcoming, dimpled smile reminded him of their mother.
Zalan shrugged off his outer layers of protective coats and leggings down to his knitted sweater, homespun wool trousers, and thick woolen stockings. He hung the winter garments on an antlered rack beside the door. More than once during the night he had pulled on those garments layer by layer before venturing out to check on his sheep.
“I heard howling. The wolves sound close,” Oanada said.
“Noji told me Jora may form a hunt.” Zalan did not mention the predator he had seen, uncertain whether it was only a shadow cast by the settling nightfall that played with his imagination.
He sat down to the warm supper Oanada set on the table for him and offered her a grin. She placed a basket of sliced bread on the table and slid into the chair across from him.
“Dinner smells delicious — almost as good as Mother’s cooking,” Zalan teased. “Have I told you how glad I am you are here?”
“You mean for reasons other than my excellent cooking?”
Zalan grinned, shook his head. “I always missed you when you returned to Ameradale for the winter. I never wanted you to leave.”
***
Oanada nibbled on a crust of bread, content to gaze affectionately at her youngest brother. She loved Zalan for his uncommon individuality and creativity, for his startling bi-colored eyes, one eye blue and one eye gray, both crisp and bright beneath his tousled cap of bluish black hair. Of the four of their parent’s children, Zalan was the quiet one. His thoughts ran as deep and vast as the night vaulted sky and, in his words echoed an old soul.
“Why did you choose to follow the Gahada and become a Keeper?” Zalan asked between chewing his food and swallowing sips of hot tea.
“Why do you choose to lead the solitary life of a shepherd?”
“You know why — because I am neither mother’s people nor father’s people. If I set myself apart it is to find my own way between two different paths.”
“That is why I chose to keep the ways of the Gahada — to learn who I am.” Oanada leaned toward him, covered his hand with her hand. “You and I share the same blood, Zalan. Perhaps I am no more Gahada than you? I have forsaken so much this past year.”
“Because of the Mikuyi?”
Oanada sighed, sat back. “Inali has been a greater part of everything that has happened to me. He touched my life and everyone I love and hold dear, including you, brother-mine, and your solitary shepherd’s life. I do not believe either one of us was ready for marriage. We could not even make it for a year and a day.”
***
Zalan nodded. He finished eating his supper in silence. He did not tell Oanada about the autumn nights when Inali had shared his campfire and his food. In return, the Mikuyi had revealed a rare side of himself to the quiet, studious youth who tended his sheep among the hills Inali hunted, ranging far from Fayerfield House. More than once since Oanada’s arrival, Zalan had glimpsed against the sky the silhouette of a horse and rider watching over them.
After the supper dishes were washed and dried, brother and sister pulled their chairs closer to the hearth fire. Zalan cherished such moments of quiet contentment he shared with Oanada. They listened to the crackle and pop of the fire logs, the whispering flames and marveled at the brilliant blues and greens of a burning pinecone. Sometimes they popped kernels of corn and told ghost stories.
Some evenings, Oanada recited poems written by their ancestor Tarostar. Zalan sat listening, pondering the hidden meanings of Tarostar’s words now lost to time. More often he reached for his lap harp, lute or pan flute and played a melody to accompany the song Oanada’s lilting voice wove with Tarostar the poet’s words.
Other evenings, he contemplated his sister’s quiet serenity, trying to grasp the thoughts that flickered behind Oanada’s fire-glazed eyes. Did she think about the Mikuyi? Or did her thoughts stray no further than the child moving within the round swell of her womb? Did one stir memories of the other?
© 2021, Elizabeth A. Monroe
#ComingSoon, #AmazonEbook, #VoiceoftheWind, #Family Saga, # AlternateReality
November 21, 2021
Time for the Holidays
It’s that time of the year again. The holiday season always sneak up on me. 
I hope to add Books 7 and 8 to the Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time series after the new year. I’ve been working on “Mikuyi Moon” and “The Wind and the Wolf” during the pandemic, almost two years! Of course, I do a lot of goofing off, too.
Read for free on Amazon Prime.
October 18, 2021
Excerpt: Chapter 9
The Wind and the Wolf, Copyright 2021
Chapter 9 ~“La! Miss Oanada does not eat enough to keep a bird alive,” Madra said when Flora Moss deposited the tray of uneaten food in the sink and busied herself with task number three on Mavis’s list: clean and polish the copper pots, pans, trays, and molds. At least the tedious work allowed her to enjoy the morning’s gossip that Lotta Jo exaggerated and animated with her colorful imitations of local personalities such as Rena Oldroyd. What a shock upon first hearing those sultry tones strident with anger or cool with disgust coming from Lotta Jo’s lips.
“Oooh! How is a woman to keep her girlish figure, especially one in Miss Oanada’s condition?” Lotta Joe chortled, imitating Rena and rubbing her pudgy hand over her round belly.
Flora jumped, startled from her daydreaming about spending the night with Darcy. Her blissful reverie was shattered by the clatter of her tin of copper polish rolling across the kitchen’s terra cotta floor tiles.
“I did not mean to frighten you, Flora.” Lotta Joe laughed and squeezed Flora’s shoulders in an exuberant embrace. “Coming from the Oldroyd’s service I imagine Rena made everyone jump at the sound of her voice.”
“Miss Rena has her demands. She is particular about everything, or so my sister Tilda has said often enough,” Flora said. She retrieved the tin of polish from where it had rolled beneath the sturdy kitchen table. She stared in awe at Lotta Jo. The cook’s enormous size dominated the kitchen. She was sole authority over the food, what was cooked and served, although Mavis Rosenthorn had final authority over everything and everyone, including Lotta Jo.
Mavis frowned, disapproving. “Miss Oanada will be making demands if she hears you talking like that, Lotta Jo. Not that she would, being more considerate and kinder than some who could have become mistress of this house.”
“Including Rena Oldroyd for one,” Madra said. “She would make changes and the cooking would probably be the first change on her list.”
“Peasant food!” Lotta quipped mocking Rena’s you-disgust-me tone. “Humph! Peasant food indeed.”
Flora laughed, exclaimed, “How astonishing! How do you do that? I have never heard anyone sound so much like someone else in my life.”
“Lotta Jo has natural talent, Flora,” Pearlie twittered.
“That I do, dearie!” Lotta Jo leaned over her stew pot and inhaled the aromatic steam rising from the simmering broth full of vegetables.
“How many other people can you imitate, Lotta Jo?” Flora asked.
“Lotta Jo does not need any encouragement, Flora,” Mavis answered. A matronly scowl sent Flora back to polishing the copper pot.
“Master Kieron went through the kitchen ceiling the first time he heard Lotta Jo doing her imitation of him,” Pearlie said.
“Master Kieron is my best one. He loved it, he did!” Lotta Jo laughed, her round belly jiggling beneath her white apron. “Mavis — Mavis my darling!” she piped, her voice deep and gruff.
“Who else, Lotta Jo? Can you do Miss Oanada?” Pearlie asked.
Lotta blinked thoughtfully, pursed her lips. “Miss Oanada has music in her voice. Her voice is a bit too tricky for me.”
Madra chortled. “Especially since you have a voice as raucous as black crow, Lotta Jo.”
“I can do Master Inali and his brother with my crow voice, although the two of them sound so much alike it is hard to distinguish one brother from the other, unless they are quarreling. Althar’s voice has a note of sadness, I think.” Lotta Jo peered into her stew pot.
“Do they quarrel?” Flora pumped. She wanted to learn more, however indifferent she tried to sound and appear as she bent industriously over the copper cooking pot.
“La! I have never in my life heard such a row go on between two brothers. Not even Master Kieron and Master Jantz carried on as loud or as violently as the way those two did over Miss Oanada and the babe.”
“Lotta Jo,” Mavis warned, but her disapproval went heeded except by Flora. She smeared a daub of copper polish on the next pot and wiped and rubbed the metal until the copper gleamed.
“There will be trouble between those two, mark my words, Mavis. It is obvious to me,” Lotta continued. She crushed and sprinkled bay leaves into the simmering stew pot, stirred.
“Not our place to interfere, Lotta Jo. If Master Inali quarrels with his brother over Miss Oanada, that is between the two of them. Woe to any one who interferes,” Mavis said.
“Including Edan Drum I wager!” Lotta sniffed as a final emphasis.
The clang of a heavy pot banging down on the table caused Pearlie, Mavis, Madra, and Lotta Jo to all jump and stare at Flora.
“Is everything all right, Flora?” Mavis inquired.
Flora winced at her clumsiness. “Yes, Mistress Rosenthorn. The cooking pot is heavier than I thought. I will try to be more careful. I hope I did not dent it,” Flora hastily apologized.
Mavis smiled. “Quite all right, Flora. Why not take a few hours off this afternoon and visit your sister? I am sure Tilda is anxious to hear how you like your new job.”
“Thank you, Mistress Rosenthorn.” Flora said, relieved. She had worried over how she could get away from Fayerfield House long enough to appease Rena’s suspicions. Still, she was not eager to deliver her skimpy report on Oanada to Rena. Maybe if she told Rena what she wanted to hear, who would be the wiser, certainly not Rena. Flora was too realistic not to know that Darcy would stray, if he had not already.
“I will not be too long, Mistress Rosenthorn.” Flora untied her apron and hurried off to her small room to don her best dress. She pinned her fiery hair into the upswept style that Darcy claimed made her throat too irresistible to avoid kissing. She splashed on the rose scent she had purchased from a San Bargellian perfume booth during the summer fair.
She clasped the silver bracelet Darcy had gifted her on her wrist and, twirling, admired her reflection in the dressing mirror that hung behind the door of her room. She was pretty. She knew that for a fact and, as realistic and practical as she was, knew the advantages she could gain from her appearance. She had learned a lot from observing and imitating Rena’s mannerisms.
Satisfied with her reflection, Flora smiled. Rena’s discarded gown fit her curves to perfection and the yellow heightened the fiery curls crowning her head. If Darcy found her not worth risking his marriage for, other men might find her as attractive and as desirable, other men less obligated to their family and without the castrating entanglements of a wife and in-laws who controlled their fortunes.
By no means did she, Flora Moss, intend to work as a servant for the rest of her days. She dreamed about being the mistress of a large townhouse mansion that overlooked Fayerton and Kilmere instead of being an employed servant. But, which townhouse? How many eligible, wealthy men other than Darcy did she know?
In her secret diary, Flora had devoted page after page to her dreams, her hopes and wishes, and her passion for Darcy. On the other pages of her diary, many of them still blank, she had penned headings in her childish script.
Thumbing through the faux-gold embossed pages, Flora glanced at the names of the other male possibilities she had written down as each possible candidate had come to mind, often thought up as she was performing some boring domestic ritual.
Some of the candidate’s names she had crossed out with an angry black stroke of the pen: Dorwin Fouts was one such name. Although the Village Council member was not married, his fiancée Megan Wellborn, his spinster sister, and his invalid mother were not the prerequisites Flora desired in lover or husband.
Rojah Fayerfield figured prominently in her daydreams, but he had departed on a ship to San Bargel. Who knew when she might see Rojah again? She did not cross out his name and had drawn hearts.
Other names she had crossed out and replaced several times. Her imagination was boundless. Each night she dreamed of a different candidate. Perhaps she did not want one man in particular? A lifetime of devotion to only one man might become too boring and confining.
But, Darcy! Flora sighed and stared dreamily at his name. She caressed the black pen strokes of Darcy’s name and the hearts she had drawn. She wanted no one as much as she wanted Darcy Oldroyd, but before she returned her diary to its hiding place beneath her mattress, she penned in one more name beside her entry of Chaeran’s name: Althar Canavar.
Flora smiled. “Anything is possible, Flora Moss!” She giggled, feeling more secure in her second-hand self-confidence as she set out for the Oldroyd’s and her appointment with her secret employer.
#Excerpt, #Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time, Book 8
E.A. Monroe, Monroe Media
