The
Enchanters 3: Ravenswolde
What if you knew when someone was about to die… and could do nothing to stop it? Each time, it starts as an itch in the back of her throat. It builds into a scream that shatters windows... and brings death. Elspeth does not know what she is, until she arrives at Ravenswolde. Fresh from a nunnery, with only her faith as a comfort, she is thrust into a world full of murderous intentions and unseen adversaries. In the school’s cold corridors, above a haunted wood, students learn the art of murder… seduction… betrayal… to fear and prey upon one another, in training for a future as one of Napoleon’s assassins. She has three chances to refuse and resist instruction. Three. The first earns her a warning. The second, a visit with the school’s mysterious Professor Hayes. The third... death. Will she choose her faith, or her life?
Author's Notes:
Many years ago, I imagined a in
which a woman was forced to marry a man she hated,
confronting her own faith and prejudices along the way.
Never content to leave my characters alone for very long, I
took the same characters and their plight and placed them in
France during the reign of Napoleon. Elspeth is caught
between her intense devotion to her faith and her desire to
survive, when she is torn from a nunnery and forced to
attend an assassin’s school. Throughout her adventures, she
must confront her own demons and those of her future
husband, unlock the secrets contained within the dark and
terrible walls, unravel the mystery surrounding a spirit
that continues to appeal for her assistance, and even walk
through the afterlife in an attempt to assist another in
their search for redemption.
For me, this book was a labor of
love, but also one full of doubt, because it is in many ways
darker than my earlier books, and raw in its evil. Here, we
have far greater forces of darkness than I have toyed with
before – a ruthless murderer of ghosts and men in its
anti-hero, a heroine threatened in every way possible by her
new circumstances – her virtue, her faith, and her life is
put on the line. It casts a different light on a character
present in my other books, so much so that you may not
recognize him at first. Mostly, it forced me to realize that
I like setting myself impossible tasks, and asking such
terribly powerful questions as – what would matter to a
heroine more, her virtue … or preventing another from
sinning? Love is not love, if it does not care for another
entirely unworthy of that love, more than it cares for
itself.
Excerpt:
I
have a bad feeling.
It isn’t about the wayside inn,
the lonely road, or my mother sitting on the other side of
the coach. There is nothing amiss in the cheerful servant
girl’s face that greets us as we step out onto the damp
grass, nor in the thunderclouds looming overhead.
It has to do with the driver.
He is kind. Nimble fingers work
to loosen the harnesses of the horses, pausing to rub their
noses in the process. He whispers in their ears and pats
their flanks affectionately. His gray eyes dance and his
broad, crooked grin can make anyone smile. I like him. He
brought us a long distance on the public coach, his cheerful
singing complimenting the journey from the flat lands to the
mountains. I still have one of the hard candies he slipped
me when we set out in my cloak pocket. He beamed at me and
said, “A bit of sweetness for the trip.”
The bad feeling started early
this morning, in a faint kind of unease. It is now strong
enough that my throat aches.
I want to scream. Everything in
me tells me to do it. But I can’t. It will draw too much
attention, and the others will know something is
wrong with me. It has always been wrong. I’m wrong.
Most people don’t know when
someone else is going to die.
“Elspeth, come along. We only
have a half hour to eat before we set off again.” Mother
drags me by the elbow into the inn, where several faces turn
to us with interest. My feet feel heavy as I stumble to a
corner seat and sink into it, lowering my hood and pushing
dark hair out of my eyes. My hands shake until I can close
them around the mug of water a serving girl brings. She is
fresh-faced and freckled, oblivious to all but what she
sees. I envy her.
The driver enters and exchanges
cheerful words with the innkeeper. He pulls out a stool at
the bar and sits, tossing down a coin in exchange for a pint
of beer. He’s going to die. I know it, and I can’t stop it.
I’ve tried. I can never stop it. “Is it much further?” I ask
faintly.
Mother surveys me distantly
across her plate. “No.”
We eat in silence and climb back
on the coach. There is only one stop left and we’re the last
passengers. The driver winks at me as he shuts the door. I
feel sick and can hardly manage a weak smile. He swings up
onto the broad seat and clicks to the horses.
The feeling grows. Miles pass
beneath us, taking us into a thick wood that lets in very
little light. There are no birds, and brambles line the
roadway, their gnarled thorns retreating into the shadows.
The trees are strange, growing in unnatural formation,
shadows encased in their limbs. I sense death among them,
decay. Mother is asleep in her corner, not stirring even
with the distant rumble of thunder. I feel a scream build
inside me. The coach lurches forward with a snap of the
wheel. It sinks into a deep rut and the driver comes to the
window. “Won’t be more than a minute,” he says cheerfully.
“We lost a pin on the drive. I have another.”
Don’t do it.
He can’t hear my internal plea. My throat tightens and my teeth clench as he rummages in the box at the back of the coach. Trembling, I step out onto the road...
