E.A. Monroe's Blog, page 7

Excerpt from Cursed in Love, Chapter 37 — Failure

Chapter 37 — Failure

Zaire removed Magpie’s red leather bridle and released the pony into the meadow, but it was not until she closed the paddock gate, leaned against the fence railing and glancing down saw the red leather clutched in her hand, that the enormity of betrayal and broken trust slammed her. Anguish wrenched her heart and she reeled from the onslaught of emotions that left her stunned.

Silveron Oktalonli was Jantz Fayerfield — a Fayerfield of Rosenhall. However much she wanted to despise Silveron, the ancient promises of the Objishanda had bound her life to him until the time came for setting aside spoken vows. Not even the mountain haven of Ameradale could shelter her from heartbreak, or the husband chosen for her by her own father and brother.

Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked at the sudden sting. The reins she clutched slipped from her hand and fell in a tangle upon the ground. Turning, she fled toward the house and then stumbled to a halt. Through streaming tears, she stared at her father’s house — the wood weathered silver and overgrown by a riot of trailing vines. Streaked lichens encrusted the stonework of its foundation and chimneys. The colors blurred, swam.

Her father had welcomed him. He had traveled with her uncles. Suddenly, Mathias’ foul temper and his discord toward Silveron made sense to her. Even her uncles knew who he was.

Her breath catching, she backed away from the turf-cut steps and the house draped in tree shadows. Turning, she ran into the forest seeking escape from a fragile heart cracked into a thousand shards, each shard beating until the thousand pulsing heartbeats thundered within her skull and pulsed in her veins.

She stumbled through the forest along the deer trail, heedless at first. Running until she tripped over a tree root and scrapped her knees. Gasping, she sucked air into her lungs — each breath a burning fire. A thousand beating hearts pounded against her ribs and roared in her ears.

Somewhere nearby water trickled. She gathered her stampeding thoughts and forced her concentration to center upon the trill and splash of flowing water. The thousand beating hearts slowed, becoming two hundred churning hearts. Slower still — fifty beating hearts, then twenty beating hearts, then ten, until a single, steady beat hammered in her chest and whooshed in her ears, but no less broken.

She sat back upon her heels and dug her toes into the spongy layer of leaf and pine needles littering the deer trail. Tears streamed down her cheeks, dripped from the end of her nose and clung to her mouth — salty sweet when she licked her tongue over her lips. She wiped the tears from her cheeks, fingertips brushing the hollow beneath her eyes, and wiped her hands down the bunched up folds of the skirt draping her thighs.

She sniffled. Blinking the wet spikes of her eyelashes, she looked around trying to regain her bearings. She searched for the source of the watery purl. Nearby, a flitter of sunlight glanced off water and struck the undersides of tree leaves in twinkling ripples of sun and sky.

The Farewell trickled a short distance from the deer path. Sunlight speared the trees, striking here and there before fading and disappearing as clouds scuttled across the sky only to reappear and strike elsewhere through the mossy depths of the forest. Stirred by the wind, leaves danced and cast dappled shadows beneath arbors of interlaced branches.

She stood, swaying upon her feet, and followed the Farewell toward a beech glade caught within a golden web of sunshine. Murmurs of wind whispered through the surrounding treetops. Wild, yellow canaries darted back and forth where the white flowers of the Dreamweaver grew in an abundant profusion.

Stepping across the mossy stones that littered the streambed, she crossed the Farewell. She walked among the beeches toward two white, leaning stone markers sprouting from the earth. Reverence settled upon her and drew her closer.

Peace guarded the clearing where Eolande and Cymbeline slept. Water rilled and the peeps and twitters of the wild canaries joined the chorus. The wind hummed, a suspiring of leaves and pine needles. Sylph spirits rode the voice of the wind: Welcome child.

A host of butterflies rose in a flurry of gold and white iridescent swirls, their bodies almost too heavy for the flutter of their fragile wings. Some skittered among the nearby witch hazels. Some clung to tree limbs and leaves, droplets of living color. Other butterflies hovered or settled upon the white stone markers, their wings opening and closing — a slow beat of resurrection. Still others of the tiny creatures rested and fed upon nectar succored from the Dreamweaver flowers before beginning their migratory journey south.

She walked among the butterflies. Some alighted upon her hair. Others clung to her clothing, shoulders, and arms. Sinking to her knees upon the flower-strewn earth, she stretched her hand to one of the standing stones. She stroked her fingertips across sun-kissed stone and traced the name carved into its surface. Butterflies kissed her wrist and knuckles.

“Eolande, mother of my blood.Why, Great Mother? Why did Silveron do this?”

Wind stirred through the trees. He is the one.

“I gifted him the Starstone!” Zaire cried.

Do you love him?

“What is love?” Zaire lifted her face to a warm gust. Butterflies, caught upon the wind, swirled into the semblance of a woman, their wings flashing gold and silver in the sun. Tears struck her afresh.

“I do not have the courage to forsake my blood and heritage enough to forgive.”

Wind tangled her hair and caressed her face. Its disembodied voice teased her ear, a comforting lullaby.

Hush, child.

The wind stilled. The swirl of butterflies settled upon stone, twig and leaf. She lay back and gazed up through the treetops swaying against a patch of azure sky — azure like his eyes. She rested in the moment — butterflies alighting upon her, covering her. She closed her eyes.

As the wind sighed and the wild canaries twittered, and green and gold leaves rippled, she dreamed of a man who shone — a brilliant sun haloed by plumes of fire — a man who wrapped her in his arms and kissed her, a man who pressed her into the forest loam and spilled his seed into her womb.

A lifetime ago, she had loved the golden man, as she now loved Silveron Oktalonli. Silveron resided in her heart, in her soul as surely as the flame that burned within the heart of the Starstone. Were the golden man and Silveron the same man? What power brought him back to this lifetime? What force lured him to walk the earth in flesh again?

The wind whispered. Love.

***

Zaire roused. She had fallen asleep. Twilight settled among the trees. The butterflies had taken flight. Their silver and gold bodies hung suspended from the surrounding trees. A few stragglers drifted here and there and sought a resting place for the night.

As reluctant as she was to leave the peaceful beech glade and the odd dream that had lulled her into a blissful oblivion, she could not stay. Home beckoned and night fell.

Somewhere within the forest a twig snapped. Nocturnal creatures stirred. A lonely beast prowled the night.

“Give me courage,” Zaire prayed.

Copyright 2013 © by Elizabeth A. Monroe

Excerpt from Cursed in Love, Chapter 1 — Unlocking Secrets

In the gathering twilight, Silveron Oktalonli stood upon the Tonnach Shelf and gazed out to sea, a silhouetted figure facing the wind, the South Wind — Akawi. The wind’s damp chill pushed into the thick blue wool of his cloak. He tugged the hood down to cover his head from the penetrating sea wind howling across the edge of the world upon a tang of salt.

As he stood watch, the sun sank into liquid fire, a quick extinction drowned in the molten sea. On the swath of beach below, a small village hugged the gray sea cliffs. Among the shelter of jutting black rocks, an octagonal tent woven from felted mats of goat hair stood pitched against the night. The tent’s black shape offered a stark contrast against the white sand.

Up and down the beach, Silveron counted the evening campfires where the women cooked, the flicker of their lanterns and the flare of their campfires a warm invitation. He listened to their voices buffeted, disjointed by the overwhelming skirl of Akawi and the pounding heartbeat of white surf bashing against the sea wall.

Here, among the deep cracks and crevices of the sea cliffs the Onega tribe of the Objishanda dwelled in hollowed out caverns, each home marked by the twinkling lights of their evening lanterns. Here, the River Sky poured into the vastness of the Forsaken Sea after twisting through desolate, empty lands from its headwaters high in the Mountains of the Sky.

Over his left shoulder, the thin crescent of a new moon slit the sky. Off shore, white surf foamed in the trailing wake of feeding dolphins. A mile further from shore, Silveron’s gaze swept the darker shapes of tree-clad islands that formed a barrier reef stretching for miles along the rugged coastline.

A shadowy movement on the path climbing toward him caught the swift flight of his keen gaze — Minaku, the Berry Woman. Toothless and wrinkled, her nut-brown face bore the lines of many seasons and the pocks of countless years Minaku had lived, the oldest of the Onega’s folk.

Long ago, she lost count of the number of summers and winters she had walked upon the shores of the Forsaken Sea. She no longer remembered. Despite her forgotten age, she climbed the steep grassy path, exhibiting a spry agility, and stood beside him upon the Tonnach Shelf.

Swaying in the wind, Minaku clutched the coarsely woven shawl that draped her white head beneath the knot of her chin. His gaze skimmed the wrinkled skin puffed around fading gray eyes and sagging in deep creases about her mouth.

Lowly, she began crooning a prayer chant to Akawi. Silveron listened to her ancient song as his gaze shifted from Minaku to study the island reef across the undulating waves. Through his thoughts, the Onega’s sea song wove strands of flowing spindrift.

Copyright 2013 © by Elizabeth A. Monroe

Happy New Year 2015

Excerpt from Cursed in Love, Book 3 in the Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time series

Zaire followed the old woman up the broad sweep of limestone steps and through the open door, but as she stepped through the entrance, her feet faltered upon the polished black and white marble squares that tiled the vaulted foyer. Her gaze skimmed the dim shadows, seeking escape. Upon either side of the foyer, tall doors opened into other rooms. Her gaze strayed to the ornately carved grand staircase ascending into the gloom of the upper levels of the house. The watchful eyes of age-darkened portraits, each the captive reflection of some long deceased ancestor, guarded the stairway.

She felt the weight of the imposing house settle around her shoulders. A House of Sorrow, she thought. An unnatural oppression sucked the breath from her lungs. Beneath her breastbone, her heart thumped, raced.

“This way, girl.” The old woman beckoned from where she stood upon the fifth step of the staircase, waiting.

Zaire swallowed the fear threatening to overwhelm her and walked toward the staircase. At the bottom step, a chill permeated her flesh. The icy dread enveloped her. She shivered and forced her feet to take the first step through the frigid space, a second step, a third step until the uncanny coldness pooled at the bottom of the staircase slid away from her. An overwhelming sorrow smote her. Someone wept, an echo in time lost to the living who did not have eyes to see or ears to hear — a keening lament of loss. Where is my child, my lost child?

“Hurry, girl. Do not tarry.”

“Who died here?” Zaire whispered. Coldness and sorrow pulsed through her. She looked up at the old woman hovering upon the stair step above her.

The old woman’s eyes widened. She groped for something hidden within the loose bodice of her gown. Her hands wore the thin skin and brown splotches of old age. She moved her lips, uttering a silent prayer.

“Who is the lady who weeps?”

“No one that matters to ye, girl. Follow me — quick now.”

Zaire drew her breath and followed the old woman. Setting each foot one at a time upon the steps, she climbed the curl of the grand staircase to the second floor, but not without glancing down into the foyer and the shadowy, dense coldness that pooled across the black and white marble tiles gleaming at the bottom of the staircase.

The old woman beckoned her on and she followed, through dimly lit, furniture-lined corridors where the heavy drapery covering the windows warded off any stray beam of sunlight that dared to pierce the gloom. She walked swiftly, her gaze never leaving the woman bobbing down the hallway ahead of her.

The pulse of the house strengthened with each step she treaded. Like dust and smoke, the musty odors of a turbulent past clung to fabric and wood and tickled her nostrils. The perpetual shadows harbored the faintest of echoes — a boy’s chortle, a girl’s sob, a mother’s love, a father’s devotion — the pantheon of human emotions and lives once lived within Rosenhall.

Where were they now, she wondered? Sucked into the shadows of time and memory, she thought.

Copyright 2013 © by Elizabeth A. Monroe

Cursed in Love, Book 3

I’ve been working on the blurb/description for Cursed in Love, Book 3 in the Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time series. Here’s what I have so far.

Seven years have passed since Jantz Fayerfield left home to find Doriano Drake living among the Onega, the sea tribe of the Objishanda.

As Silveron, the Western Stranger, he has known a peaceful life of simple contentment among the Onega — until Doriano’s revelation of a long kept secret sends him home to El Nath. What will he find upon his arrival?

Is he ready to confront his past and resume a turbulent life fraught with his older brother’s ambitions, hazardous kinsmen and political maneuverings? What, if anything, of his past remains for him? Do the loved ones he left behind even wonder if he is still alive, or do they mourn him among the dead, his grave as empty as Jarutia’s grave, nothing more than a headstone scoured by wind and the elements?

And what of his family’s curse — Cursed in Love? Will he become another unfortunate victim?

Discover the secret that brings Jantz Fayerfield home again in Cursed in Love, Book 3 of the Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time series.

Book Review

My first review from the lovely Lisa Fender. Check it out.

http://www.lisafender.com/2013/10/book-review-voice-of-wind-shadows-of.html?spref=fb

How Old is the Cinderella Story?

When I saw this artwork, I wondered just how old is the Cinderella story? Curiosity sent me on a search. I discovered that the Cinderella story most of us are familiar with (Charles Perrault-1697, Brothers Grimm and Walt Disney), has its origins in classical antiquity. In the 1st century BC, Strabo recorded a tale of a Greco-Egyptian girl named Rhodopis. The oldest known version goes back to at least five centuries before Strabo when Herodotus recorded information about Rhodopis in his “Histories.”

Cinderella was a popular story throughout antiquity, and since those times “the myth of unjust oppression/triumphant fortune” has become an archetype ingrained into our collective psyches. If you’d like to know more about archetypes, read Carl Jung or Joseph Campbell’s work (“The Hero’s Journey”). Also, Christopher Vogel’s “The Writer’s Journey – Mythic Structure for Writers,” is a book that every writer should have on their book shelf.

I’m always fascinated by all the creative and different ways writers and artists can twist and weave the plot elements into a new story or work of art.

Recently, I read Eloisa James’ “A Kiss at Midnight” — a fantastic retelling of the Cinderella story that I enjoyed and recommend to all romance readers and writers.

For more about the Cinderella myth, read Alice Grey’s fantastic article. http://alicegrey.hubpages.com/hub/The-Origins-of-the-Cinderella-story

Have any more Cinderella stories to recommend?

Excerpt: Cursed in Love, Book 3

“Tau Ceti!” Gold flashed, dazzling bright — sunlight captured within the hundreds of small gold plates that comprised the breastplate of mail that covered a man’s fragile shell.

“Tau Ceti!” That is the name they called him. Tau Ceti, the Shining Bright One, and she loved him. He found rest and solace within her arms, her love. War, politics, strife no longer mattered — a High King was an ordinary man beset by the same problems, desires and dreams as a common man was; but a High King’s life was not easily escaped nor were duty and obligation. He chose love and found death.

His chest burned, blood poured from the mortal wound and through that gaping hole his heart pumped out his life. Above, the sun shone — his love’s face like a bright and furious star. Somewhere nearby horses snorted and farted, leather creaked and harness jingled, men cursed, voices rumbled, the wind sighed through the treetops, water trickled over stone, and his love wept. Hot tears splashed his face. His beloved kissed him. Her lips taking his last breath, she swallowed his soul.

She cradled his head against her breasts and her hair brushed his face, her breath stole into his nostrils, her warmth seeped into the coldness of his flesh. He loved her. They had promised each other Forever.

The man he called brother stood beside her and placed his black-gloved hands upon her shoulders. Through bitter tears, she cursed his brother.

“Cursed in love! You and your sons and your daughters! Cursed in love… until forgiven… until loved.”

Eolande.

Copyright 2013, Elizabeth Monroe

Meet Maybelle Flower

Welcome to my world…. Meet Maybelle Flower, Spinner of Illusions and one of the Majarra (bird) — one of the seven tribes of the Objishanda. Even the oldest of the old remember Maybelle from their childhood. She wanders the landscapes of El Nath, crooning her omens and warnings, but why does she haunt the Fayerfields more than any other family?

Maybelle Flower crouched near the chamber hearth and sought warmth and shelter from the harsh night. She huddled in upon herself, babbling, scratching, head jerking to the bees buzzing inside her skull. Casting her finger bone runes into cinders and ash, she peered into the future. The finger bones never lied. A knowing gaze traced grooved notches and dots and spiral circles worn smooth by handling and care. Maybelle read the omens of the Great Ones. Tossing back her head, she howled.

greenwaldroad2.jpg

In El Nath, the Greenwald Road may lead one off on an unexpected adventure!