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rufousnmacska · 7 years ago

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Child of Peace Epilogue 2 - Nesryn

Fanfic master list

full work on ao3

Note - I screwed up. I wrote the Chaol chapter then got the idea to write a separate little head canon about Manon-Dorian meeting Nesryn-Sartaq. Little did I know that head canon would morph into an entirely new chapter. (Alright. I kind of knew. This thing is never going to end, let’s be honest.) The screw up is the chronological corner I wrote myself into with that Chaol chapter. So. This is epilogue 2, but it takes place before the events of epilogue 1.

Also, as I was posting this on ao3, I realized it’s been over a year since I started writing this fic. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me from the beginning and thanks to new readers who just started!

Dorian strode out of Aedion’s empty tent, frustrated at missing the General yet again. A lieutenant from the Bane said he’d left at dawn for Suria to deal with some of Rolfe’s ships which had recently arrived. Apparently, he wanted to make sure the pirates caused no trouble in the small port city. Dorian couldn’t help but wonder if Aedion had simply needed time away from Lysandra. He felt badly for both of them being stuck in such a difficult situation. But her disguise was the glue to their piecemeal alliance until Rowan returned with Aelin.

He had hoped that when they joined up with Aedion and Lysandra that it would be the real Lysandra again. He’d hoped that Aelin would be here waiting for him and Manon. Instead, they’d brought their witch army to Orynth only to find Aedion and Lysandra at each other’s throats. Her shapeshifting and acting abilities, not to mention her cunning, made Lysandra the perfect imposter. But the growing weight of responsibility and worry for Aelin was wearing on her. And such a haphazard mix of forces – Terrasen foot soldiers and cavalry, the Whitethorn ships, the Ashryvers, the assassins, and the various armies and navies Ansel had thrown together – would be a nightmare for anyone to oversee, let alone a gifted general like Aedion.

At least that had been Dorian’s excuse to Manon when trying to calm her temper in the few weeks they’d been here. But no matter the reasons, Aedion’s reaction to the forces they’d brought with them had been disappointing. Upon first seeing the fields of wyverns and the squadrons of witches, both Ironteeth and Crochan, Lysandra had been ecstatic. Aedion, on the other hand, had looked over the group with stubborn impassivity. Later, Lysandra had confided that she thought Aedion still harbored some ill will towards he and Manon for their roles in Aelin’s capture. For Dorian sending her into the mirror, and for Manon not doing enough to stop Maeve from taking her.

“He blames me too. He actually thinks any of us could have stopped her once she set her mind to something,” Lysandra had said. “She’d resigned herself to the possibility of capture a long time before any of us even knew what was going on."

Although Dorian and Manon had agreed, they still felt some small measure of guilt, and knew Aedion was taking his own out on those around him. Understandable, if not necessarily fair.

That didn’t quite explain his stupidity however. When he’d demanded the witches swear their allegiance to Terrasen in writing… Dorian had to physically restrain Manon. Thankfully, Aven and Petrah had stayed calm enough to simply tell him no before walking out of the meeting.

Which was why the entire aerial force of witches was relocating to the southwest near Perranth. They’d be closer to the Crochans. And farther from an inevitable explosion between Aedion and Manon. But they’d still be near enough to respond if and when they were needed. So, they were leaving tomorrow morning. Many of the witches were pissed off at having to double back over terrain they’d already crossed to get here. Some were upset to leave the large encampment of men and women, a novel source of fun. But he was glad for it. As were the leaders of the witch coalition. It had been getting difficult keeping the witches under control with so many humans nearby. And vice versa. Old prejudices remained, just as he and Manon had feared.

Dorian stopped suddenly in the middle of the road that wound its way through the sprawling war camp. Having just barely missed him, the driver of a horse-drawn cart shouted curses at him and Dorian stepped aside, ignoring the soldier. He stared down an intersecting path at two people who looked like they were lost. The woman looked familiar and it took him an embarrassingly long time to realize who it was.

“Nesryn?” She looked in his direction, and after a moment or two passed for her to recognize him, he didn’t feel so bad about not immediately knowing who she was. Neither one was expecting to see the other in this setting. “Rutting gods! It is you!” He ran at her and before she could speak he swooped her into a hug.

When he let her go, she looked awkwardly back and forth between him and her companion. Who was definitely not Chaol. Dorian turned in an anxious circle, searching for his friend.

“He's just landed in Suria,” Nesryn said, her face falling. Dorian’s look of worry startled her into a nervous laugh and she raised her hands defensively. “No! He’s fine, it’s just...” She sighed. “He wanted to surprise you with his return and if he finds out it’s been ruined, he will never forgive me.” She gave the man an odd look, then turned back to him. “He’s got a lot to tell you so... all I will say is that he is healthy and excited to see you.”

Dorian looked between the two of them, noticing their clothing - leathers that were similar to those worn by the Ironteeth witches - their braided hair, and their vibrant, windswept quality, complete with chapped lips and cheeks. He had an odd, sinking feeling that much had happened to his friends in the Southern Continent, and more was to come. More, like he was losing his captain to her father’s homeland, and possibly, to this handsome man waiting patiently next to her.

“And if I order you as your King, you still won’t tell me?” he asked finally, only half joking.

The man’s eyes grew wide and his entire demeanor changed as he glanced to Nesryn. Dorian conceded, “The hug was probably not the most regal of greetings.”

Nesryn’s cheeks were bright red as she said, “King Dorian Havilliard, this is Prince Sartaq, Heir to the Khagan of the Southern Continent.”

The Prince bowed low. “It is an honor Your Majesty.”

Now it was his turn to stare in astonishment. Not just a prince, but the Heir to the Khaganate had accompanied Nesryn back to Erilea. Dorian quickly regained his poise and said in Halha, “The honor is all mine Prince Sartaq. Please forgive me.” He bowed and then offered his hand.

“What am I forgiving?” the Prince asked, a smile lighting his face as he shook Dorian’s hand.

Dorian laughed. “My inappropriate behavior in response to this wonderful surprise. And my atrocious accent.”

“There is no need for either,” the Prince said. “And your accent is excellent, Your Majesty.”

Nesryn rolled her eyes, so quick that he probably wouldn’t have caught it if he wasn’t so used to seeing it from Manon. “Please, call me Dorian. And the only thing we have no need for is flattery. My Halha is awful. Nesryn can attest to that.”

The Prince’s face lit up even more as he said, “Dorian it is. I prefer going without titles as well. And I’d be happy to help you improve your accent.” He gave Dorian a cocky grin. “Assuming we have any spare time while saving the world.”

Nesryn didn’t bother hiding her reaction this time. “Perhaps there is no need for me to stay. I can go look for Aedion on my own.”

Her eye roll was impressive, Dorian thought, as Sartaq took her hand and leaned down to whisper something in apology. Nesryn glanced hesitantly at him, but Dorian smiled. Undoubtedly, he was in for a hell of a story whenever Chaol got back. And though he was dying of curiosity, he wouldn’t interrogate Nesryn here.

“Actually, Aedion isn’t here.” Dorian said. “But there is someone I’d like you both to meet.” He gestured for them to follow. As he started down a narrower road that led out of camp, he twisted around and said, “Thank the gods she wasn’t here for all of the Your Majesties. I’d never hear the end of it.” He caught the curious look Sartaq gave Nesryn, but she didn’t. She was too busy giving Dorian a smug smile.

He had liked Nesryn from the moment they’d met, but it was obvious that she’d changed a great deal from her journey to Antica. She’d always been straightforward, but also reserved. Quiet. Now, she seemed as if she’d found some piece that had been missing before. Dorian didn’t think that was only due to the Prince who couldn’t keep his eyes off her. It was more like something she’d discovered within herself. A new sort of confidence that went deeper than just being highly skilled at her job. She was still smirking at him and he found he quite liked this new Nesryn. “What is that look for?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied. “Just excited to see the wyverns.”

Sartaq stopped and looked between the two of them. “You have wyverns here?”

Dorian nodded, shooting a mocking glare at Nesryn for figuring out his surprise. “How did you know?”

“How did I know princeling?” she asked, drawing out the last word as if harassing a sibling.

He felt his cheeks heat but the small embarrassment disappeared when she added. “We have a surprise of our own.”

Nesryn knew she should probably stop teasing the King of Adarlan. It was just so easy. And fun. The sight of his jaw dropping when she mentioned the ruks was worth it. But, he was still her ruler. And employer.

That thought made her stomach churn, and she stayed mostly quiet the rest of the way to the wyvern paddock, letting Sartaq describe what the Rukhin could offer in the war, and Dorian update them on the state of Adarlan and the forces under Aedion’s command. Trying to catch them off guard, Dorian threw in a question here and there fishing for more details about Chaol. But neither gave anything away. Sartaq always glanced to her for permission and when she’d shake her head in annoyance, he’d turn back to Dorian with a ridiculously sorrowful expression. To which Dorian would say something like No, no, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. They were like little boys commiserating over some great injustice she had committed against them. She would have been pissed. If not for them clearly liking each other. And the fact that her heart had swelled with that knowledge.

They turned a corner and Nesryn almost ran into Sartaq, who stood frozen, staring in awe across a field filled with what had to be hundreds of wyverns. She walked around him and gaped too. She’d seen them before of course. But... “Gods! So many...” she breathed.

She’d forgotten how big they could get, some easily three or four times the size of Salkhi. And the colors. Various shades of grays and browns and greens, but also blues and even reds. One looked almost purple. Every few moments one would let out a shriek or rumble a low roar, but it was surprisingly quiet for so many beasts confined to one area. There were witches milling about, checking on injuries or throwing sides of meat at their mounts.

Sartaq broke her focus as he anxiously asked, “Do they all fly for you? Or does Erawan still have some in his army?”

She knew what he was thinking. Seeing them in person, seeing the size difference compared to their ruks… She looked towards Dorian, who also seemed to understand Sartaq’s concern.

“He still has some witches with him, but not as many as we have. Though he has other flying monstrosities within his forces.” He pointed to the trees edging the field and she saw a group tending their brooms. “The wyverns are intimidating. But the Crochan clan held back a large enemy force with brooms and magic until Ironteeth allies arrived.” Turning back to them, he added, “And they don’t fly for me. They fly for her.”

She and Sartaq turned to face a beautiful, white haired witch who was walking towards them, smiling at Dorian. Nesryn recognized her immediately, though she would have known her from rumors and reputation if she hadn’t seen her that day in the Oakwald Forest. Sartaq shifted closer towards her side, eyeing the witch warily. She did have a brutal looking sword strapped to her hip, Nesryn thought with admiration. But the way the witch looked at Dorian should have told Sartaq they had nothing to fear.

“Manon Blackbeak,” Dorian said, “this is Nesryn Faliq, Captain of my Royal Guard, and Prince Sartaq, future Khagan of the Southern Continent.”

Nesryn wasn’t sure how to greet Manon. She knew the wing leader was heir to the Blackbeak Matron. Or, had been. If Manon was on their side she must have broken from her clan leader. But either way, Nesryn didn’t think that qualified her as royalty. A hand shake seemed like not enough though. Thankfully, Manon saved her the trouble of deciding.

“Captain. Prince.” She nodded respectfully to both of them, which they graciously returned.

With a casual shrug, Dorian said, “Nesryn knew you’d end up helping us.”

She glared at Dorian in disbelief. It was one thing to tease him, but she certainly didn’t want to get on the bad side of a Blackbeak witch. Manon’s golden eyes landed on her and she forced herself to meet them. They practically glowed in the sunlight. Having only ever seen Manon from afar, she’d had no idea how truly captivating she was.

Manon looked her up and down then turned back to Dorian and said, “Of course she did. She must be exceptionally smart to manage a guard full of men.” The witch wrinkled her nose on the last word.

She and Sartaq choked on their laughs but Dorian didn’t bother covering up his. When Manon shifted her attention back to Nesryn, she smiled and said, “You favor the bow if I recall? Perhaps you’d like to show some of my witches a trick or two?”

Nesryn exchanged a glance with Sartaq, who winked at her. “She does have quite the reputation,” he said. “But, first…” He looked longingly at the bustling field. “May I trouble you for a ride?”

“Oh,” Dorian said, taking hold of Manon’s hand and leading them towards a small, dark wyvern sprawled in the grasses nearby. “I forgot to mention Witchling. They’ve brought reinforcements.”

Manon whirled around and studied them, seeing their clothes for what they were – flying leathers. Then she stared at Sartaq, her eyes wide as saucers, and whispered, “The Winged Prince.”

Before she could stop herself, Nesryn shook her head and said, “Please be sure to call him that in front of his hearth sister.”

Sartaq elbowed her gently. “And she prefers you call her Neith’s Arrow.”

Manon wasn’t even paying attention, too enthralled by the prospect of having the ruks join their forces. But she caught Dorian watching her with a brotherly smile. He pulled Manon along and she thought she heard him say something about wyverns first, ruks second, otherwise, Abraxos would be jealous. Assuming that was the name of the little wyvern they were now approaching, Nesryn almost pointed out that Kadara and Salkhi would be equally upset if she and Sartaq returned smelling of another beast. But the thought left her mind as the wyvern turned and looked at them.

Its head tilted to examine them, then it huffed out a breath and ruffled its wings. Just enough for her to see the silvery sheen on their surface. If she didn’t know better, she’d think it was trying to show off for them. Its intelligence clearly rivaled that of the ruks, and she wondered if all wyverns were like that. Or if it was just this one. “Abraxos? Is that right?” she asked Manon. Who had walked off to… pick flowers? The wyvern bobbed its head as if answering her and she startled backwards into Sartaq.

“He’s too smart for his own good,” Manon said, returning and surreptitiously handing her a bunch of wildflowers. She nodded for Nesryn to give them to Abraxos then whispered, “He already likes you but this will make him love you.”

Nesryn hesitated, then split the bunch giving half to Sartaq. She held them out, expecting the wyvern to eat them. But instead, the beast closed his eyes and pushed his snout into the petals, inhaling deeply and loudly. He reached a bit further and nuzzled her hand. Sartaq stepped up next to her and repeated the gesture. Abraxos took his time smelling them as well, even though they were the same flowers.

On her other side, Manon said quietly, “He was a bait wyvern, used to train the bigger ones. He’d never seen sunlight or grass until I took him out of his cave.”

That certainly explained the scarring. And the decidedly unbeastlike behavior. Nesryn smiled and stroked his snout. Sartaq stood by, silently taking it all in. She could see the note of worry in his eyes. It wasn’t just about fighting against Erawan’s aerial legions. But he was also worried about fighting with these wyverns. Despite her surety that Manon and her coven would ally with Dorian, she had not expected this. A thousand wyverns. And now, a thousand ruks.

“This is going to be interesting,” she sighed, wondering how Salkhi would do surrounded by giant flying lizards.

“First thing’s first, wind seeker,” Sartaq said as he kissed her cheek and walked around Abraxos, his mood lightened by Dorian’s indication that the saddle was ready. She watched as Dorian helped him with the straps to keep him in place. Manon climbed up and sat behind him, pulling the reins around his waist. Before he jumped down, Dorian gave Manon’s braid a little tug, and she gave him a playful scowl. As soon as he was on the ground, Abraxos stood and beat his shimmering wings, visibly excited to be taking to the air. Maybe the wyverns and ruks weren’t so dissimilar after all, she thought. Dorian joined her and they watched Abraxos as he leapt upwards, soared across the tree tops, and disappeared.

After a moment of silence, he walked a short distance away, leaned against a fence and crossed his arms. She remembered him from before he’d become King. Before he’d been collared and forced to do the bidding of a valg demon. Prince Dorian had always been fastidious about his appearance. Always new clothes, trimmed hair, shining boots. Now though… He certainly didn’t look bad. He was as attractive as ever, she thought. But his plain clothing was much more suited to this war camp than a throne room. And his hair was long enough to curl around his ears. He apparently knew his way around a wyvern, and had settled in with the witch clans. He noticed her staring so Nesryn walked over and joined him. She figured now was as good a time as any to get things out of the way.

Leaning on the fence next to him, she opened her mouth to speak but he asked, “How long do I have to find your replacement?” He looked down at her with a bittersweet smile.

Nesryn was quiet, trying to think of the right thing to say. Eventually, she gave up and just went with the truth. “I feel awful,” she said, continuing to watch the activity in the field. “You naming me Captain… It was so important. Not only a woman leading the Royal Guard, but a woman of mixed heritage. I feel as though I’ve betrayed the trust you put in me.” Nesryn faced her King to find him still smiling at her. She’d never truly expected Dorian to be angry with her. Disappointment. That had been her fear. And yet, there was no trace of it in his expression.

“You’ve done nothing to betray my trust Nesryn. Besides. It appears that you have more important things awaiting you than leading a guard,” he said, nodding in the direction Sartaq and Manon had flown. “As a King, I’m sad to lose you. But as a friend, I couldn’t be happier.”

Nesryn didn’t care about protocol as she reached over and hugged Dorian.

“I should have pretended to be more upset in order to blackmail you for details about Chaol,” he said, making her laugh.

They broke apart and Nesryn said, “I’m sworn to secrecy. But I can tell you a bit about my adventure.”

“Please!” He moved to sit down in the grass. “I expect it will include some romance?”

She felt her cheeks flush with heat and said, “And what about your adventure? I’d like to hear it as well. You’ve clearly been up to… a lot.”

Dorian laughed. “Yes, well. That could take all day. Suffice it to say, I managed to convince a witch to fall in love me-“

She interrupted him with a snorting laugh. “I bet that took a lot of work on your part.”

He looked thoughtful. “Actually, it did...: With a wink, he added, “But it was worth it.”

“Can I ask you something?” He nodded. “Do you intend to make her your queen?”

“There is no ‘making’ Manon do anything,” he said dryly. After a moment, he continued. “Actually, we are mates. Through a witch bond. So… I don’t know in what capacity we'll be together. Only that we will be together.”

“I had no idea witches even had mating bonds.”

A shadow of some memory passed over his face. “We didn’t either until we reached the Crochans. It turns out much of the old histories are wrong.” He looked at her, seeming to decide whether he should go on. “Manon’s father was a Crochan Prince, and she is the heir to Queen Rhiannon.” At Nesryn’s gasp, Dorian said, “She hasn’t accepted the title and they’ve not yet offered. It’s… complicated.”

She knew about the Ironteeth’s centuries old campaign against the Crochans, and knew that yes, it must be extremely complicated. She was amazed they’d managed to make an alliance with them in the first place. “Is she still heir to the Blackbeak coven?” Dorian’s face hardened and she wondered if she’d pried too much.

“Technically she is Matron to the Blackbeaks who broke off to join us. But there is a faction who allied with the Yellowlegs and fight for Erawan. This group,” he waved a hand towards the field, “consists of those loyal Blackbeaks, Bluebloods, and Crochans. But the Bluebloods have their own matron and the Crochans have a governing council with only a few members here.”

“What will she do after all of this? Do you think they will accept her rule?”

He glanced at her curiously. “Why are you so interested in all of this?”

Nesryn blushed, then inwardly cursed her traitorous skin. She sighed, planning to explain, but only able to get out one word. “Sartaq…” Dorian’s eyebrows raised as he realized why she was asking so many questions about ruling and governing.

“Are you two betrothed?”

“No! I mean… No. No.” She fiddled nervously with her hands. She hadn’t meant to bark out that response. “We’ve talked about it. And I am…” She laughed. “I’m very willing. It’s just…” She couldn’t bring herself to actually say it.

But Dorian could. “Empress Nesryn Faliq.”

“Exactly,” she said.

He laid back and propped himself up on his elbows. They sat like that for a while, watching the occasional commotion as a wyvern refused its dinner or snapped at a neighbor who’d gotten too close. Manon and Sartaq had been gone longer than she’d expected. Manon’s desire to see the ruks made Nesryn think they’d go up and be back down within a few minutes. But Sartaq must have convinced her to stay airborne for a while.

“Once Sartaq was named heir he told his siblings that he would refuse to follow tradition. He would not kill them or force them to be sterilized just for his throne to go unthreatened.”

“That’s… good?” Dorian said, and she gave him a dirty look. “No, I mean it,” he added, sitting up. “If he has the authority and desire to end that practice, then he can create a court of his choosing. He can run it the way he wants. Or,” he nudged her arm. “The way both of you want.” Nesryn wasn’t convinced.

“Listen, it’s likely that if we win this war, Adarlan will need to be rebuilt from scratch. Not just the physical structures, but the government as well. And I don’t intend to do things the same way they’ve always been done.” Dorian’s eyes were a bright, fiery blue. She couldn’t help but feel pulled into his hopefulness. “Manon and I have talked about it and we both want things to be different. Better. For everyone. Human, witch, fae, noble or poor, those with magic, those without. Aelin does too. It sounds like Sartaq does, though from what I know of the khaganate they’re already centuries ahead of Erilea in most things.” He drifted away in thought, but before she had to regain his attention, he said, “Ruling, the responsibility of it, the pressure, it’s scary as hell.”

“Is that meant to help?” she asked with a laugh, watching a unit of witches zoom overhead on brooms.

“It’s scary but we aren’t left without choice. We can decide how to best help our people. You can decide how involved you want to be.”

“He can’t,” she said, turning back to face him. “You can’t.”

“No, but he and I were both raised for this. It’s all we’ve known. There’s a difference between living this your entire life, and entering into it as an adult. I’ve accepted it. It sounds like he has as well. The question is, will you? And if so, what will you do with it?”

Nesryn nodded, thinking over all he’d said. She had more questions and worries, but Abraxos suddenly appeared from behind the trees, landing gracefully in front of them. He looked like he was grinning. “Are those…” She squinted. “He has iron teeth?”

“He’s a member of the Thirteen,” Dorian laughed, then froze in thought. “Wait. I think I have some ideas for your replacement. If you decide to go on to bigger and better things that is.”

She agreed that any of Manon’s witches would make an excellent Captain of the Guard, but Nesryn wasn’t sure if she shared his confidence in her. She stood and walked towards Abraxos as Sartaq climbed down and almost ran over to meet her.

“That was incredible! It’s so different from a ruk but yet the same!” He picked her up into a hug and she couldn’t help but laugh. When he sat her down and went back to talk to Manon, Dorian came up beside her.

“You should talk to Manon. Her position is... unique, but it might be good for you both to have someone to talk to about it. And, for what it’s worth Nesryn, I think you’d make a wonderful Empress.” He squeezed her shoulder and went over to join Sartaq and Manon.

Nesryn bit her lip, trying not to let her emotions overwhelm her. She watched in amazement as her King, now, her friend, his witch mate, and the man she loved, who just happened to be the future Khagan of her father’s homeland, all fussed over a little wyvern who loved flowers. And on top of all that, she had her very own ruk waiting for her.

With a laugh that sounded more like a sob, she realized neither she nor Dorian had even gotten around to telling their stories.

Sartaq looked up and beckoned her over. When she reached him he pulled her into his arms and whispered, “You look happy my love.”

“I am,” she said. “But can you let go so I can take my first wyvern ride?” He laughed but did as she asked.

Manon strapped her in then settled into the saddle behind her, leaving the reins in her lap. Nesryn turned to give them to Manon but she pushed her hand away. “You hold onto them. Sartaq said you’re as good a flyer as you are an archer.” Nesryn smiled and waved to Sartaq and Dorian as Abraxos reared up and pushed off the ground.

A half hour later, they landed in the clearing near where she and Sartaq had left their ruks. They were tucked within a dense grove of trees, out of sight and away from the camp. When they dismounted, Manon took the reins and bent to look into Abraxos’s eyes. She was silent, but Nesryn had the eerie feeling the witch was speaking to her wyvern.

“It might be easier to bring them to him,” Manon said. “So their space isn’t invaded.”

Nesryn jogged into the woods and returned, slowly leading Kadara and Salkhi by their reins. She wished she’d thought to have Sartaq come along, but they’d decided to do this at the last minute. Kadara listened to her though so hopefully, it wouldn’t be a problem. As they hopped into the field and got their first look at Abraxos, the ruks wheeled back and snapped their fierce beaks. She ducked down low, keeping hold of them, and glancing back towards Manon.

Nesryn almost burst out laughing. Abraxos was on his back, rolling in the grass while his rider watched in frustration, hands on her hips. Kadara was now watching the scene, head tilting back and forth. Her beak was still twitching in agitation, but she was clearly intrigued with what was happening. Nesryn made a split second decision and dropped the ruk’s reins. Salkhi, more timid and waiting to see how Kadara fared, stayed back, his head dipped low but eyes watchful.

The larger ruk began to hop out into the clearing. Slowly, but unafraid. Abraxos continued to frolic, ignoring the approaching bird completely. He stilled when Kadara reached him, letting her smell him. And just like that, Kadara settled into the grass next to him and began to preen. Abraxos huffed loudly and the ruk jumped away, but within a minute, she was back next to him.

Nesryn and Manon shared a humorous look, and she stepped out, pulling Salkhi with her. It took longer, but eventually, her ruk was able to tolerate Abraxos. He was more wary than Kadara, but Nesryn was pleased with the introduction.

“Sartaq told me about how you saved Lysandra with a single arrow,” Manon said out of nowhere. Nesryn fought the blush creeping up her face and nodded. “He told me something else. A story Chaol had told him.” She turned to find Manon’s eyes on her and almost flinched from the intensity of her stare. But she didn’t move as Manon’s hand rested on her shoulder. “You saved Dorian with a single arrow. From Aelin. Before... Before he was freed from the valg.”

Nesryn didn’t know what to say. “We... Chaol didn’t believe he was truly gone. I was there in case Aelin... Well. At that time, he didn’t trust her not to kill him. Even if she claimed it was a mercy.”

Manon bowed her head and touched her fingertips to her forehead. “Thank you, Nesryn Faliq. I owe you a life debt.”

She felt like the moment deserved some special acknowledgment, but no words came to her. When Manon met her gaze, the witch smiled. It was so soft and kind, Nesryn blurted out something she’d been thinking for most of the day. “I’m glad he has you, Manon.”

“I’m glad I have him,” Manon said, then turned back to their mounts. “Oh gods...”

Nesryn whirled, expecting a fight, only to see Kadara nudging Abraxos with her beak and fluffing up her feathers. “Sartaq does call her a mother hen,” she said with a laugh.

Manon rolled her eyes. “If there is one thing Abraxos does not need more of, it’s admirers fussing over him. At least yours has a good head on his shoulders and knows not to feed his ego.”

Salkhi was standing back, but Nesryn could tell by the way he eyed Abraxos that he was a bit enamored of the wyvern. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I think he’s got Salkhi under his thrall too.”

Manon released a long-suffering sigh. But she was still smiling, her entire being radiating love for her wyvern. Surprising herself, Nesryn suddenly thought that she would happily call Manon her queen. And, she decided to follow Dorian’s suggestion and ask Manon for advice.

They ate together that night, exchanging stories of their recent adventures as well as old tales. She and Sartaq were careful not to mention Chaol and Yrene. Though, later in private, Nesryn had given in and answered a couple of Dorian’s questions, reassuring him that Chaol was healthy and that they were still good friends despite Sartaq’s presence in her life.

They were disappointed to hear that the group was leaving the next day to move to Perranth, but it worked out well in one sense. The timing of their departure made it a little easier for Nesryn and Sartaq to claim they had not seen Dorian. Who had sworn not to reveal that he knew about Chaol’s imminent return. Manon would be leaving almost immediately from Perranth to attend to some matters with the Crochans and expected to be gone for a couple of weeks. Nesryn caught her and Dorian exchanging looks that suggested they hadn’t been apart for that long before. She tried to reassure Dorian that Chaol and the Southern Continent forces would provide enough distraction that the time would pass quickly, but he’d only given her a halfhearted smile.

Later still, when she and Sartaq had retired to their tent, Nesryn told him about her conversation with Dorian. She hadn’t admitted all of her fears to Sartaq, worried that he might take it the wrong way. But he understood her misgivings, just as Dorian had. They both had grown up in that world and knew what sacrifices were required. He also knew, he said, that Nesryn could choose how much she wanted to be involved. Which responsibilities she wanted to take on. He even offered to let her run the whole empire.

“That would give me time to go flying with Kadara,” he said cheekily, earning him a smack on the arm. Then, sliding her over to him, he said, “You know I would never go flying without you, wind seeker.”

Nesryn loved hearing him use her mother’s nickname for her. Almost as much as she loved kissing him. Which she did, thoroughly, all night long.

Dorian woke with a choked gasp to find Manon shaking him by the shoulders and calling his name. He took one look at the terror in her eyes, something he’d never seen there before, then promptly rolled over and threw up. She jumped up and was back with a cup of water before he knew it.

“I should have expected it,” he coughed. “I haven’t had a bad one for a while.” When he reached for the water, he realized his hands were shaking.

Manon sat the cup down and took his hands in hers, dipping her head so he could easily look into her eyes. The sight of them, vibrant and glowing even in the low light of their tent, was enough for his breathing to even out. But the tremors remained, even as she pulled his hands to her lips.

He knew she wanted to ask about the nightmare and was relieved when she didn’t. The thought of what he’d seen, what he’d done, threatened to make him sick again. He didn’t think he would be able to put any of that into words.

“I’m going to postpone my meetings with the Crochans,” she said.

Dorian shook his head. “You can’t. It’s too important and I won’t let you jeopardize building a relationship with the council because of a nightmare.”

Manon’s face grew tight with concern. “Dorian.” Her eyes stayed on his. “I saw some of it through the bond. I don’t think you should be alone.”

His stomach roiled but there wasn’t anything left to come up. “I’m sorry,” he said, and stood. But with nowhere to go, he began walking in circles.

What must she think? Seeing images of him torturing his best friend?

Suddenly, Manon was standing before him. She hugged him and said, “You forget that I’ve been in this position myself. And I will repeat your words back to you. You did not do those things.”

He hadn’t moved when she put her arms around him. And he fought the urge to shove her away, fought the feeling that she was contaminating herself by touching him. Getting the blood and filth and horror that covered him onto her.

“You didn’t hurt Chaol,” she said, pulling him tighter.

“I would have,” he choked out, finally letting go and easing himself into her embrace. The tears ran hotly down his cheeks and he struggled to hold back a sob.

Manon ran her hands around his back in soothing motions. “You would not have. You could not have. The valg was in control. Not you. It was never you.” He pulled away to look at her. She reached up and brushed the wetness from his face. “Asleep, you may not be able to tell the difference, but your waking mind can. And I will keep reminding you. Anything you need, remember?”

Dorian stared at her, shaking his head in disbelief. Amazed that this witch accepted and loved him. “Where did you come from?” he whispered.

She shrugged, her lips twitching into a smile. “Blame Abraxos. I told him to take me somewhere safe. The next thing I knew, I woke up on a boat with you.”

“I thank the gods every day,” he said, dipping his head to rub his nose against hers. And I’ll be sure to give Abraxos as many wildflowers as he wants, he silently said to her, feeling her cheeks rise into a smile.

Later, after he cleaned up the mess and they argued about whether Manon would leave in the morning, Dorian watched her as she slept. He’d insisted he would be fine and she’d finally agreed that the meeting was crucial for any hopes of a prolonged peace if they defeated Erawan.

But as the hours passed and dawn drew closer, Dorian had not been able to fall back to sleep. Whenever he shut his eyes for an extended period of time, his head was flooded with horrific images, a mixture of things that had happened, and things that could have been. If Chaol had become his prisoner.

He’d had time. Time during which he’d hoped to heal. But instead, it was only time to remember the things he’d done.

How could he possibly stand before his best friend now? Now that he harbored the memories of torturing and killing Chaol’s men?

Dorian shuddered and forced down the bile that rose in his throat. Manon didn’t stir next to him and for a moment he thought of asking her to stay. He knew she would. But he also knew that sooner or later he would need to face Chaol and what he’d done.

When rosy light began to filter into their tent and Manon woke with a yawn, Dorian pretended that he was just waking too. She kissed his forehead, her lips lingering for a long moment, then stood and began rummaging through her packs. He watched her quietly, letting her presence, her scent, her everything soak into him. Helping make him feel a little bit stronger. Hoping it would be enough to see him through the next few weeks.

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scoutshonor56 · 4 years ago

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COP NATION

“Bad boys, bad boys, watcha gonna do…”

As I’ve watched our country being torn apart these last three weeks, I’ve been tempted to voice an opinion, but I thought I would let things simmer and roil a while before setting my thoughts to words – see how events evolved. What has become obvious is that what we have are two separate issues, albeit both intrinsically woven together, joined at the waist: Racism, and what America calls “law and order”; specifically, those who are tasked to uphold this social contract, the police. Those sworn to protect and serve.

Well, like America’s fixation with guns, I have also written about race many times – so many times that I’ve given up writing about either years ago; there is simply nothing more to be said, nor has anything significantly changed. So instead, I’m going to put out there some observations and insights about law enforcement here in America. I draw upon mainly two sources: Last Monday’s (June 8) John Oliver show, and a recent post in the social platform, Medium: Confessions of a Former Bastard Cop.

A quick addendum about the Medium piece: some may question it’s validity and alleged source, as is wise today – there is a huge, digital quagmire of untruths and bullshit floating around the mass communications world, where anyone is free to write anything and instantly put it out there. I myself am a stickler for checking sources and facts before voicing an opinion. That being said, I choose not to waste time digging and poking around on this one for the simple reason that it’s irrelevant; in my 64 years I’ve seen it all happen – a lot. From the war protests and race riots of the 60’s, to the beating and drowning of Joe Campos Torres by the Houston police my first year down here (‘77), to the fatal shooting of Dennis Tuttle and Rhogena Nicholas during a “no knock” botched drug raid January 18th of last year - yes, just like the one that lead to the death of EMT worker, Breonna Taylor, of Kentucky, who was shot eight times, in her home, just last March 13.

Also, a lot of the material touched on in this ex-cop confession is mirrored in the Oliver show. For instance, you might ask yourself, “Is there really such a thing as a ‘killologist’ who regularly trains our police force?”

Why yes little Sarah, there is indeed, and you can see him on the Oliver show!

I encourage you to read the post in Medium (it’s lengthy, but if anything, at least read the closing suggestions) and watch the Oliver show, and then ask yourself: Why does America far and away lead the civilized world in police use of firearms, death by firearms, and imprisonment of its citizens? What are we, as a society, doing wrong or differently?

How did a simple case of an Atlanta black man, Rayshard Brooks, inebriated and asleep at a Wendy’s drive thru, result in his shooting death just days ago? By the way officer Rolfe, bravo sir, bravo! Job well done – so how does it feel to take a human life, shooting him twice in the back for the offense of being drunk and resisting arrest? Hey, here’s a crazy thought, a wild reimagining: Considering America is now a tinderbox just waiting for a spark over policing methods, how do you think this would have played out if you and your partner, after finding Mr. Brooks too inebriated to drive, said “You know anyone you could call to take you home? You can park your car right over there, come pick it up in the morning…”

The days of dismissing these incidents as “a few bad apples” are long gone; thanks to today’s technology, everyday citizens (not to mention the ubiquitous security cameras that are everywhere) now have the power to record with a handheld phone; anywhere, anytime, and it has become increasingly obvious that no, the problem runs deeper - right to the core of police culture and training. A culture that recently got Tulsa Police Department Maj. Travis Yates in hot water when during a recent podcast he said that systemic racism “just doesn’t exist”, and further suggested research shows the police are shooting African Americans “24% less than we probably ought to be.”

Uhhhh - wow…

Maybe it’s time to look at this nationwide problem from a totally different perspective; maybe we continue to put Band-Aids and cosmetic patches on something that needs to be addressed before the bleeding even starts. The cause, and not the symptoms.

Yet, once again we assuredly will see some tepid policy changes, banning chokeholds, mandated race relations seminars, increased accountability and monitoring, policy reviews, blah, blah, blah – as we’ve seen it all before, for decades (Hey, remember Rodney King?), and in the end nothing changes. If these methods were effective, why are these incidents only increasing in frequency? I join the many who have seen enough; who feel America needs to erase the board and start this equation over, or this bloody ugliness will continue, and only get worse. For an expansion on this, read an excellent recent editorial written by Mariame Kaba, featured in the NY Times.

Unfortunately, the Dems have come up with a reasonable start, but decided to call the initiative “Defunding the Police”. ��Really? That’s the best you can do? Something that anyone could easily interpret as “let’s starve the cops financially!” Until what – they die on the vine?

No. But let’s take a look at what this financial restructuring really means, and start with the fact that the police force militia (which it has now become) is amply funded. This is because every politician, be they a Democrat or Republican, loves running on a “law and order” platform – it’s an easy grab line. Who doesn’t support law and order in our society? And if it means the police want something from a military garage sale, like a Humvee, an assault vehicle, military grade ordinance and all kinds of fun urban warfare toys? No problem!

Jeez, why does America accept this as necessary? Because our culture, out TV shows, our movies, are saturated with the fairytale myth of “they’re out there everywhere, the ‘bad guys’, and the only thing protecting the sheep from the wolves are the police!” We glorify and promote the idea of our security and protection depends on a steely-eyed squad who are not afraid to use a gun; from the days of the old west, to organized crime during prohibition, to Nixon in 1971 making drug abuse “public enemy #1”, declaring war on the scourge of violent drug dealers that overtook our streets and enslaved our children!

Which, I might add, has proven a laughable failure by any and all standards, and has cost the U.S. over a TRILLION dollars since 1971, while glutting our jails to overflowing with non-violent offenders and ruining countless families.

Watch a cop show (or movie) and see how long it takes before the guns come out to finalize justice, to provide closure and a happy ending. Justice ends with the scum bleeding out on the sidewalk. “COPS”!? Are you fucking kidding me? I didn’t even know it was still on the air – 31 years… Oh, we feel so safe and secure in our homes as we watch the shirtless rabble led off in handcuffs to the squad car!

Who watches a show filled with actual arrests for entertainment?

Meanwhile, let’s leave fantasy land and take a look at the real world: Did you know the vast majority of police action is what they call “reactive”? Meaning responding to noise complaints, issuing parking and traffic citations, dealing with the homeless, domestic disputes, and other noncriminal, societal issues. Most cops make one felony arrest a year – one. And here lies the nut of the problem: armed police being called out mostly to deal with issues such as these.

Things that should, and could, be handled by trained professionals in these fields, not some cop who got 1,000 hours of training at the academy, little of it having to do with these issues. And I say this in defense of the police, and this is what “defunding” really means. They shouldn’t have to deal with these problems, and most are ill equipped to do so – they’re cops! If all you have is a hammer (club and gun), and you were trained to be a carpenter, everything gets treated like a nail. This is ridiculous that our police are expected to wear so many hats and are so over extended. Free them up to deal with actual criminal issues. If one of the other scenarios turns violent or threatening, then call the police.

Why does America find this concept so alien – so non-applicable here in the USA? What, are our citizens somehow different than in the rest of the world?

Bottom line, these are problems that exist because of the anemic funding in areas such as education, housing, and our shameful, for profit healthcare system that leaves millions uninsured and one medical emergency away from bankruptcy. The positively obscene gap of income inequality that grows ever larger. The false promises of politicians. America is increasingly angry and frustrated with a government that is structured to favor the rich. So yes, let’s try diverting some of police funding and instead put it into social programs involved with education, housing, mental health, etc. These areas and the lack of funding are the seed, and then the root of most of society’s ills today – and yes, that often grow into crime and violence. Often these are people that we’ve let fall thru the cracks, who didn’t get the same chance, the same opportunities; and who need a little help.

Pay the police a better wage, attract and demand a more educated and diverse pool of applicants, and free them up to do what they are ideally supposed to do – PROTECT AND SERVE THE COMMUNITY. They shouldn’t be seen as our enemy, nor should we be theirs.

“You have to dominate, if you don’t dominate you’re wasting your time – you’re going to look like a bunch of jerks…You have to put them in jail for ten years and you’ll never see this stuff again.”

- Trump addressing governors during a video conference call, June 1

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annavaught-posts · 6 years ago

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This week, I begin on a rewrite of my fourth book, The Revelations of Celia Masters. This is historical fiction, set in mid 17th-century Somerset, then the Chesapeake area of Virginia, then Somerset again. It’s gothic in feel and has woven in the literature and characters of the period. So you’ll meet the poets of the first Caroline Court, see Ben Jonson and get acquainted with the head of Sir Walter Raleigh and the man who brought the first pineapple to the English court. This is a book which has had a lot of interest from various quarters and…needs to be redone in the light of feedback.

Here is a synopsis (longer version; if you’re submitting, make ’em shorter and offer the whole plot) to give you a flavour.

Oooh – go and read the wonderful book, illustated below. It’s Albion’s Seed and was my greatest stimulus for my novel, together with my reading of Southern gothic – and thinking about its origins – that I am Somerset born and travelled and also in love with the South, and married to Georgia Boy. Oh, and my love for and interest in the Cavalier poets. A few more things, but I shall write on this at a later date.

Young Celia Masters was born in 1625, the year that King James I died. She is an orphan, raised by a guardian, the rich and connected Frances Masters, and remembers nothing of her parents, though she thinks she sees them in troubling dreams at night. Celia visits the Caroline court and goes on to be the inspiration for the Celia poems of Ben Jonson; Richard Lovelace writes about her as both Amarantha and Althea; she is dandled on the knee of Henrietta Maria and adored by King Charles, too. It is a gracious life and yet, Celia is unsettled and questioning, and at night returns to her troubling dreams. Of her mother, a beautiful shadowy figure; of half whispered truths. Sometimes, the fear and longing in these dreams seeps into the day world and Celia is ill at ease and runs wild late at night in the Somerset valleys which are her home, but by day she remains composed. Her maids tend her, but she sometimes hears them whisper at her door, ‘I know you what you are.’ By this she is both chilled and thrilled. Once, given a poppet by the Cavalier poets, she drives a pin into it thinking of a pompous man chiding her for impudence – and tastes wickedness: it is delicious.

Beyond Celia, the Cavalier world is crumbling and when the Civil War comes, the Cavaliers fight, or they spend their money in the cause of the king and many fly for the new land of America and try to establish themselves in the new colony there. She knows some things of the New World of America, of ‘New Britain’, as some call it. There is much here that troubles her. Is here not enough? Home is established in the Chesapeake; she is courted and feted for her beauty, this New World celebrated, and yet the arrogance of those who preside unsettles her. News reaches them of Cromwell, of war and of Charles beheaded at Whitehall, Henrietta Maria fled. Her dreams are darker, more pervasive as she lives this new life in Virginia. Celia marries, lives on a successful plantation and is the mother of three sons and a girl, loving but restless, and not appreciated by her unimaginative husband; eventually, she takes to wandering, the shifting landscape of the tidewater with the night-time dreams seeping into her day. She is restless when she sees the slaves whipped or the Algonquins insulted; when she sees the brutality of the white man and the woman. At night she creeps to the houses of the workers, shares their meals. They come to trust her and she tells of her dreams and aching heart. Rise up, say their voices; rise up say the voices of her night-time. Her dreams of a unremembered but keenly felt past permeate her waking hours and, knife to throat, Masters is forced to tell her who she really is. She is Celia Lee, child of the last witch killed under James I. Celia grows increasingly wild. Her husband tries to keep her at home and is cruel to her, insisting that she stay on the plantation and that she shames him. She wanders, receives stories, legends, from the occasional lone traveller in these parts; hears whispers. What of the lost colony of Roanoke? Young Virginia Dare? What happened to her? And then, one night, she is gone with her sons and daughter to the remote wooded areas of the frontier, Virginia. Around her, she establishes a faith, an awakening, a cult. She builds a church of sorts. With this awakening, she speaks tongues and makes magic, has powerful spells, begins to understood what she really is and who her powerful mother was – a woman King James had long wanted killed. As the old world in England crumbles, she builds, her devoted children by her side, witchery aflame: the Somerset maids who whispered ‘I know you what you are’ help her too, the Algonquin girls and the slave girls from Barbados and, astonishingly, Virginia Dare, still alive, an old woman now, kept safe in the Indian villages, seeks her out: together they establish something extraordinary. And after long life, she dies there, with her sons, leaving her daughter, Bess, to return to Somerset and begin her work there. Establish a new church of spells and sorcery. And it is the descendants of Celia – and of Bess – who keep her flame and begin the story.

I am, among other things, extending some sections of the book, reconsidering the way in which I have used dialect and dialect words – all of which has been very carefully checked insofar as it is possible to do this with mid-17th-century conversation – and I am killing some darlings. I personally love little set pieces at the beginning of books. The other night I couldn’t sleep, so I was re-reading Hilary Mantel’s Bring up the Bodies and noting that I enjoyed her notes at the beginning: Charles Brandon: a peer of limited intellect; Thomas Wyatt: (about whom I want to write, by the way) a courtier of unlimited intellect.

BUT

I’ve cut the following and offer, now, a more straightforward dive into the text. Here’s what you used to have…

Bruton, Somerset, England with reference to other English counties and people of the time.

The court of King Charles I (1600-1649) and Henrietta Maria (known also as Mary), palace of Whitehall and various, London. And with reference to the court of King James I and VI (1566-1625), his father.

Elizabeth Town, new Williamsburg, James City County, Virginia, during the emigration from the South of England and with other reference to the Chesapeake Bay. Tidewater and the James River.

Celia Masters, a young woman of Bruton, well heeled and cultured.

Francis Masters, her guardian, of Primrose House, Bruton, a landowner and man of great kindness

Celia’s maids, Agnes and Isabella.

William Berkeley, of Bruton Somerset, and governor of Virginia, 1641-1652 and 1660-1677 and with reference to other known families and characters of the time.

Cavalier poets and playwrights of the seventeenth century: Ben Jonson, Richard Lovelace, John Suckling, Robert Herrick and with reference to Edmund Waller, Thomas Carew and John Donne.

Trepanned (kidnapped or coerced) girls for employment as indentured servants in the colony, Grace, Mercy, Mary and Joan.

Slave girls, referred to by employers as ‘hands’, ‘people’ or ‘workers’, Daphne and Betty.

Algonquian Indian girls, Chepi and Numees.

And with reference to Pocahontas, born Matoaka, known as Amonute, later named as Rebecca Rolfe on her marriage to colonist John Rolfe; to her father Wahunsenacawh, the paramount chief of Tsenacommacah, an alliance of Algonquian-speaking Virginia Indians in the Tidewater region of Virginia at the time English settlers landed at Jamestown in 1607. And with reference to Virginia Dare, first white child to be born in the New World at Roanoke Island, where was sited the colony established by Sir Walter Raleigh; this disappeared and became known as the lost colony of Roanoke and the whereabouts of its inhabitants remains a mystery.

And here – do please comment – is the first chapter (with a short preface which I have not included here and may also cut).

There is a house, in a green forest clearing. At the fringes and in a new land. In a New World. Above the tidewater and amongst the fringing trees. There is a house, where there is no door and where ivy claims the gate. There is a house, with a garden whose ancient borders breathe out the last of the blown roses which are used, by now, to half-light and darkness. Still they bloom. A house, whose outbuildings tumble around the books and pitchers and tables with fat drawers. A house, with crumbling masonry and chimney stack akimbo. This house. The outside slides and falls. It’s bewildered by moss and ivy. You should not enter this place. Don’t even be fixing to enter. In the New World, in Virginia, beyond the bay and glancing at deep river.

But if you did – and, as I said, there is no door – you would, you should, draw a sharp breath.

Inside, the walls are slip-shiny and the beds made.

There is no dust and the rugs have been shaken out and made flat.

There is an altar with crescent moons, turned this way and that,

With burnished turkey feathers and jewels of marsh periwinkle:

All polished to a shine.

Such excellent housekeeping. No creatures here.

But you should not enter this house, this house in the forest.

And I am someone who should know.

My house. My church. A temple. See the shapes on the walls? Handsome, aren’t they? Crescents turned this way and that to my own purpose and for you. And other shapes too, as we shall see. A book for everyone and a stretch of white linen replenishing itself.

Find me outside and sing me a sea shanty; we’re away from the coast but I miss the tidewater dreadfully. And I miss the rush of my Somerset coast. Find me near those struggling roses, I told you about. There. Look carefully and you will see the stones. Carved stone; carmine when the light catches. There are five and I am under one of them. There are three for the beautiful boys but a monument only for the lovely girl because she lies not here. There: one for me. For friends and witch-lovers, too. For a disappeared child of whom you will have heard, grown old but safe. But none for him. Because those are pearls that were his eyes and I am no-one’s prim unveiled statue in a gallery. I will never be a lady of honour. I am no-one’s prim unveiled statue in a gallery. I will never be a lady of honour. But you could come to see him, if you like; he is buried upright, in the silt. Dig down in the malarial tidewater.

There is another house, too, a sea away. Once that was my home, too, in a broad swathe of pretty Somerset, England. Once, I was Celia, only Celia, in our county’s days of gentry, I danced with a Cavalier. And have you heard of Celia in the poems of the time? Mr Ben Jonson said they were all for me. Mr Lovelace said I was his Althea, his Amarantha, sweet and fair; Mr Herrick dandled me at court and brought me perfumes as I grew older; said I was his Corinna, sweet as Flora.

Yes, gone. As am I. Once I was Celia, then came the wide sea, the tidewater and the forest. I am not the person I was, though I am not saying I shall not still visit.

Do not come into my house.

And I say do not but I only tempt. If you were not strong enough, it would eat you up. If it loved you, as I would, a paradise; a spell within these walls. Draw closer because it did not begin here, by tulip trees and persimmons. But instead in a green sward, a hollow, in Somerset in the old country.

Draw closer. I may kill, like the screaming monkey in Queen Mary’s gilded cage would do, but I shall not bite.

Editing and killing your darlings This week, I begin on a rewrite of my fourth book, The Revelations of Celia Masters…

#agents #america #civil war #editing #emigration #historical fiction #history #humour #kings #renaissance #witchcraft #writing

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