Feared by a priesthood
Coveted by a god
Tempted by a slave
MASTER OF CROWS
by Grace Draven
In 2005, I snapped awake from a deep sleep with this fully realized character and story buzzing around in my brain. Still groggy, I crawled out of bed, lurched my way in the dark to the study, nearly broke my neck tripping on a Lego piece and fell into the chair to turn on the computer. I’m pretty sure I typed the first six or seven sentences of this new tale with my eyes closed. And thus began months of blissful inspiration writing Master of Crows all the way to “The End.”
Uhm…no. I think I rewrote Chapter One at least a baker’s dozen times, drove my two primary beta readers crazy for months with chapter reads, phone rants and pathetic requests for advice. The fact that neither of them had me lined up against a wall and shot for being a sheer pain in the ass is testimony to their patience, dedication and friendship. I sometimes forgot to feed my husband and children supper , woke up at the crack of midnight on Saturday mornings to hammer out a scene, let the laundry pile up to Himalayan size heights and declined lunch invitations from my co-workers. The fact that my children still think I’m the world’s greatest mom, the spouse hasn’t stuck me out on the curb with a “Free to a Good Home” sign on my neck and my co-workers don’t think I’m an asshat snob is testimony to their tolerance, humor and understanding. When I finally wrote “The End” to Master of Crows, I got up from my chair, filched my spouse’s bottle of 25 Year Balvenie and sipped away at a wee dram of some damn fine single malt whiskey. Of course “The End” isn’t really the end. There are edits and more edits and edits beyond those edits. I can truthfully and literally say I’ve read this story forward and backward several times. I proofread my galley while suffering through the stomach flu and wondering if I was going to puke in my lap. Yeah, the life of an author. It really is about the glamour. ;D Was the book worth all the late nights, early mornings, bad housekeeping and delayed dinners? Dudes…of course it was. We don’t write this stuff because it’s easy. We write it because there’s a size 7 compulsion shoved up our butts and one stomping on our heads to write, Write, WRITE! Do we love it? Yeah, for the most part. There’s the good, the bad and the OMGWTFBBQ!!! But it’s all part of the process, the drive to tell the story. With that being said, I’m happy as a calipha in a harem full of Gerard Butlers to announce the official release of MASTER OF CROWS—a fantasy romance novel—from Amber Quill Press:  http://www.amberquill.com/MasterCrows.html/MasterCrows.htmlHere’s a short blurb as shown on the website:
What would you do to win your freedom?
That is the question which sets bondwoman, Martise of Asher, on a dangerous path. In exchange for her freedom, she has bargained with her masters, the mage-priests of Conclave, to spy on the renegade sorcerer, Silhara of Neith. The priests want Martise to expose the sorcerer’s treachery and turn him over to Conclave justice. A risky endeavor, but one she accepts without hesitation—until she falls in love with her intended target.
Silhara of Neith, Master of Crows, is a desperate man. The god called Corruption invades his mind, seducing him with promises of limitless power if he will help it gain dominion over the world. Silhara struggles against Corruption’s influence and searches for ways to destroy the god. When Conclave sends Martise as an apprentice to help him, he knows she’s a spy. Now he fights a war on two fronts—against the god who would possess him and the apprentice who would betray him.
Mage and spy search together for a ritual that will annihilate Corruption, but in doing so discover secrets about each other that may damn them both. Silhara must decide if his fate, and the fate of nations, is worth the soul of the woman he has come to love, and Martise must choose continued enslavement or freedom at the cost of a man’s life. And love.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
And a different excerpt than what appears on the website:
She was no more winsome in the morning than at day’s end. Silhara’s new apprentice looked much as she had when he first met her, dressed in a tunic and skirts too large for her, her hair bound in a tight bun and coiffed with torn spider web. When he stumbled into the kitchen, half-blinded by the morning light, he was startled to see her. And then he remembered. Conclave’s answer to his request for help. He didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. What in Bursin’s name was he supposed to do with a helper who couldn’t perform the simplest spell or lift a basket of oranges?
He sipped his tea and regarded her over the rim of his cup. Damned priests. Couldn’t they have saddled him with someone pretty? A woman with generous curves and breasts to smother in? Someone he could tup in the hallway while she searched for secrets and schemed of ways to betray him? Instead, they sent this ordinary, diffident, untalented girl. At best, her presence was a nuisance; at worst, a dangerous impediment.
Still, she wasn’t as colorless as she first appeared. She’d caught him by surprise with her retort about the dust, revealing a flash of wit followed by an impressive blush. She made him wonder—and smile. That alone gave him pause.
Silhara couldn’t remember the last time he’d found something worth smiling about that didn’t involve mockery, yet in the last ten minutes Cumbria’s little spy almost coaxed a laugh out of him with her comment and the way she eyed him when he offered her the orange. He didn’t think her expression could be more suspicious or fearful if he’d held out a live pit viper.
“Are you going to eat it?” He pointed to the orange, untouched next to her bowl.
She stiffened, as if bracing herself for something unpleasant. He noted her hands as she reached reluctantly for the fruit. Her knuckles were red, chafed—like his. Like Gurn’s. This was a woman who labored in Cumbria’s household. No pampered ward here, but one who did menial work.
There was a meticulous grace in the way she peeled the orange and something entrancing in the way she ate it. She bit into the segment slowly, either from caution or enjoyment, and her actions riveted his attention. He shook his head. Gods, it’s been too long since I’ve had a woman. He smirked when her eyes widened after the first bite.
“It’s so sweet!”
“’Twas no empty boast when I said we harvested the best fruit here. Neith’s oranges always sell out at market.”
He didn’t share in her appreciation. Oranges were a staple of his diet, and he loathed them. He conquered the urge to gag each time he ate one. But eat them he did, always with the thought that some day he might grow to like them and rid himself of the memory tied to them.
Martise finished the orange with more enthusiasm but refused his offer of another. She complimented Gurn on his porridge, and the two shared a warm smile. Their immediate camaraderie puzzled Silhara. This wasn’t the mating dance of man and maid, more a recognition of long-separated friends finally reunited. He’d noted Gurn’s immediate attachment to the girl. Martise appeared to return the servant’s affections. His eyes narrowed. They knew nothing of her save what Cumbria told them. There was more to Martise of Asher than nervous blushes and a melodious voice. She had an agenda or she wouldn’t be here. He’d grind her into the dirt before he let her use Gurn to get to him.
He was tempted to tell her of Gurn’s origins—how Silhara found him rotting in a Prime prison for literally breaking a man in half across his knee—but thought better of it. He didn’t relish the idea of an irritated Gurn tearing his head off his shoulders and throwing it across the courtyard for revealing private things to a stranger.
A snide remark on their attachment hovered on his lips, stopped only by a foul scent rising up from beneath the table.
“Bursin’s wings! What is that smell?” He raised an eyebrow at Martise. Her eyes widened.
“Not me. I bathed this morning.”
Gurn nudged him and pointed in the direction of his feet. He bent to peer under the table and almost gagged. Cael lay stretched out on the floor, reeking worse than the shambling, half rotten dog that invaded Neith at Corruption’s command. He shoved Cael with one foot, and the hound growled a warning.
“Out of here, Cael. Now.” He shoved harder this time. Cael snapped half-heartedly at his toes before abandoning his spot and slinking out the open door leading to the bailey.
Silhara watched him go before turning his attention back to Martise. “Gurn told me my mage-finder verified Cumbria’s story. You are Gifted.”
She paled and lowered her eyes to mask their expression. “Yes. Gurn introduced us.”
Her extraordinary voice had gone flat, hiding a wealth of emotion in the same way her downcast eyes did. He wasn’t fooled. She was angry he’d used Cael in ascertaining the truth.
“Cael is a valued member of my household, Martise. I trust his judgment more than I trust most anyone else’s. Regardless of Conclave’s wishes and Cumbria’s generosity in sending me his ward as an apprentice, if Cael didn’t approve of you, you wouldn’t stay.”
She met his gaze, her copper-coin eyes unflinching and resolute. “The bishop paid you for four months of my upkeep.”
Anger shot through him, incinerating the last vestiges of drowsiness. She dared to challenge him! He bared his teeth at her, barely placated when she flinched. Still, she refused to lower her eyes.
“Aye, he did,” he said. “And when I send his insolent ward back to him, I’ll include a note stating the exorbitant cost of porridge and a Neith orange has made it necessary for me to recover my expenses by keeping all his coin.”
The tension in the kitchen was thick enough to cut. Silhara’s temper rose with it until Martise exhaled a defeated sigh. Her voice was even, her gaze carefully blank and tranquil as she focused on a point over his left shoulder.
“I’m being impertinent. I am sorry, Master.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” She shot him a surprised look. “But I think we begin to understand each other.”
~*~*~*~*~*~
If you decide to introduce yourself to Silhara and Martise, I hope you enjoy their journey.
And if you're wondering about the sprinkling of artwork, I wanted to show off some of the awesome stuff I licensed and commissioned for this project. The first one is by the talented Melissa Findley whose work can be found at Deviant Art under the name Mercuralis. The last illustration is by the equally creative Nathie Block who can also be found at Deviant Art by the same name. Please visit their galleries and browse. You'll be glad you did.
Labels: book release party, fantasy romance, Grace Draven, Master of Crows | 
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