Pre-Orders Start Now (& a Prologue!)
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Quick Notes
Barnes & Noble ebook pre-orders are coming too, if that’s your thing.
And if you read on Kobo, Apple Books, Google Books, or another platform, Oli will launch everywhere July 31st.
Remember, physical and audiobook versions are coming and every purchase of the ebook will get us closer to quality physical and audiobook versions of the book, as well as setting us for future success.
Thank You
Every time you read a post, contribute monthly, or pray for the team, you help us along this journey. We are so grateful and couldn’t do it without you.
Oh, and if you can’t wait until July 31st, scroll down to check out the Prologue!
Prologue: The Sister
Layla Ricker chewed her lower lip and prayed her father wasn’t dead. Barefoot, she bounced on her toes as dying grass scratched at her calves, her fingers twisting strands of her hair until it was knotted like thread in a broken spindle. Spanning the horizon in each direction was a wall of trees, leaves shivering in the bitter wind. Thunder rolled along in the distance and goosebumps ran up Layla’s arm. Like a blanket, she wrapped her arms about herself to fend off the cold and fear.
It should be too late in fall for storms.
She hated it here, on the Wood’s edge. The sight of the forest made her stomach clench in dread. Maybe it was the knotty trunks, or the way all the shadows beneath the canopy looked like knives, but whatever it was, Layla stayed at least a dozen leaps away from the treeline and muttered more prayers, this time grudgingly including Oli, her brother.
Oli and their father had been gone into the Wood longer than ever before, having left Watchful the morning of the previous day. Right now the sky was full of darkening clouds, but Layla thought it might be a bit past midday. That meant it had been a full day, a night, and a half a day again since they’d left. Pa had never been in the Wood all night long before. In fact, as far as Layla knew, no one else had either. Momma said it was “too dangerous and too stupid” to do. But yesterday, Pa had marched off with Oli and nearly a dozen other hunters and their dogs, the largest pack hunt anyone had ever seen. He wasn’t planning on coming back until breakfast the next day. Which would have been breakfast today.
They were late, and late wasn’t good.
Layla turned around, trying to spend her energy somehow. The land sloped gently upward for a dozen bow shots or so: busy farmland that colored the world in yellows and browns. Eventually the gentle slope turned to a sharp cliff face, at the top of which Layla could see houses of wood and stone sitting stoically on top of the hill. If she looked at it just right, she could make it look as if the houses were sort of rising high into the sky. Her house was one of them, and Layla squinted to see if she could spot Momma through the kitchen window. Momma would be watching the forest’s edge too. She was too stubborn to come down here, but Layla knew she’d be watching all the same. She always grew more stubborn when she was worried.
And the two of them wouldn’t be the only ones watching. The whole town would have their eye on the treeline, though Layla was surprised she was the only one watching this close. She knew the Wood was scary and all, but shouldn’t there be other daughters, other mommas, all waiting around for them to come back? There were plenty of fieldhands who kept stopping, leaning on their tools and wagging fingers towards the Wood while they talked to one another. But that was about it.
A twig snapped, and Layla spun back around, her breath quickening as she searched the trees. She didn’t know if they’d emerge from here exactly, but Pa said she had good instincts, so Layla figured that meant she’d guess right. She swallowed some spit that was pooling beneath her tongue. Why did her throat feel dry if her mouth kept making so much spit?
“C’mon,” she mumbled.
Nothing much happened.
The breeze kept blowing, making her legs shiver beneath her dress. She could smell the rain coming now, could feel some pressure on her temples that told her it was going to be a bad one. Not just rain, but “one hell of a damnable storm”, as Pa would say. But it was too late in the season for storms.
“C’mon,” Layla said again, her words hardly audible. Her nose began to run with snot, and she wiped it with the back of her hand. “Come back.”
Another twig snapped.
Layla turned to the right, certain now that’s where the noise had come from. She stepped that way, and heard another snapping, then the rustling of tree branches. She ran towards the sound, getting closer to the Wood than she’d like, but for a brief moment she didn’t care. There was sound, life, from within the Wood. And nothing, nothing, ever emerged from the Wood except the hunters that went inside.
Which meant that, if she was hearing a noise—
A blur of motion burst from behind a large patch of brush beneath a white oak. It was all flailing limbs and flying cloak, but Layla could recognize her older brother anywhere. Fifteen and gangly, with curly black hair to match her own, though with skin a few shades darker, like Momma’s. He burst from the Wood’s edge with a cry, falling in a rolling heap to the grass, gasping for breath as Layla ran over.
“Oy! Ya alright?” It was stupid to ask. Before she saw it, Layla could smell the blood, the sweat, the piss. Even she knew those smells all mixed together was bad. Oli was on his back, chest arching as he tried to suck in breath. His cloak was torn, his chest and legs and face all splattered with blood, and his bow was missing.
And he was alone.
Layla stood there, frozen as Oli writhed for another moment, gulping air as if he’d been drowning. And then, when air had filled his lungs, his eyes burst open to the sky above and he screamed.
And Layla screamed too.
It wasn’t long until a crowd formed around Oli and Layla, a mass of bodies squirming like maggots on the outer edges of Layla’s tear-blurred vision. They were the field hands, mostly, but others were coming now too, and Layla prayed Momma would be one of them. Oli thrashed about, crying out with wide eyes that couldn’t seem to see her. She was on her knees, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin. But what could she do? Her hands opened, closed, opened again. Helpless to do anything but watch and fear and cry.
“Out of my way!” It wasn’t Momma’s voice, but an old man’s, cackly with age and impatience. “Move. Now!”
Evanvalt was a priest of the Order of Deōs, with skin that may have once been light and fair, but was now leathery and spotted from too many years beneath the sun. He smelled so strongly of garlic and sweat that Layla involuntarily leaned away as he burst through the crowd and frantically knelt on the other side of Oli.
“Get back!” Oli cried, worming himself away from the priest and into Layla, staining her dress with blood.
“What happened?” Evanvalt said, his hands reaching forward and probing along Oli’s head and chest before Oli could protest further, his knobby fingers coming away red.
Layla knew she should stop crying and tell Evanvalt whatever would help him save her brother, but tears only flowed faster from her eyes, her chest stuttering as she tried to catch her breath.
“Poor lad came skitterin’ outta there,” a woman said, finger pointing toward the Wood. “Been manic ever since. Ain’t much else to tell.”
Evanvalt grunted, and wispy strands of white hair fell around his ears. He muttered to himself, eyes half closed, “Erkooda, feelia, ambalia… yeolasi. This is bad.”
Bad. The word thudded in Layla’s mind, and every time she sucked in a desperate breath between tears she could hear it repeated over and over again.
“Get back,” Oli said again, but it was weak, and Evanvalt paid no heed.
Layla was vaguely aware of the world shifting around her, people squawking and moving. But it was all she could do to stay upright, the fingers of her hands entangled in her brother’s hair, though she wasn’t sure when that had happened.
“Oliver!” Momma. Layla opened her eyes and watched as her mother flung herself on the ground above Oli’s head, tears matching Layla’s own flowing over her cheeks. But her eyes were firm, fixed on Oli even through the tears.
“Oliver, what happened? Where’s your father?”
Oli screamed. It was loud and bloodcurdling, his back arching as if the very question had brought him unfathomable pain.
“What happened, Priest?” her voice was demanding of Evanvalt, but her eyes stayed fixed on her son.
“Your husband happened,” Evanvalt growled. “He got the Stražar riled up and—”
“To my son!” Momma snapped, looking up and eyes flashing dangerously at the priest for a heartbeat before turning back to Oli.
Evanvalt shook his head. “Many things, Orelda. Bear claws are the worst of it, I think. But his mind has been rattled too, and the vines have leached his blood…”
“Can you…” Momma stopped, biting her lip hard enough to draw her own blood. Oli was grabbing her wrist now, pulling her downward toward him. She put her forehead to his, her tears falling into Oli’s eyes, the blood from her lip falling into his hair.
Can you save him? That’s what Momma wanted to ask. That’s what Layla wanted to ask. But Layla couldn’t say the words, couldn’t stop crying long enough to catch her breath.
Evanvalt looked at Layla, his eyes twin black dots that held her dirty reflection. Those eyes had always made Layla want to squirm, to crawl inside of herself. They were the eyes of a priest: holy and sacred, pronouncing judgment every time they fell on her.
“I can save his body,” Evanvalt said, speaking to Layla as if she’d asked the question. “But Deōs alone can save the mind.”
Thunder rolled and Oli screamed again, his breath billowing out with such force that Momma’s hair rustled with it.
“Demons,” someone said.
“Not Viemones,” Evanvalt said, standing. “Thanks be to the Maker, no Viemones. I’ll stabilize him here but we’ll need to get him indoors soon. You,” he pointed at a thickset man with soil-stained trousers. “Fetch a long blanket and bring it here. Everyone else, back away. I need room.”
Layla hadn’t thought he’d meant her, but Momma scooped her up and dragged her backward along the grass. “Let ‘im work,” she said into Layla’s ear. “Only the Maker can save ‘im now.”
Evanvalt stood above Oli and breathed in deep, his hands moving to his sides like tools at the ready. Below him, Oli jerked about on the ground, though Layla wasn’t sure if it was in pain or horror. A fresh wind of energy surged through him and his screams roared so loud Layla wanted to hold her fists to her ears, but she clung to her mother instead. And then, slowly, words rolled from the priest’s mouth as his hands rose upward, fingers moving in complex patterns in the air above Oli. “Elmes itkavo Deōs dioforce Nema elmes mi en vroma…”
It began to rain. A pitter-patter of icy drops, like a hundred little warning bells. A few of the watchers scattered then, yet most stayed. Layla and Momma didn’t move, their eyes locked on Oli. Evanvalt never faltered, just continued to pour out words whose meaning Layla couldn’t fathom. The rain picked up, becoming a steady sheet of water blanketing them, but unable to smother the priest’s chant.
Oli wasn’t screaming anymore, and he wasn’t writhing about either. He looked like he’d fallen asleep, his chest rising and falling, eyes closed and his mouth open to the rain. Evanvalt kept going, fingers dancing as if he were sewing a complicated stitch to mend a bad tear in a tunic sleeve. The priest kept his eyes closed, but Layla could see them twitch when he said certain words, as if this holy power caused him pain.
The rain was coming sideways now, and Layla shivered beneath the onslaught when a shadow moved across her, bringing with it the scent of death that made even the smell of garlic and holiness fade. She looked up to see Anej standing beside her, one hand stroking his long red beard and the other holding the bowl of a pipe overflowing with rainwater. He was a velk, which might as well just be called “a giant”. Twice as large as Papa with his head as high as ceiling rafters and eyes Layla tried never to look at, the velk scared her. Momma held her tighter, but neither of them moved away, and eventually Layla turned back to Oli.
Where is Papa?
The thought snuck itself into Layla’s mind, unbidden. She knew the answer even as the question was asked. How many times had she been told to stay away from the Wood? Told it was dangerous, that the world inside was cursed and could kill? Every time her father had gone inside he’d risked his life, and when he’d begun bringing Oli, he’d been risking his son’s life as well.
Evanvalt stopped. It was sudden: one moment his arms and lips were both wagging, the next his shoulders went slack as if exhaustion had yanked them back down. Above the wind and rain he called out, “Where’s that blanket?” Men shuffled about, but no blanket materialized.
Anej stepped forward and Evanvalt gave him a sour look.
“Oy, if it’s all the same to you, Priest…” Anej said.
Evanvalt looked to Orelda, who gave a stiff nod. “Gently, velk,” Evanvlat warned. “Very gently.”
Anej gave a nod and placed his pipe between his lips, then knelt down and scooped Oli into his arms with exaggerated caution. When he turned, Oli looked the size of a babe against the giant’s chest. Momma stepped forward, hands coming up to caress her son’s face.
“Priest,” she said, placing her forehead against Oli’s. The rain was watering down the dried blood now, and it ran in streams off Oli’s body. “Tell me.”
“He’ll live,” Evanvalt said, gesturing for Anej to get moving.
Momma’s next breath was heavy and ragged as Anej carefully pulled away from her, starting toward the hill. “How do you know? Are you sure?”
“I’ve stopped the bleeding, inside and out,” Evanvalt said, walking alongside the velk, his voice getting louder as the rain continued to pick up. Layla could hardly hear. “But I’ve told you, I can do nothing for his mind.”
Orelda walked beside the priest, Layla following as if dragged by an invisible line. The rain had turned the ground to mud, and their boots squished, leaving deep prints with each step. Except for Anej, his boots still managed to thud down, splashing water and mud up to Layla’s waist and leaving craters that quickly filled with rainwater.
“What do ya mean about his mind?” Momma demanded. “Don’t toy with me now—tell me plain.”
The priest was silent for a long time as they trudged uphill, heads down against the battering rain. To Layla, it felt like they were mourning, as if this was some funeral procession happening beneath the tears of God. There was a flash of lightning, and thunder rolled over them a handful of heartbeats later.
“His mind,” Evanvalt said, hand waving in the air as if searching out the right words. “I could…feel its brokenness. It won’t easily mend, Orelda. He’ll need prayer. Peace.”
“What do we do? How…how do we heal ‘im? Tell me! The Maker…he must do something!”
“Get him into the temple,” Evanvalt said, slowing his steps and turning to Momma. He ran a hand over his head, pulling back wet wisps of hair. “I’ll write a letter recommending him to the abbey in Arason, if you’d like.”
“He’d never—”
“Or I can work with the magistrate to apprentice him to one of the trades. Just, for the Maker’s sake, Orelda, keep the boy out of that damn Wood.”
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Oh, and here’s the map (one more time)!
