Welcome to the fifteenth stop in the #exploreleira blog tour where we’re celebrating the (almost) one year book birthday for Songkeeper! It is the second book in the Songkeeper Chronicles, which tells the story of a girl who can hear the song that created the world.

If this is your first encounter with the blog tour, we are continuing a series of alphabet posts looking at the world and characters and magical creatures of the Songkeeper Chronicles.

Today, we’re looking at the letter …

 

O is for Outlaws

“This cavern used to the hideout of a band of outlaws led by Hawkness. Did you know that? My father told me about them, about him. Back then, Hawkness was the only one strong enough to stand against the Takhran and his soldiers. They were brave men, those outlaws, all of them heroes, who fought against tyranny and died because of it.”

– Orphan’s Song

Long before Orphan’s Song began, a band of outlaws roamed the wild places of Leira at the heels of a mighty Songkeeper named Artair. They were the dregs of society. The weak. The outcast. The bristly. The unwanted.

Many left no homes behind, and yet where Artair was, they were at home, because home and hearth meant nothing save in his presence.

It is hard to describe the Songkeeper Artair to one who has not met him. He did not have the charismatic allure of the Takhran. He was neither kingly, nor princely, and would have looked out of place in a grand palace or great hall.

He was a man of the earth.

In his eyes, one saw the richness of freshly tilled soil and the peeled bark of a zoar tree. His hands bore the ridges and callouses of hard labor. Weathered lines splayed from his eyes like the rays of the sun glancing off a pool. In his laugh, the voice of a thousand rivers rolled into one.

At first glance, he did not command attention. At second glance, one could not look away. He had a sort of presence about him. Something that hummed with power and being, so much so that those who walked at his side for any length of time, even if they did not bear the blood of Songlings and Songkeepers, could almost hear the Song.

Those who joined the outlaw band came for many different reasons, but they all stayed for the same one. They stayed for Artair. They braved the Takhran’s wrath, evaded his raven spies, dodged his hounds, and led the Khelari off the scent, all that they might spend one more day at Artair’s side. Watching as he sang to heal the sick and injured, listening to the vast beauty of the Song that spilled from his lips, and waiting for evening to fall that they might sit around the fireside and listen to his tales. And such tales they were. The sort of tales that seep into your bones and remake you from the inside out. The sort that scrape you raw, even as they fill you with a courage and a purpose you never before knew. The sort that ring with the echo of something you thought you once knew, but you can’t quite place your finger upon …

With Artair at their head, the outlaws were a fearsome and free band. Fearsome in their freedom. For they dared to live and to love and to laugh in a world that was broken beneath the horrors unleashed by the Takhran. Numbered among the outlaws were Nisus and Jirkar, the dwarf twins from the Whyndburg Mountains, a swordsmith by trade named Lucas Peregrine from Kerby, Dalton who later owned the Sylvan Swan, a young farm boy named Oran Hamner, and the one known as Hawkness.

Hawkness wasn’t his true name, of course. The title was given to him for his notorious skill with ranged weapons, such as throwing knives, daggers, bows and arrows, etc., when Artair made him second in command.

Over time, the fame of the outlaw band and of Artair the Songkeeper spread, and the Takhran’s hatred grew, and he bided his time, waiting for the Khelari to succeed in capturing one of the outlaws. Until at last, the farm boy, Oran, strayed heedless into their net. It was a midsummer’s days when the soldiers dragged their struggling prisoner down the lightless tunnels beneath Mount Eiphyr and into the bowels of the Pit.

Who knows what lies the Takhran whispered to him in the dark, or with what twisted words the heart of Oran was lost and his melody ever corrupted. But when he emerged at last into the lurid light of day, it was to lead a contingent of Khelari along secret paths through the mountains to the outlaw camp at Drengreth.

They struck in the hazy stillness of night.

No songs are sung of the battle at Drengreth. No tales are told of valor or heroic deeds. It remembered only in silence. Recalled in horror and swiftly banished from thought.

For when the bows ceased singing and the flames dwindled and the last echoes of the crash of sword on sword vanished in the hills, only the bodies of the slain remained. Hawkness stood alone in the midst of a massacre. The survivors—what few remained—had fled. And the Songkeeper Artair was lost, taken by the Khelari into the depths of the earth.

I can tell you little of Hawkness’s pursuit, for little is known. He alone trailed the Khelari into the Takhran’s fortress. He alone wandered the deep dark in pursuit of the Songkeeper Artair. But beyond that, the truth of what transpired in the Pit, none save the Takhran’s servants and Hawkness himself know.

And when Hawkness reappeared in Kerby some months later, to rendezvous with the remnants of the outlaw band, he would not say. But he vowed vengeance against the Takhran, and in the strength of his oath, he bound the outlaws into a brotherhood sworn to fight until their dying breath. Beneath the cobbled streets of Kerby, in a network of caverns and tunnels, they made their home. And the light and life and hope that the outlaw band had known when they followed Artair along song-strewn paths in the mountains and woodlands were soon lost in the grime and squalor and hopelessness of the city where their vengeance had driven them.

Ky’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “You’re a legend. A hero.”

The lad’s words pierced his conscience like a poisoned shaft. “Never a hero, lad. For twelve years, we warred, fought, lied, stole, cheated, ’til our cause was lost in the horror o’ who we’d become an’ our own people grew t’ hate us.”

– Orphan’s Song

Until the outlaws too were lost and had become only a matter of legend and myth and fireside tales.

Outlaw tales are fascinating, aren’t they? I grew up on tales of Robin Hood and his merry men, William Wallace, and Alan Breck Stewart. Do you have a favorite outlaw tale?

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Want to find out more about the outlaws? Check out the links below to purchase the books:

Amazon: Orphan’s Song, Songkeeper, Song of Leira

Barnes and Nobles: Orphan’s Song, Songkeeper, Song of Leira

Welcome to the thirteenth stop in the #exploreleira blog tour where we’re celebrating the (almost) one year book birthday for Songkeeper! It is the second book in the Songkeeper Chronicles, which tells the story of a girl who can hear the song that created the world.

If this is your first encounter with the blog tour, we are continuing a series of alphabet posts looking at the world and characters and magical creatures of the Songkeeper Chronicles.

M is for Migdon

When I started writing Songkeeper, Migdon was one of those surprise characters who came out of nowhere and stole the show. Originally, he was only supposed to be in one or two short scenes. But once he started talking, I knew he had to stay.

Migdon is a dwarf from the Whyndburg Mountains. (Read more about the dwarves and their fascinating culture here.) His full name is Migdon Hipicarious Listarchus Noonan. Like most dwarves, he holds to strict rules when it comes to introductions and things of that nature.

“Hold on there,” the dwarf growled and shoved a finger in Ky’s chest with such force that he nearly stumbled backward. “Manners, bucko. Names first. Information later. Maybe. If I like you.” He thumped a brawny fist against his forehead. “I am Migdon Hipicarious Listarchus Noonan, advance scout of the Third Cohort of the Adulnae. Among other things.”

– Songkeeper

In all other matters, Migdon is a rebel. In the mountains, warriors and scholars are the most renowned and held in the highest honor. While Migdon is both, he has never been interested in what others think. As a warrior, he is too much of an individualist to march to the same beat as everyone else, so he does not truly fit among the Adulnae. And although he is well-read and prone to sprinkling his speech with paraphrased quotations, Migdon could never survive the stuffiness of accepted thought that governs most Xanthen scholars.

In his own words,

“Don’t like to beat around the bush, do you bucko? Me neither. It’s what sets us men of action apart from the thinkers and plotters with their sweet talking ways and forked-tongues. But you know what they say, ‘Honeyed words ease the tang of bitter news.’ Or something to that effect.”

– Songkeeper

Migdon can be a mite touchy. Prone to be sharp tempered, gruff in his speech, and proficient in the language of sarcasm. Not the sort that you bandy words with casually, because he is sure to unleash a retort that will leave you scrambling to gather your wits.

“Don’t look so stiff and concerned, bucko. Word from the wise, sometimes there’s no better place to hide than in the open, and no better way to disappear than to stand out.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Sure it does. Hogan wrote it years and years ago—you do know who Hogan is right? Hogan Micthineous Cadronitus Roardin? No? Oh well, don’t worry about it.” Molasses dripped no smoother than the sarcasm rolling off the dwarf’s tongue. “He’s only the finest philosopher, teacher, and strategist we of the Whyndburg Mountains have ever had.”

– Songkeeper

(I just love this guy! Only, he would probably drive me crazy in real life …)

And yet, for all the acidity that frequently flows from his tongue, Migdon can be surprisingly persuasive, when he chooses to be.

Migdon snorted. “Give me six hours, bucko, and I could convince any man of anything. Silvertongue, that’s what they call me. Has just the right sort of ring to it too, if you ask me.”

– Songkeeper

I know I’ve said it before but pairing unlikely characters and throwing them into challenging situations is one of my favorite things to do as an author. It is just far too much fun! Migdon is such a loose cannon—unpredictable, brazen, and totally determined to do it his way. Ky, on the other hand, has learned the art of invisibility on the streets. Sure, he can be reckless on occasion—generally when he’s trying to save someone—but he prefers caution and forethought to impetuous action. And when he is convinced that he is in the right, he’s going to dig his heels in and fight.

So of course, matching Migdon and Ky as traveling companions was the obvious choice.*rubs palms together* And yes, if you haven’t read Songkeeper yet, well, personally I think it’s worth picking up just to watch the sparks fly between those two!

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Want to find out more about Migdon? Check out the links below to purchase the books:

Amazon: Orphan’s Song, Songkeeper, Song of Leira

Barnes and Nobles: Orphan’s Song, Songkeeper, Song of Leira

Welcome to the seventh stop in the #exploreleira blog tour where we’re celebrating the (almost) one year book birthday for Songkeeper! It is the second book in the Songkeeper Chronicles, which tells the story of a girl who can hear the song that created the world.

If this is your first encounter with the blog tour, we are continuing a series of alphabet posts looking at the world and characters and magical creatures of the Songkeeper Chronicles.

Today, we’re looking at the letter G for … George Eregius Waltham III.

G is for George Eregius Waltham III, the yellow cat

Cats in fantasy have always been some of my favorite characters. Because they have so much personality in and of themselves, transforming them into fantasy creatures— often with the ability to speak— allows for so much more awesomeness to happen.

As a general rule, cats are concerned mainly with the most important thing in the entire world: themselves. Humans are their minions, existing only to satisfy their needs. Cats frequently come and go as they please. Unhindered by loyalty or a desire to gain their master’s pleasure … because they have no master. They are remarkably self-satisfied creatures, and will often show off their hunting prowess, not because they want to please you but because they are simply so delighted with their own awesomeness.

And you can never, ever quite tell what a cat is thinking.

A cat serenely posed in a patch of sunlight may simply be napping and reflecting upon the many fine qualities of sunshine … or calmly planning ways to murder you in your sleep. And there is no earthly way to tell which …

Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule—my own cat, Finn, being one of them. (I’m not sure he even knows he is a cat.) He is cuddly. A perfect big fluff ball with a purr like a lawn mower. He is ridiculously fond of scaling your body like a tree so he can ride on your shoulder. He is slightly overfond of eating. And he likes car rides and tries to steal my coffee. (Weird, right?)

(Here we see Finn’s progression from a little stray kitten curled up in the backseat on the ride home to a ginormous fluff ball who wants my coffee.)

But as a general rule, cats tend to hold themselves in the highest regard and look upon the world through a unique cat-shaped set of lenses … which just makes them oh so fun to write and read about in fantasy novels.

And George Eregius Waltham III is no different.

“Well, that went marvelously, didn’t it?”

Birdie jumped at the unexpected voice, knocking over an unfastened stack of crates, and scrambled away. A yowl set her skin tingling, then a fluffy yellow face poked around the side of a barrel and glared at her.

“Can’t you watch what you’re doing? Nearly broke my tail. Imagine! Me, George Eregius Waltham the third, wandering around with a crooked tail! Horrors. Unthinkable horrors.”

– Orphan’s Song

Unthinkable horrors. Oh dear George! He makes me grin every time he spouts some new, over the top, drama-infused bit of nonsense. I imagine he has a very refined, highborn British accent that only serves to make it more amusing.

George winked. “That’s why I’m the master and you’re the pupil. Hmm, master of the Songkeeper. I rather like the sound of that.”

“And what makes you the master?

“Simply because, my dear girl, I know more than you do.” The cat curled a paw over his mouth to conceal a yawn. “And in this splendid world of ours, information is currency.”

– Orphan’s Song

Since writing George, I have since stumbled across several fictional cats who have impressed me with their incredible portrayal of catness. (Not to be confused with Katniss, hero of the Hunger Games, lol.) These are some of my favorites:

• Eanrin, Tales of Goldstone Woods by Anne Elisabeth Stengl (Nope, there’s no comparison for this one … Eanrin is pure awesomeness, and I know that anyone who has read the series will agree.)
• Llyon, Prydain Chronicles by Lloyd Alexander
• Fennel, Fool’s Errand and Golden Fool by Robin Hobb

Who are some of your favorite fantasy cats?

Trivia Question: How does George introduce himself to Birdie when they first meet?

1. incredibly wise and strikingly handsome
2. wild rover and fierce adventurer
3. master of all awesomeness
4. traveler extraordinaire

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Want to find out more about George? Check out the links below to purchase the books:

Amazon: Orphan’s Song, Songkeeper, Song of Leira

Barnes and Nobles: Orphan’s Song, Songkeeper, Song of Leira