Send Tea. I'm Spiraling. Also There's a Title Reveal Inside. ☕
|
Hello, dear friend. It's Laura, author of The Fralsningdor Chronicles. Join me for a cup of tea at my writing nook in Wyoming! In this week's issue of The Goblin Grace Gazette:
Heading To Utah!No, I'm not kidding. I am once again going out of state to visit family! This time in Utah. We'll be there for nine days seeing my dad, aunt, grandparents, and in-laws.
Pirates & Politicians Book Two Title Reveal There is something extra special about getting to shout from the rooftops (or parapets in this case) for someone you love — so consider this me, your goblin-mode author, absolutely losing my mind on behalf of my brilliant friend, Cassandra And I know for a fact that some of you are huge P&P fans (and if you're not on that train yet, literally what are you waiting for?) which makes today's announcement extra exciting! Al and Eva's hilariously tragic and achingly beautiful adventure continues in The Threads That Fray, Pirates & Politicians Book Two! breathing heavily into a paper bag If you haven't read Book 1 yet, I would highly recommend bumping it to the top of your TBR so you can be ready when the sequel comes out. Click here to read (or reread) The Webs We Weave while we eagerly await TTTF! Previously on A Hoard of Tales... Amelia wakes after four days with mysterious gaps in her memory and learns that Evrienne and Kaldar follow the Blood Bearer. Meanwhile, Charles drives into Sovra’an to rescue her. Missed an episode? Catch up here. A HOARD OF TALES: EPISODE 14 Charles drove for hours across the craggy, colorless terrain of Sovra’an. The fae realm folded neatly against the Underside of Valehaven was vast compared to the city he called home, but he’d never ventured this far in and hadn’t realized just how much bigger it was. When he was a child, his mother had explained it like a ruffle on one of her skirts — a bigger piece of fabric compressed and attached to something smaller. The ruffle bumped up and down, crinkling to fit in the same space as the other bit of fabric. Naturally, the smaller stretch of cloth couldn’t become larger, so the larger had to become smaller. The actual landscape of Sovra’an was generally flat and lifeless, so it was time and space itself that had “ruffled” to make the two realms match up, cosmically “stitched” along the ley lines by the Blood Bearer. Obviously, it would take longer to reach the foil of Faeclectic than it would have to drive the same distance back home. But surely this was taking too long. Had he taken a wrong… What was that? He peered in his rearview mirror, unsure if he’d heard something or simply felt like he was being watched. But through the dust kicked up by his tires was simply more of the same gray and black splotches painted with greenish light. The mundane, sickly landscape stretched out behind him just as it did in front. He shook his head and flexed his jaw. Feeling paranoid now, Charles flipped through the readings on the SRTV’s dash to make sure he was still headed in the right direction. He was. Due north across three magical ley lines and over terrain that would have been impossible without Greyson’s generosity. And gas? Still good. He’d stopped about 30 minutes ago to refuel with a pressurized can of twice-charmed, Rot-resistant diesel, as he’d believed — hoped — he was nearing his destination. But he kept checking again and again, terrified that the gas tank would corrode and spring a leak. The vehicle was already complaining for an oil change, though it’d only just had a fresh one done before he set out. Charles gritted his teeth and ignored it. Just like Amelia would have on her truck. Stop it, he commanded himself. A high-pitched alarm whined, and the screen automatically shifted to display Rot readings based on sensors installed in the area by the FREB — the Fae Realm Environmental Bureau. Charles dismissed it without reading the bright red warning. He didn’t want to know. He coughed with a wet, tearing sound, but ignored that as well. Instead, he reached for a swig of water from his canteen, which he swished around his mouth before spitting out the window. He’d been out here for seven hours so far. So he could expect that again plus however long it took him to pull off this operation. The Crypticonsortium recommended twelve hours recuperating in Valehaven for every one spent in Sovra’an. So by the time he got home, he’d just need to… recover for eight or nine solid days. Assuming the effects didn’t compound like the doctors at Athelberg’s claimed, that is. Great kings. He didn’t have time for that. It was still better than the alternative numbers, though. Valehaven’s medical researchers had been at bureaucratic war with the Crypticonsortium for ages now, insisting that the official recommendations were wildly inadequate and ought to follow a 36-to-1 ratio, as opposed to the current 12-to-1. But just when the researchers started to make headway, the complaints suddenly seemed to evaporate. Virtually all of their funding came through the Crypticonsortium — along with all the laws that governed Rot research. Charles had long suspected that the ebb and flow of this Lab Coat vs. Suit Coat war was heavily greased by bills. Both the monetary and legal kind. This time Charles could have sworn he heard something, so he craned around in his seat, peering out the open window to the landscape past the cloud of dust that trailed him like a cloak. Dirt, rocks, black, shriveled plants. And something there in the distance, maybe? He blinked and rubbed his eyes before looking again. No. There was nothing. Charles righted himself and watched his knuckles grow white on the steering wheel. He was losing his shift-snared grip on reality. Whatever. He didn’t need sanity or working lungs. He just needed Amelia home. Fifteen minutes later, he looked at his dash yet again. It was finally time. He’d been considering how to best camouflage himself as he drove — he’d had plenty of time to come up with and discard about a hundred stupid ideas since passing through the Tarraven. But this… this might work. As an illusionist, he found sounds to be his greatest weakness. He could neither disguise nor fabricate sounds with his illusions, so simply cloaking the truck wouldn’t do him much good. The bleeding-edge tactical vehicle had been loud when he’d left the city, but now that the Rot was getting to its system, the mechanical growl was downright deafening. Charles hit the brakes and put the truck in park while he wove his illusions, but never cut the gas. He suspected that a constant growl would be easier to ignore than a sudden roar as the vehicle started. Things like that might only buy him a couple of seconds, but in a fight like this, a couple of seconds could mean the difference between getting Amelia out of here or joining her six feet under. Did people even bury dead bodies in Sovra’an? “Stop it,” he hissed out loud. He couldn’t think like that. Not now. Shifting the truck back into drive, he gripped his 9mm Velsk with elemental magic-resistant bullets in his right hand and steered with his left — creeping up over the shallow crest to see a vast lake of opaque black water stretching out before him for miles and miles. “Lord of the Broken hears mermaids sing,” he murmured to himself. “Hell of a place for mermaids to live.” Then, shifting his attention to the Blood Bearer, he prayed softly. “You’re the one who gets people out of places like this, right? ’Cause I can’t do this alone. Let’s bring her home.” ••••• The lanky shifter nurse transferred a limp and sweating Amelia to the bed in her cell with a detached kind of calm. It was hard to tell what he’d be when he shifted, as a shifter’s human physique typically had very little to do with their animal form, but the way he watched her with wide, dead, amber eyes gave her a distinctly owlish impression. He lifted her with arms under her armpits, heaved her sagging body onto the neat flannel sheets, then adjusted her jelly legs, and finally raised a rail on the side so she wouldn’t fall off while her nerves sorted themselves out. It was humiliating. He hooked up a few basic monitors, read something on a machine that he logged on his tablet, then pushed the wheelchair out of the cell and locked the door behind him. All without saying a word to her. Amelia’s neck relaxed once he was gone, and her head sagged into the plush foam pillow. Tears burned her eyes — the only hot thing in this kings-cursed freezing room — and her shoulders shook with quiet sobs. The door at the end of the hallway clicked, and Kalder and Evrienne sprang into action. “Hey, girl, check in,” demanded Evrienne. “Amelia, talk to us,” said Kalder’s gentle voice. Amelia turned her head slightly, drying her tears on her pillowcase because her Rotting arms still wouldn’t obey her mind’s commands. This had been her… fourth extraction? Fifth? She didn’t know. She was… she was losing track. The vast hollow spaces inside her brain were a constant ache now, and her dragon form couldn’t stop screaming in the back of her mind. An ever-present drone as she grieved the loss of her precious hoard. Lothienne had thought the first extraction was a good start — whatever it was he’d taken — but he was convinced she knew more than she’d let on. Amelia wanted to protest that she didn’t, but at this point she couldn’t be sure. What if she had known something? Maybe she’d been full of secrets and just couldn’t remember them. Regardless, he’d seemed to think she had more. So he started taking her stories. She only knew that’s what he was harvesting because she still had a few tales left, and because he seemed oddly free about talking in front of her during the procedures. She wished he wouldn’t. Speaking so openly made it clear that she wasn’t supposed to make it out of here alive. “The Rot is making good progress,” he’d said in a pleasant tone as his festering, purple magic wreathed her electrode-covered head. “But I’d like to see things move a bit faster. We have a schedule to keep. The residents of Lower Valehaven are well under way, but I need people higher up to make this work. Get in touch with Zakia and arrange a meeting.” “Another portal?” Gunthag had asked. Lothienne’s hands had shifted as he shrugged. “Perhaps. But only if it’s necessary. You know how I do hate to be wasteful.” “Of course,” replied the dwarf. “Amelia,” demanded Evrienne’s voice, snapping her back to the here and now. “Yeah,” Amelia whispered. “I’m here.” “How are you feeling?” asked Kalder. “Like crap,” she replied, snorting slightly. “Did they… take more stories, Amelia?” asked Kalder, his voice cracking slightly as he asked. Amelia squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed thickly, desperately trying to school her emotions. Her friends knew she was a dragon and that her stories were her hoard. She was beyond grateful for their support, but somehow their grief over the loss on her behalf made this entire thing so much more painful. “Yes,” she said quietly. “And there’s only… there’s only a few left.” “Rotshard,” cursed Evrienne. “Babe, I’m so sorry.” “It’s…” She’d been about to say “it’s fine” but couldn’t even form the word, trembling again as more tears threatened to drag her under. “Amelia,” said Kalder slowly, “I understand if this isn’t helpful right now, but… can I tell you a story?” Amelia heaved in a deep, shuddering breath as her crying threatened to spiral out of control. She shifted onto her side, curling around her middle and feeling so… Rotting. Empty. “Please,” she gasped, raising one weak hand to her mouth and biting down hard on her knuckle to silence herself. “Good,” said Kalder. “This is a story my grumbvella — my grandmother — used to tell me when I was a little boy.” “A trollish story?” asked Evrienne. “Yes,” said Kalder. “This is the tale of Flint and the Feather. Once upon a time…” Despite her anguish, Amelia’s jaw and shoulders relaxed as her ravaged mind perked up, greedily reaching for the new tale. “There was a young trollish boy named Flint,” said Kalder. “Flint, like all trolls, was a creature of earth and stone and caverns of the deep. But unlike all the proper trolls, Flint behaved like a creature of air and sky. He climbed high into trees and jumped when he danced. He walked on his toes and spent his time gazing at the clouds. His mother and father and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters all said, ‘Get your head out of the clouds, Flint. If you don’t anchor yourself to the ground, you’re going to fly away!’ “Well, far from making Flint desire the healthy weight of mud and dirt and rock — as would have been right — their warnings only planted an idea in his mind. A dangerous idea. What would it be like to fly? So Flint set off to find someone who could tell him. “First he asked the unicorn. ‘Mister Unicorn, what is it like to fly?’ The unicorn snorted and tossed his great mane. ‘When I gallop across a field it is very much like flying,’ he said in his regal voice. ‘Flying must feel very fast.’ “Flint nodded respectfully, but didn’t yet feel satisfied. Galloping wasn’t really flying. So he kept searching for answers. “Next he asked the leviathan. ‘Mister Leviathan, what is it like to fly?’ The great sea serpent arched high above the waves, his great frill dripping with seawater. ‘When I swim through the ocean it is very much like flying,’ he said in his monstrous voice. ‘Flying must feel very weightless.’ “Again, Flint nodded respectfully, but wasn’t satisfied. Swimming wasn’t really flying. So he continued looking. “Then he asked the selkie. ‘Miss Selkie, what is it like to fly?’ The selkie laughed with a trill like bubbling water. ‘When I fall in love with humans it is very much like flying,’ she said in her mischievous voice. ‘Flying must feel very romantic.’ “For a third time, Flint nodded respectfully. (Though it took much effort to avoid wrinkling his nose this time — he was, after all, still a very little boy.) More than ever, Flint felt deeply unsatisfied. Falling in love definitely wasn’t flying. “Feeling discouraged, Flint trudged up a hill with his hands in his pockets, kicking a little stone all the way. “Presently, he heard a great screech high above him, and Flint’s eyes looked up, up, up to see the mighty phoenix cresting and dipping over the earth. Perking up, Flint cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, ‘Mister Phoenix, what is it like to fly?’ “‘What?’ called the great bird, who had scarcely heard him over the rush of the wind as he flapped his great fiery wings. One of those wings shed a single golden feather, and Flint bent down to pick it up before repeating his question. “Then Flint stepped forward and started asking again. ‘What is it like…’ But his foot slipped on the edge of the hill and Flint started to fall. “Up. Up, up, up into the sky he fell. Up past the phoenix, up past the clouds, up where the stars felt close enough to touch. And oh, it was glorious. It was fast, and weightless, and — had he been old enough to understand — he thought it might even feel a bit like falling in love. It was all of that and more. He soared past the moon and out beyond the asteroid belt. He circled planets and zoomed through the stars. “He had heaps of fun for a good long while, but soon Flint began to feel thirsty, then hungry, then tired, and before long his eyes stung with tears for his mother and father and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters back down in the earth and stone. It was awfully exciting up here in the sky out past where anyone had ever flown before, but it was hard to enjoy without the people he loved most. “‘How will I ever get down?’ he cried, for he still didn’t know how he’d gotten up in the first place. “Flint began to weep as he thought of his home in the trollish caverns, all while still falling up, up, up. He raised his hand to wipe his eyes and noticed that he was still gripping the phoenix’s feather between his fingers. He loved that feather, and he did enjoy flying. But he loved his home and his family more. So Flint let go of the feather and began to fall… “Down. Down, down, down past the stars and the asteroid belt, down past the moon and the clouds, down into the sky where the phoenixes flew, down to the tops of the trees that he so loved to climb, and finally down to the ground. The beautiful, heavy, sturdy, immovable ground. Flint was home at last! “And luckily, he was still an odd child who behaved like a creature of the air and sky, so he landed lightly on his toes without so much as a scratch. “‘Oh, Flint!’ called his mother. ‘Come in and wash up for supper.’ “Flint scurried toward home on his toes, and jumped for joy when he saw his mother. ‘How was your day, my love?’ she asked. “‘I learned what it’s like to fly,’ said Flint. “‘Oh?’ said his mother. “‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘And it’s wonderful. But I am no phoenix, and I think I’d rather stay on the ground. I suppose I can be different without having to entirely change who I am.’ “His mother smiled and gathered him into a big hug. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ “And so Flint stayed a creature of the earth,” finished Kalder, his soft gravelly voice just as grounding as the stone of Flint’s home. “He still ran on his toes and jumped in the air and climbed the tallest of trees to watch the clouds and feel the wind on his face. He was a troll who lived on the ground below but adored the sky above. And that was enough.” Amelia breathed soft and slow, eyes at half-mast and body relaxed as Kalder finished his tale. It didn’t replace all that’d been stolen from her. Not really. But it helped. She tucked the story into her hoard, wincing slightly at how the single tale seemed to rattle around in her mind. “Kalder?” she said softly. “Yes, Amelia?” he responded. “Thank you.” “Of course.” Kalder tells Amelia a story when she's at her lowest point. What's a book, story, song, or Bible passage that's comforted you during a difficult season? Wishing you the magic of Flint's flight and a home worth coming back to, 💚 LauraAMAZON, AUDIBLE, AND KINDLE UNLIMITED GOBLIN GRACE GAZETTE FREEBIES You received this email because you downloaded a freebie or signed up to be on Laura Cheever's street team. If you'd like to opt out, please unsubscribe below. |
Hello, dear friend!
Come sit by the fire. I’ll pour the tea and tell you a story. Then, every other Tuesday, you can expect The Goblin Grace Gazette in your inbox — a warm bundle of project updates, serial episodes, bookish memes, announcements, and book recs.