Lies of Stone: Book One
A book almost twenty years in the making, Lies of Stone takes up some years after the Children of the Desert series ended, as the historical separation between the desert southlands and the lush northlands erodes. The Northern Church, thrown from power, is not taking their fall from the king’s favor well, the king himself is struggling to manage the chaos he’s inherited, and the desert Families are being forced to reinvent themselves in a world no longer ruled by the ha’reye and ha’ra’hain.
Against that background, Lia of Stecatr and Tank of Bright Bay must confront the lies and truths of their past — and step into a future neither of them ever anticipated.
Excerpt below!
A prequel story detailing Lia and Tank can be found in the collection Nothing Changes.
Publisher: The Scribbling Lion, 2024
Cover Design: Christina Yoder, 2023
Maps: Monica Marier, 2023
ISBN: Print: 979-8-9889349-0-5 / ePub: 978-0-9913171-9-6
EXCERPT: CHAPTER ONE
The night wind ran chill, this close to the sea in the king’s city of Bright Bay, whispering and stirring the sandy dirt underfoot. Clouds scudded across the sky, covering stars and waning moon alike in a shifting haze. Torches snapped and guttered by the doors of western dockside taverns and warehouses, all of which were firmly shuttered at this late hour. Better quality areas had hurricane lanterns hung outside, but here, a windy night meant walking in the dark more often than not.
It was a good, if cold, night to lurk in an alley between warehouses. Tank told himself to enjoy the cutting wind; the morning would once more bring brutal heat. He couldn’t quite convince himself. He didn’t like this side of town, never had, and he loathed being cold.
There were no drunken sailors roistering along the docks. Guards stood outside nearly every warehouse door, stolid and severe. Their night uniforms were leather and wool for warmth against the chill, and they held clubs or staves. The cheaper warehouses hired their door guards for appearance rather than skill, but at least one truly skilled guard waited inside each building.
Sailors went to the eastern dockside for their fun these days. The western docks, as evidenced by the ostentatious overpopulation of warehouse guards, weren’t safe for careless drinking and brawling, and the taverns were filled with F’Heing supporters. Of all the Families that could have essentially bought themselves a chunk of Bright Bay, F’Heing was arguably the most dangerous. Certainly they were the most viciously inclined.
In the harbor, tall masts swayed with the push and pull of an incoming tide. Smaller boats bumped and clicked. Lanterns glimmered like earthbound, swaying stars on the decks of the larger ships as watchmen made their rounds. The wind ran through Tank’s hair, working strands loose from the already untidy braid. He began to raise a hand to tuck them back, and caught the sound he’d been waiting for: a shuffling step, a shoe in need of mending that dragged at the heel.
Tank dropped his hand and lowered his eyelids, listening more than watching as a stooped figure hurried past, just over arm’s length from the alley mouth. A waft of sour tobacco and old sweat drifted in its wake. Tank curled his lip in distaste.
The guards took a cursory glance as the man went through the few thin puddles of light, then collectively ignored him as a non-threat. The wind stilled briefly. Tank caught the tiniest intake of breath from someone nearby: two warehouses butted up against one another not far from his alley, and the tiny corner formed by mismatched walls offered enough shelter for a slender person to hide in. He’d considered taking that spot himself, but he was too big to fit safely. More intrigued than concerned, he marked the location as one to stay aware of.
The man paused near a lantern at the edge of the walkway, glancing around anxiously.
A moment later, two men materialized out of the shadows to stand on either side of the stooped man, who squeaked in noisy alarm. Guards along the dockside snapped to attention, then retreated into their various buildings, taking their shielded lanterns with them. The lantern above the newcomers went out. Darkness suffused the area.
A glowing light coalesced. One of the men held up a hand filled with pale amber illumination that held steady, unbothered by the wind. He was taller than Tank, with a sharp, lean frame, and moved with cold precision. The man beside him, shorter, had a rounder build and held himself with the complacency of the truly powerful. In the discolored witchlight, their clothes looked to be a nondescript gray and tan, but gold glinted along their ears.
Pressing himself gently back into the wall behind him, Tank shut his outer mind to complete blankness, drawing a breathing calm around himself. He became nothing more important than the stone around him, beneath him, above him. A speck in the night, a moment among moments, nothing in the least remarkable. With care, he folded his inner self sideways into the most private, most shielded part of his mind.
Once secure, he allowed himself to think: Fucking desert lords. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.…..
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