A tennis match? Starting a war between the Duchy of Avann and the Kingdom of the Westlands?
Only in a fairy tale.
When Prince Henry hurts a young ball boy who told him Danilo’s ball was inside the line, Danilo’s response is automatic. Punch the prince’s face, pick him up left-handed, and break the royal jaw. Unfortunately, there’s another “automatic” at work: a death sentence for whoever strikes royalty.
King Hiram can’t—won’t—change the rule of law to rule of royal whim. But he grants the Heir of Avann fifteen days to find words that will allow Danilo to live.
In those fifteen days: Magick. The gods, goddesses and gender-fluid deities on Deity Lane. Kilvar, the assassin. A purse which opens in a bank vault. A mysterious old man. The Lady of All. The Magickal Hand writing, rewriting. A fairy tale within a fairy tale. A huge horse called Brute. And at the end…perhaps the right words and a most unexpected love. Plus a deity-supplied dinner with just the right amount of garlic.
All royalties will go to a local LGBT organization.
If you were stuck on a desert island all alone with only three things, what would they be?
I’m sorry, but I have to expand the parameters of the question. I could not possibly be stranded on a desert island without the four things which are crucial to civilized survival: (1) wine; (2) dark chocolate; (3) a Kindle Fire loaded with all the 3893 ebooks I currently own (or whatever the number might be at the time of arriving on said isle), and (4) a solar-powered charger.
What have you written?
I really like this question. The most self-promoting one on the list of possibilities. Step right up, folks. By sheer chance I just happen have handy a list of all the wondrous words (IMNHO, of course) I have produced.
Another England Historicals
The Rake, The Rogue, and The Roué
Banging the Bishop Back (Short Story)
Mr. Felcher’s Grand Emporium, or, The Adventures of a
Pair of Spares in the Fine Art of Gentlemanly Portraiture
no way out
Fantasy
Like a Mountain, Waiting
Of Princes False and True
Surrender
Tattooed Wolf, Painted Dragon
The Song
Unbirthday Present
The Warlord and the Bard
Other
A Rollerblade Day, and Other Gay Poems
Dancing in the Dark (Contemporary)
Deus Ex (Story Collection)
My Lieutenant (A Tale of the Holocaust)
What do you do to get book reviews?
I’m very efficient and proactive about that.
Whenever I release a book, or one has been recently released, I very carefully investigate to determine if there’s a possibility some deity or other is paying attention, or at least somewhat, sort of, maybe, could be, perhaps looking in my direction. Or in my vague vicinity. At least close enough that if I jumped up and down and waved my hands I might be seen.
If so, I compose a very articulate request for timely assistance, and then send it up, down, sideways, or in any other direction He, She, It, or They might require.
Other than that? Not a clue.
What’s your writing process?
Wait. What? There’s a process for writing?
Why didn’t anyone tell me?
Is it a secret? Does it require a password to find out what it is? How much does it cost to get one? Help, please. Inquiring authorial minds wanna know.
Do you mean is there some regular practice or procedure I follow for each of my books?
I understand some authors listen to music as they write, or create playlists, or search for particular music, to go with characters or scenes. I’ve heard of writers who find images that relate to particular characters, places, times, events, emotions within the book, and keep them handy for viewing. Or they do certain things before they get started. Or while they’re writing. Or wrapping up the writing session and preparing for the next one.
If so…nope.
I go into my office, turn the computer on, load up the book I want to work on, decide what part needs writing, go there, and start. Or I may just start reading the book from the beginning and edit/revise for a while, before adding something new to it. Hmmm. Is that part of a process?
I don’t have multiple drafts of the book. Just one. That’s because of the edit-as-I-go thing. So by the time I’m done with a 150K historical, I’ve read the book countless times and tweaked on the way. Barring catches (typos, goofs, possibly something of a “well, duh!!” nature) by beta readers, when I have them, when I finally type “FIN” at the end, it’s ready to go out and about in the world.
Eric is giving away two backlist eBook titles to one lucky winner with this tour. Enter via Rafflecopter:
From Chapter Three:
The Small Throne Room
The King of Westland’s Castle
Late Morning, the Day The Story Starts
“Sit,” King Hiram commanded. The young man, still head-bowed, didn’t move. The guards squeezed the prisoner’s biceps, half-marching, half-dragging to the chair at the opposite end of the table from the king. With four guard hands occupied by flesh or chains, the difficulty in moving the chair was obvious. The wizard’s spell removed the chains; they reappeared with a clunk!on the floor beside the table.
The guard on the young man’s left pressed a dagger-point against his throat. The other guard released him, stepped behind the chair and pulled it enough away for the young man to be maneuvered in front of it. Rough hands on shoulders forced him down. It was, of course, only happenstance the knifepoint nicked the neck, a drop of blood appearing when the blade was removed.
The recent command not to hurt the prisoner apparently didn’t apply to chairs in which the prisoner was sitting. The force used to propel it toward the table would have crushed the young man’s fingers if he’d rested them on the arms when he sat. Fortunately, his hands were in his lap. The young man’s head remained down as he was in effect caged by the chair and table.
He raised his head, looking straight ahead, but Hiram and his advisors could see he wasn’t seeing anything then present in the room.
Beneath the dirt, bruises, scrapes and crusted blood he was handsome. Sharp cheekbones, aquiline nose, thin lips, a faint cleft in his chin. Brilliant green eyes, flecked with gold. Unusual long hair tumbling near his shoulders, red-brown strands mixed with varying shades of gold. There was something almost familiar… The king chased a wisp of memory, but lost it.
The young man tilted his chin up enough to look at the king, apparently believing if cats could, so could he. There was no cringing in those eyes, no shame, no embarrassment. No anger or resentment. Perhaps, though, a tiny glimmer of…interest. As if this was some grand adventure and he needed to absorb everything happening to and around him for later remembrances.
Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be remembering anything again, in the not too distant future. A man doesn’t when his head has been severed from his neck, or he’s been hanged until a neck-snap or slow strangulation ends him. Hiram realized he didn’t remember what death the law required. He would, he knew, have to check.
In silence, the young man lifted his hands, and pushed the long, thick hair behind his ears, each movement telling a story of strain and pain. As did his face. One eye was swollen almost shut; a cut on his forehead still oozed blood; there was dirt on the bruising on cheeks and jaw; one lip was split.
“Captain Nichols!”
“Sire.”
“Did he resist arrest?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Did the prince do this?” The king refused to let himself display the tiniest glimmer of hope the answer was “yes.” The hope Henry fought back.
“Ah…no, Sire.”
“Did he attempt to flee and have to be captured?”
“He is as the Guards found him on their arrival. I am—”
The young man interrupted with a laugh—a bright, beautiful baritone, filling the room with a joy entirely out of place in the circumstances.
The king’s low and angry voice in turn smashed the laughter. “You think all this is a joke?”
The young man blinked. “No, Your Majesty. I just thought it was funny someone thought I might run away. Only a coward runs, when he knows he’s done no wrong. I did what was right.”
“You struck my son.”
The young man shrugged. “I’ll strike any bully beating a child.”
Someone in the room gasped. The king merely thanked the Thirty-Nine it wasn’t him and pretended he hadn’t heard.
But as Hiram spoke he realized he was defending his son because of a father’s obligation, not from a belief in his innocence. “Prince Henry is my heir. He would never—”
“He did.” Kings do not flabbergast easily. Hiram was rendered so. Rogermight interrupt him in the privacy of the royal chambers, but elsewhere? No one dared. Until the young man.
Who had no idea what he was facing; had no idea of the inevitable outcome of his admission of guilt. Hiram did not need to hear more. The law was clear. The punishment was clear.
Yet if he was compelled to do as the law demanded, he would at least learn the truth first.
“Do you have any witnesses?”
The young man’s response was a scoffing, “Of course. Anyone there will tell you…” His voice faded away. “But they won’t, will they? He’s a prince, I’m a foreigner, and they’ll only tell you what a kingly father wants to hear: his son is as pure and innocent as the drifting…slush would be, in a kingdom where snow is possible.”
The chin-tilt this time was defiant. “So. What’s the penalty in this kingdom for saving a child from a beating which might have left him crippled?”
“Death.”
The young man paled, but didn’t flinch, and when he moved his hands to the table, there was no trembling.
Nor was there any in his voice. It was calm, almost matter-of-fact, and he didn’t avert his eyes from the king’s. “Interesting. I thought to rescue a child and instead I start a war.”
Old Moldy heard a threat and started to bluster. Hiram heard a statement of fact, or what the young man believed was truth. He told Old Moldy “No!” and the Chancellor slumped back in his chair.
“A man admits to a crime in my kingdom, for which the law demands the severest penalty. Why should anyone go to war over just punishment?” Everyone heard the silent question, “Who are you your death would cause a war?”
The young man’s bow—so far as he could in his seating situation—was formal. An objective observer might have called it regal.
“Your Majesty, permit me to introduce myself. I am Danilo ys Daeaen ys Cirill. I am the only grandson of the Duke of Avann.” The young man shrugged. “They call me the Heir of Avann.”
Eric is a Midwesterner, and as Lady Glenhaven might say, “His first sea voyage was with Noah.” He started reading at five with one of the Andrew Lang books (he thinks it was The Blue Fairy Book) and has been a science fiction/fantasy addict ever since. Most of his writing is in those (MM) genres.
The exceptions are his Another England (alternate history) series: The Rake, The Rogue and the Roué(Regency novel), Mr. Felcher’s Grand Emporium, or, The Adventures of a Pair of Spares in the Fine Art of Gentlemanly Portraiture(Victorian), with no way out(Regency) coming out a month after Of Princes.
Two more fairy tales are in progress: 3 Boars & A Wolf Walk Into A Bar(Eric is sure you can figure this one out), and The Truth About Them Damn Goats(of the gruff variety).
Now all he has to do is find the time to write the incomplete stuff! (The real world can be a real pain!)
Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/Eric-Alan-Westfall-1045476662268838/
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