Tamia sat on Rick’s bed, staring at the leather box that mocked her from the bedside stand.  She knew he hadn’t left it there deliberately, but its presence stabbed her anew each time she saw it; it practically screamed traitor at her.  Tamia’s gaze dropped to her hands.  She couldn’t look at Rick, for fear of giving in, either to him or to tears.  God, she loved him so much.  So why did she do this to him?  Because she loved him, and she couldn’t live a lie if it meant hurting him.  She’d rather be in pain herself.  But last night, after she convinced him that she was too tired to make love, she realized that the truth hurt him as much as a lie would, because he still didn’t know why she denied what they both wanted.

This verbal dancing around the truth wasn’t the kind of dancing she wanted to do with Rick.  Her heart lurched as she remembered their very first dance together.  They’d danced together since then, but not like that first time.  That night was magical, a slow awareness of each other that she longed to recapture.  Warmth rushed through Tamia as she looked up at Rick with a hesitant smile.

“No one’s ever proposed to me before.”

He bent to kiss her lightly.  “No one?”

She shook her head, and her eyes turned away.  “David didn’t believe that anything, or anyone, was worth that kind of faith.  He was only looking for a body to fuck.  He didn’t care what I thought, or how I felt, or even who I was.”

“Then he was a fool.”  His voice was husky as he kissed her neck, and then drew away to look down into her eyes, his indigo with emotion.  “Don’t ever judge me by him.”

She knew what he was saying, but she couldn’t give him the answer he wanted.  Looking away, she gave him the only answer she could give; she changed the subject.

“You should go.  You’ll be late.”

He studied her with hungry, but wary, eyes, and then glanced at the clock.

“Shit, you’re right.”  He gave her a quick kiss.  “See you later, babe.”

“Yeah.  Later.”  She murmured as she watched the door slide shut behind him.  God, why was she doing this?

The third book of Underground, TERMINAL HUNTER, will be available for sale in just five days.  In honor of that, I’d like to present a little sneak peek inside… Enjoy!  And don’t forget to pick up your copy, January 31, at www.underthemoon.org

“Aftershocks”  — Excerpted from Underground 3: TERMINAL HUNTER

If he thought dealing with Carrissa was heart-wrenching and difficult, Rick knew his next stop had the potential to rip his heart straight out of his chest. He fidgeted nervously as the hydrolift moved up. As it came to a stop on the Trauma floor of Mount    Sinai Hospital, Rick ran his hand through his hair and blew out an anxious breath. God, he wasn’t sure he could do this. He didn’t know if he could face her, or what he could say to her…

The cop standing guard at the door snapped alert as he neared. “Name and business.”

“Commander Richard Carinson. I’m a friend.”

The guard consulted the computer pad in his hands, and nodded. “Go on in. Fifteen minutes.”

Rick swallowed and opened the door, his stomach knotted with tension. The room’s occupant was sitting by the window, her eyes fixed on the sun setting over the city. She didn’t even seem aware he was there.

“Jean?”

She jumped, as if startled by even that quietly spoken query. As she turned, he caught the flash of fear in her haunted eyes. Then, as she realized who he was, she relaxed visibly. It was one more reminder of what she’d been through; bold, brave Jean would never be the same again.

“Hello, Rick.” Her voice was toneless as she turned back toward the window. “Can’t say I expected to see you here.”

Pain rose, but he tamped it under control. “What the hell’s this?”

Her head lowered. “Nothing. I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

She jerked out a shrug. “I have good days, and bad ones. The doctors say I’m getting better. But I still feel like a train wreck, on the inside.”

He moved to crouch beside her chair, looking at her somberly. “I don’t have any answers for you, Jean. I wish to God that we’d got there sooner. I wish you’d told me what was going down; I still wish you would. I wish I could go and strangle Horner and Tolson to death, for letting it happen.”

“If wishes were pennies…”

Recently, I posted this Status Update on Facebook:

“I would like to ask the entire working populace of the world to work for free, for the next year.
No? You don’t want to do that? You have bills to pay and can’t afford to work for nothing?
Think about that the next time you download a pirated book… That book took time to research, time to write, time to design the cover, edit, and publish. When you pirate, you’re telling all those people they have to work for free, because YOU want something for nothing… the author, the editor, the publisher, the cover artist… And you’re stealing from their families, as well – time those people COULD have spent with children or spouses, or parents and siblings. Money they could use to pay for food, utilities, their home, maybe even necessary healthcare for an ailing loved one.
It’s NOT a victimless crime, and most people involved in the production of that book don’t even make enough to survive on, from its sales.”

The words are true, and I’d like to expand on them, here.

People who pirate books, music, etc and the people who download said pirated items, never stop to think of the impact.  They’re quick to declare what they’re doing “victimless” and “not a crime.”

Let me lay out some details and facts for you.

Yes, pirating intellectual property IS a crime.  Most of the world’s nations have some kind of laws that govern what is and is not considered protected material – but works of fiction that are still within the author’s lifetime+70 years are considered intellectual property, and protected, by most governments.  Same goes for music (although I’ll personally claim ignorance of the actual time duration, I know that it is AT LEAST the length of the artist’s natural life). In many cases, these laws equally cover things such as computer programs and games.  What does this mean?   It means that if you’re downloading a whole book or album from a website in which you have NOT made a ROYALTY-INCLUSIVE payment for the product, you CAN be fined or go to jail.  It means that I, as the author of a book, CAN press charges against you for theft if you sell, distribute, or acquire one of my books without either paying for the privilege in a way that means I receive my legally-protected royalty,  or through a means by which I, as the author, have given you a copy, personally.

And, lest you believe that your crime is “victimless”…

Most people who pirate work under the assumption that all authors, recording artists, etc make oodles and oodles of money, and “will never miss” the royalties said party is pirating.  Truth?

Wake up and smell the cyber-coffee.  You’re living in a delusion.

The VAST MAJORITY of authors and recording artists are struggling.  Maybe they work a day job, just to pay the bills, or maybe they’ve had to sacrifice the steady income in order to pursue their dreams.  In either case, most of them (myself included) are just scraping by.  We don’t have a NY Times Bestseller (I won’t even go into what goes into getting one of those) or a Billboard-topping single. Most barely make (if they make at all) their bills every month, and the expenses of doing what we love (writing, music, etc) more often than not outweigh the royalties we bring in.  We don’t have health insurance unless either (A) we happen to be lucky enough to have a day job that comes with benefits or (B) we purchase it ourselves.  We don’t get a retirement fund.  Most authors and musicians don’t stop until they die (and many are still in the midst of yet another project when they do).  We don’t get tax breaks, benefits, scholarships, grants, or any other benefit from what we do except the royalties we collect, and the love of the art.

Unlike most people, who leave work behind when they leave for the evening, writers, artists, and musicians are never “off the clock.”  We never stop working.  If we hold a normal job during the day, we often leave from that, go home, and start immediately working on our current project.  Our families and friends often suffer for our art as much as we do – they don’t get to spend the time with us, because we always have to be working on yet another project.  In this business, slowing down is the kiss of death for any hope of a career.  We miss out on a lot of events and holidays because we’re neck-deep in a deadline.

We spend literally hundreds of hours (up to 3 years, a piece) on each book/album/etc.  If you figured that out at just roughly $6/hour (which is below minimum wage in most places in the US, these days), the time alone that goes into just an author’s portion of a book (the research, writing, and doing edits required by the editor) can equal, at the absolute bottom (if by some miracle they managed to pull off a book-a-month, which I’ve personally yet to be able to figure out), roughly $1500 per month spent working on the book.  Most authors aren’t likely to even clear $500 in their first month of sales on a book.  And that’s just time spent.  It doesn’t include any research resources, travel expenses that might be incurred in research, or any marketing that has to be developed or done, pre-release.

Now, when you figure in the time the editor spends editing, and their pay scale (which, when you’re talking small press, is peanuts, really), the cover art, and the various publishing costs that go into producing even an e-book, then the $6 or so you might spend to purchase the book really isn’t anywhere NEAR the amount that’s gone into creating it.

So, say 500 people decide to download the book from a pirate site.  No money goes to the publisher… ergo, no money goes to the author, either.  Let’s take that 500 people, and multiply it by a cover price of $6.  That’s $3000… TWICE the monthly input of the author alone, and just in time alone, by our calculation above.  Still think it’s a victimless crime?  Or that the author won’t miss those royalties?

I’ve heard people try to claim that they “love” a certain author or his/her work.  Yet they will only download the books from pirate sites.  What you’re really doing is telling the author you think they’re not worth your time or money to support properly.  Ergo, you’re contributing to the author eventually not being able to write as many books, because they have to find some other way of supporting themselves and their families.

You wouldn’t walk into a grocery store and demand your groceries for free.  You wouldn’t walk into a department store and expect to get away with walking out with a cartload of items without paying for them.  Those are products someone spent the time and money to develop and present.  The same goes for books and music.  Not only do they take time and money to create, but they also require something that the items you buy in the  store DON’T require – they require the artist to put his/her heart and soul into the crafting.  How is it okay to steal that?

I can hear the people griping about how they can’t afford to spend money on books.

You have options other than stealing.

Visit your local library.  Not only does your patronage there assure the continuation of the library system, and the jobs of the people who work there, but libraries PAY for the books they lend out.  Everyone who should get a cut of the price of that book does, and yet you still get to read it for free. You just can’t KEEP it.

Frequent publisher boards and pages.  Often, larger publishers will have special “free read” deals, and smaller ones will run regular sales where you can find your favorite author’s books at steep discounts.  Both are handled legitimately.

Or, approach the author directly.  Most authors have websites, these days.  Many of them have e-mail addresses where you can contact them.  Write to an author whose work you really admire and want to read more of, and explain your situation.  Authors are people, too, and they know what it’s like to struggle.  Many times, they’ll be only too happy to send you a copy of their book in exchange for nothing more than a brief review or rating on places like Amazon or GoodReads after you’re finished.  And this way, you’re getting the book from the author directly, and it’s a GIFT.  The only thing with this process that I’ll add is, be respectful.  If an author sends you a free copy in exchange for a review or rating, GIVE the review or rating as promised, and do NOT give out or distribute the copy you receive to other people (doing so makes YOU a pirate).

Remember, if you’re downloading it for free, you’re probably not the only one.  And if that happens enough, it ends up hurting YOU, as well, because the authors will eventually just stop writing — wouldn’t you stop working, if you weren’t getting paid for it?

Today, the loss really sinks in.  When I wrote last night, I was raw inside, but still coming to grips with the shock.  There was a kind of dull pain, a numbness, to how I felt then – like the vague pain of knowing you hurt, but not being quite sure where or how.

Today, I know the answer to those questions, and it’s like a knife drawn across my heart.  The numbness of disbelief is gone, ripped away like a veil that covered over everything – both the good memories, and the ugly truths.

What ugly truths?  The ones that stalk every feeling person when a loved one passes the veil.  Guilt, selfishness, regret, anger, and even sorrow.  All necessary to the process of healing, but all the uglier side of loss.  After all, it is the living who feel the loss most.  Those passed on remember only the love we feel for them.

I’ll admit to my guilt.  It’s a familiar guilt I’ve struggled with for nearly a decade – the guilt of not being there.  In my heart, I know there wasn’t much I could do, but I still feel I should have been able to do more.  I should have done whatever it took, to be there for Mary, to be there now for Renee, Gen, and Joe.

I know an overwhelming amount of guilt that I ever lost contact with Mary, and that it was for so long.  The time I missed out on being in contact is time I can’t get back, and I feel as if I robbed us both of that.  This loss makes me feel even more guilty and depressed by my virtual isolation from the people closest to my heart – my family in every sense of the word – these days.

And yes, some of my feelings are selfish.  I miss Mary.  I miss her razor-sharp wit, her biting humor.  If I close my eyes and listen real close, I can almost hear her voice – and that hint of self-effacing humor and touch of sarcasm that underscored our conversations.  The affectionate squabbling of siblings who, in many ways, were too much alike.

I miss her ready grin, laced with mischief, as if she was some demented elf in the midst of concocting her own brand of mayhem.

But, most of all, I miss her compassion, buried beneath all the layers of sarcasm and mischief. Mary was someone who loved life uninhibitedly, loved her family without reservation, and was always the kind of person, the kind of friend, the kind of sister, you were proud to call a part of your life.  More than anything else, I regret that I didn’t tell her that nearly often enough.

Believing what I do of life and death, it’s easier to bear the sadness.  I know, to the core of my soul, that Mary and I will meet again, someday.  And I would never be so selfish as to wish she had stayed – I would never wish her the pain and struggle she underwent in these past months.

So what DO I wish?

This is where I get angry, because I wish the scourge of cancer never came knocking.  For Mary, for her partner, for her children and grandchildren, I wish that the terrible beast of illness had stayed far from her door.  I wish we’d had more years of the good times – the laughter and the close contact of family.  I wish we’d stayed in contact more, and that I wasn’t so lousy about phone calls.  Most of all, I wish I could have done something to stop this whole situation.  Not knowing how, feeling helpless against the unfairness of it all, makes me want to punch walls or scream.

Going forward, I know I’ll heal. I’ll remember the good times, and the laughter, far longer than I’ll remember the pain of loss. But, for now, I only have regrets, wishes, anger, and the sorrow of knowing that, no matter how temporary the parting, my world is a dimmer place, today.

This evening, I learned that a very dear friend of mine passed through the veil, releasing her battle with cancer.  At the moment, I’m a little raw with the pain of it, so please forgive me if I’m overly emotional.

Mary was the kind of person who just inspired you to try harder, to never give up or back down.  She had a strength and a tenacity that you couldn’t help but admire.  And a sense of humor that just wouldn’t quit — not even in the face of one of the world’s most terrible killers – cancer.

My first memory of Mary is her mischeivous grin.  That grin greeted me upon my arrival at another friend’s home for a meeting of the local chapter of the Society of Creative Anachronism (a historical re-enactment society).  But it was more than just her grin.  As with all my family of spirit, Mary became a part of my soul — someone who has never been further away from me than my heart, no matter the distance physical space imposed.

Like all family, we had our ups and downs.  Can’t put two fiery personalities in the same space and not get an argument or two.  The annoyance never lasted, and there was never any real anger.  Every memory I have of Mary is a fond one – even the times we disagreed.  Mostly, though, I remember the laughter.

One memory that never fails to brighten my day is the memory of my first trip to a reenactment camp called Pennsic.  I was seventeen, and I’d never been to anything quite like that, before.  I didn’t know that Pennsic always comes with downpours of rain that make one  think of building an Ark.  Our Common Area space was covered by a tarped, PVC-and-2×4 structure with a flat roof.  A roof that quickly filled and sagged with water.  And I have this image forever imprinted of my mind of Mary, somewhere around a full foot shorter than I, with a pole arm (that’s a weapon) in her hands, holding up the center of one of those bulges to let the water run off… Only it ran right down between the overlap of the tarps, just barely missing Mary. I remember all of us standing around trying to keep that bloody shelter up, swearing like sailors and laughing like crazy.

I won’t say good-bye, Mary… I don’t believe in permanent good-byes.  Instead, I’ll say good journey, my friend… While my heart feels the hole of your moving on, and my soul hurts from the loss of your light in this world, I know that you aren’t lost to us forever… We will meet again.  Somewhere, someday… And I will be blessed to have you in my life, again.

Good journey, Mary… may the love of those who think of you light your way into the next life.

I’d just like to say that the Internet, and Social Networking, are a blessing to me, and I’m sure there are others who feel the same.

Why?

Well, I can’t speak for anyone else, but while everyone is lamenting how the Internet and Social Media have destroyed the concept of a “real” relationship and made everything superficial, without emotional investment, I have to say that they have done exactly the opposite for me, allowing me to better open up and express myself, to form real and lasting bonds and strengthen friendships and family ties that were falling apart all around me, before.

Seems odd, you say?  Not so much.  You see, while I’m not exactly a terrible conversationalist, and I can speak with some passion about subjects that inspire me, I can’t say I’m a great personal orator.  I have early experiences that block me, in face-to-face conversation and relationships, from opening up and really letting the person to whom I’m speaking inside my head and heart.  It’s not that I don’t feel things – it’s that I have difficulty trusting that other people won’t react badly to what I have to say.  I’ve become far too familiar with the verbal (and emotional) slap, and like a wounded animal, I tend to shy away from putting myself into that kind of position again.  I’d rather slink off and hide in the corner, sunk in misery, than to look someone in the eye and tell them what I feel – often, whether that feeling is good or bad doesn’t matter.  I have almost as much difficulty with the words “I love you” as I do with “you hurt me” or “I don’t like this.”  It’s not that I don’t feel love – it’s that verbally expressing said feelings is neigh unto impossible for me.  Instead, I give myself ulcers.

However, as I’m sure you’ve noted, by now, I am quite emotionally expressive and a verbose communicator in written language.  This predates the Internet, by the way.

You see, I learned very young that the only outlet I had for getting out my feelings – whether those of pain and fear, or those of love – was to write it out.  I was an avid journal keeper as a child (however, I destroyed many of the pages I wrote practically as soon as I wrote them, just to make sure no one else found them), and I’ve always poured my heart into the written word.  It’s the one place I felt I could freely express what I thought and how I felt, because it didn’t matter if the person reading accepted it or not.  I didn’t have to deal with their ridicule or rejection – whether real or imagined.

However, in the days prior to the Internet, though I wrote literally hundreds of letters, I never really mailed any of them.  I would second-guess myself, talk myself out of it, and I didn’t want to have to explain to anyone why I needed a stamp.

The advent of the Internet provided me with not only the push I needed to get published as a fiction author, but also the means to start expressing myself.  It was a slow process, because I was technologically handicapped by an initial inability to navigate myself around, and also by a general sense of impatience that wasn’t up to the task of very old dial-up speeds (sitting around watching e-mail download or pages upload wasn’t my cup of tea, even when that was considered “fast.”)

By the time I discovered Social Media, I was already starting to come out of my shell.  The Internet had sufficient speed to allow me to communicate more effectively, and I could hold meaningful conversations, reveal bits of my inner feelings, so much more smoothly than ever before.

Social Media allows me the chance to not only stay in contact with my family and close friends, but it also allows me to express myself – my thoughts and feelings – in ways I’m just incapable of over the phone or in person.

Many people who have known or know me in person likely see me as one of two things – either a bitter, angry person who does nothing but complain, or a silly goof who takes nothing seriously and annoys people through her jokes and silliness.

Neither of these two facets are even close to the real me.  They’re shields – devices that I use to keep people from seeing inside me, from knowing how fragile I can really be, how vulnerable I make myself to other people, on the inside.  They keep people from guessing how much I care, and how deeply a careless or hurtful word really cuts.  Those over-the-top personalities are a curtain dropped between me and the rest of the world.  A curtain I pull especially tight against those I love – against my family and friends.

Why?  Because the people I love most have the most power to hurt me.  The people I care about the deepest have the ability to destroy a part of me with their rejections, coldness, or anger at me.  I don’t state this as anything more than simple fact.  Yes, I know I give away that power myself – but it’s something that I have little control over.  No one realizes how very much I care about those I love.

I can say it here.  I can tell the entire world that, for someone I love, someone I care about, I can and will literally lay down my life, if that’s the choice left me.  I would much rather die than ever have to face life without someone I love.  I know.  I’ve been there, and a part of me is still reeling, today, from the pain of not being able to stop the terrible whim of Fate, that day.

I can say it here.  I can tell you all that a single word of revilement, disgust, or rejection from someone I care about slices clear to my heart, and I bleed inwardly over it for decades – perhaps even a lifetime – to come.

But what I can’t do is tell anyone, face-to-face, how much I care.  I can’t tell them when I’m hurting or why.  I can’t reveal my most secret pains and fears to them.  Not if it requires me opening my mouth and having to let actual words come out.  In those situations, my brain freezes, my lips go numb, and my mind starts whirling with the beginnings of the “gonna hate me for this” or “gonna feel sorry for me” or “they don’t care how I feel,” etc, etc, etc.

So, while you may curse the destruction the Internet and Social Media have cast over the concept of meaningful communication and “real” relationships, I’ll be rejoicing in the freedom I’ve found.  The freedom to tell people “I love you,” or to let them know exactly how I feel.

Legends of Tirum, you may be surprised to learn, isn’t my first foray into the world of Fantasy.  Most of the time, however, I deal in parallel dimensions to our own Earth, when doing my Fantasy work.  I’m not entirely sure why, myself.  Maybe it’s because I’m truly fascinated by the concept of “What If…”.  I love exploring the possibilities of where our own world could be, or could have been at some point in the past, if things had gone differently (whether minor alterations, or complete world-changers).  I guess that makes most of my Fantasy actually more of a form of Speculative Fiction.

Legends of Tirum is a completely different animal.  I actually created not just another world, but another whole solar system, unique constellations, and a completely independent growth, world-wise.  My reason for doing this was to create something so far outside of my “norm” as to be truly unique among my work.  I strive for that, in every series.  Some unique facet, whether a small spark of difference among the contemporarily-set paranormals (for example, there are many such differences between the military-oriented Project Prometheus, which deals solely in parapsychological phenomena, and the mystery/suspense heavy Guardians, Inc., in which paranormal creatures – known as Paras – are a real and involved part of our society), or major leaps of difference, such as seen between the technologically-stagnant Underground and the hyper-technological Section Psi.

Legends of Tirum takes it to an all-new level for me, stripping away the technology (or most of it… but I won’t spoil the surprise! …) and replacing it with a nod to the classic Sword-and-Sorcery storyline – with a twist.  After all, it’s not often when the main character is BOTH the sword-toting warrior AND the “sorceress” with an entire arsenal of deadly magical spells at her disposal.  I gave all of my characters unique qualities that set them apart from both each other and from every other character I’ve ever written about.

So, if you’re looking for something Fantasy, with a twist or two of Romance thrown in for good measure (and because, without it, my main character would probably be an irritating hard-ass…lol), you can find out more about this series on my website, at http://www.esthermitchell.com/LegendsofTirum.html

Legends of Tirum, Book 3: Spirit Mage

It’s not easy.

It’s not easy to have to remember those nightmares, or to feel that pain.  But, even more, it’s not easy being an adult, and reflecting on my early childhood with the knowledge I have today about rape and rapists.  At the time, I felt dirty and bad, ugly and horrible.  I truly believed it was my fault, that I had done something wrong.

Today, I know that there’s no such thing as a one-time rapist.  Rape is about power and control, about inflicting pain.  I know I wasn’t to blame for what happened to me.  It took someone loving me, without condition or reservation, for me to understand that.  But I still can’t help thinking about all the other little girls that boy who raped me might have already raped by that time, or might have gone on to rape, afterward.  How many girls like me might I have spared that pain, shame, and misery if I had been stronger, less frightened, or felt more sure of my family’s love and support.

I never knew his name, or anything about him, so I can’t even be sure he’s ever been caught, ever been held accountable for any of the crimes I either know he’s committed, or am pretty sure he’s since committed.  That’s a fear I have to live with every day of my life — that someday, I might come face-to-face with him.  Maybe I’d recognize him, or maybe he’s changed so much I wouldn’t even know him to see him.  The idea, quite frankly, makes me want to vomit, every time it crosses my mind.

I’ve devoted a substantial part of my life, both as a writer and a counselor, to helping other victims of abuse.  And not just girls.  There are a large number of boys who are also victims of rape.  Unfortunately, our society makes it even more difficult for them to come forward than girls, because of a misguided belief that males cannot be victims of sexual crimes.

So, while revealing the past I’ve kept so closely guarded all these years isn’t easy, I do believe it to be necessary.  At the very least, it will help you, as a reader of my work, to understand what drives and fuels my darker brand of Romance.  But it is my fervent hope that relating my experiences does more than that — that it inspires you to reach out and help someone who may be suffering as I have suffered for all these years.  If my words move you to become that listening ear, that non-judgmental, loving compassion that shows a victim they are beautiful, clean, and worthy of love, then every word I’ve labored over in order to express the experiences that still plague my nightmares, still visit my daily life with fear, are worthwhile.

The Eleshau was alive. That was what all the stories about this benighted wood said, and after everything she’d seen during her time in the Borderlands, she wasn’t inclined to disagree. Phoenix Telyn Gwndal eyed the trees around her warily as she rode along the undergrowth-covered ancient paths. Not many people ever travelled these trails. Few who did ever returned.

She glanced to her right, certain the trees were whispering, and not in the whimsical, imaginative way. She was far too aware
the shadows here harbored monsters capable of killing the body, or stealing the soul.

“I must be mad.”

She had no idea why she was here, but she wasn’t inclined to linger without good reason. Somewhere out there in the trees was
Nacaris’ final resting place. Though she’d searched, she never found his body.  She mourned him the whole way to Raiador, battered and weary to the soul. She’d expected to hide herself away within the World Forge and lick her wounds –
both physical and emotional — until she could face the world again.

But the Salamandars had other ideas. No sooner had she arrived, Phoenix Book in tow, than they put her to work memorizing the entire Book. And then, to her shock and horror, they sent her back out here, to the Eleshau. Sala claimed the next step in her journey as one of the Chosen lay beyond this forest.

Telyn swallowed hard. She wasn’t even sure there was anything beyond the Eleshau. Legend told of a land beyond here — a mystical land peopled by beings from the stars, and Majikal creatures few had ever seen. Other stories declared the continent dropped off sharply into the roiling riptides of the ocean, just past the forest. That, storytellers said, was why no one who entered the forest ever returned.