For fans of S.A.
Chakraborty's City of Brass, Patrick
Rothfuss' The Kingkiller Chronicles,
and George RR Martin’s The Game of
Thrones, this high concept medieval/high fantasy by Kelly Braffet is a
deeply immersive and penetrating tale of magic, faith and pride.
Title: The Unwilling
Author: Kelly Braffet
Publisher: MIRA books
Genre: Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Epic
Release Date: 11th February 2020
BLURB supplied by MIRA books
The Unwilling is the story of a young woman, born an
orphan with a secret gift, who grows up trapped, thinking of herself as an
afterthought, but who discovers that she does not have to be given power: she
can take it. An epic tale of greed and ambition, cruelty and love, the novel is
about bowing to traditions and burning them down.
For
reasons that nobody knows or seems willing to discuss, Judah the Foundling was
raised as siblings along with Gavin, the heir of Highfall, in the great house
beyond the wall, the seat of power at the center of Lord Elban’s great empire.
There is a mysterious--one might say unnatural connection--between the two, and
it is both the key to Judah’s survival until this point, and now her possible
undoing.
As
Gavin prepares for his long-arranged marriage to Eleanor of Tiernan, and his
brilliant but sickly younger brother Theron tries to avoid becoming commander
of the army, Judah is left to realize that she has no actual power or position
within the castle, in fact, no hope at all of ever traveling beyond the wall.
Lord Elban--a man as powerful as he is cruel- has other plans for her, for all
of them. She is a pawn to him and he will stop at nothing to get what he wants.
Meanwhile,
outside the wall, in the starving, desperate city, a Magus, a healer with a
secret power unlike anything Highfall has seen in years is newly arrived from
the provinces. He, too, has plans for the empire, and at the heart of those
plans lies Judah. The girl who started off with no name and no history will be
forced to discover there’s more to her story than she ever imagined.
PURCHASE LINKS
Oblong
Books: Signed, personalized preorders!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kelly
Braffet is the author of the novels Save Yourself,
Last Seen Leaving and Josie & Jack. Her writing has been published in The
Fairy Tale Review, Post Road, and several anthologies. She attended Sarah Lawrence
College and received her MFA in Creative Writing at Columbia University. She
currently lives in upstate New York with her husband, the author Owen King. A
lifelong reader of speculative fiction, the idea for The Unwilling originally
came to her in college; twenty years later, it’s her first fantasy novel.
Visit
her at kellybraffet.com.
AUTHOR LINKS
Facebook @kellybraffetfiction
Twitter @KellyBraffet
EXCERPT
Prologue
On the third day
of the convocation, two of the Slonimi scouts killed a calf, and the
herbalist’s boy wept because he’d watched the calf being born and grown to love
it. His
mother stroked his hair and promised he would forget by the time the feast came, the following night. He told her he would never forget. She said, “Just wait.”
mother stroked his hair and promised he would forget by the time the feast came, the following night. He told her he would never forget. She said, “Just wait.”
He spent all of
the next day playing with the children from the other caravan; three days
before, they’d all been strangers, but Slonimi children were used to making
friends quickly. The group the boy and his mother traveled with had come across
the desert to the south, and they found the cool air of the rocky plain a
relief from the heat. The others had come from the grassy plains farther west,
and were used to milder weather. While the adults traded news and maps and
equipment, the children ran wild. Only one boy, from the other caravan, didn’t
run or play: a pale boy, with fine features, who followed by habit a few feet
behind one of the older women from the other caravan. “Derie’s apprentice,” the
other children told him, and shrugged, as if there was nothing more to say. The
older woman was the other group’s best Worker, with dark hair going to grizzle
and gimlet eyes. Every time she appeared the herbalist suddenly remembered an
herb her son needed to help her prepare, or something in their wagon that
needed cleaning. The boy was observant, and clever, and it didn’t take him long
to figure out that his mother was trying to keep him away from the older woman:
she, who had always demanded he face everything head-on, who had no patience
for what she called squeamishness and megrims.
After a hard day
of play over the rocks and dry, grayish grass, the boy was starving. A cold
wind blew down over the rocky plain from the never-melting snow that topped the
high peaks of the Barriers to the east; the bonfire was warm. The meat smelled
good. The boy had not forgotten the calf but when his mother brought him meat
and roasted potatoes and soft pan bread on a plate, he did not think of him.
Gerta—the head driver of the boy’s caravan—had spent the last three days with
the other head driver, poring over bloodline records to figure out who between
their two groups might be well matched for breeding, and as soon as everybody
had a plate of food in front of them they announced the results. The adults and
older teenagers seemed to find this all fascinating. The herbalist’s boy was
nine years old and he didn’t understand the fuss. He knew how it went: the
matched pairs would travel together until a child was on the way, and then most
likely never see each other again. Sometimes they liked each other, sometimes
they didn’t. That, his mother had told him, was what brandy was for.
The Slonimi
caravans kept to well-defined territories, and any time two caravans met there
was feasting and trading and music and matching, but this was no ordinary
meeting, and both sides knew it. After everyone had eaten their fill, a few
bottles were passed. Someone had a set of pipes and someone else had a sitar,
but after a song or two, nobody wanted any more music. Gerta—who was older than
the other driver—stood up. She was tall and strong, with ropy, muscular limbs.
“Well,” she said, “let’s see them.”
In the back, the herbalist slid an
arm around her son. He squirmed under the attention but bore it.
From opposite sides of the fire, a
young man and a young woman were produced. The young man, Tobin, had been
traveling with Gerta’s people for years. He was smart but not unkind, but the
herbalist’s son thought him aloof. With good reason, maybe; Tobin’s power was
so strong that being near him made the hair on the back of the boy’s neck stand
up. Unlike all the other Workers—who were always champing at the bit to get a
chance to show off—Tobin was secretive about his skills. He shared a wagon with
Tash, Gerta’s best Worker, even though the two men didn’t seem particularly
friendly with each other. More than once the boy had glimpsed their lantern
burning late into the night, long after the main fire was embers.
The young woman
had come across the plains with the others. The boy had seen her a few times;
she was small, round, and pleasant-enough looking. She didn’t strike the boy as
particularly remarkable. But when she came forward, the other caravan’s best
Worker—the woman named Derie—came with her. Tash stood up when Tobin did, and when
they all stood in front of Gerta, the caravan driver looked from one of them to
the other. “Tash and Derie,” she said, “you’re sure?”
“Already decided,
and by smarter heads than yours,” the gimlet-eyed woman snapped.
Tash, who wasn’t
much of a talker, merely said, “Sure.”
Gerta looked back
at the couple. For couple they were; the boy could see the strings tied round
each wrist, to show they’d already been matched. “Hard to believe,” she said.
“But I know it’s true. I can feel it down my spine. Quite a legacy you two
carry; five generations’ worth, ever since mad old Martin bound up the power in
the world. Five generations of working and planning and plotting and hoping;
that’s the legacy you two carry.” The corner of her mouth twitched slightly.
“No pressure.”
A faint ripple of
mirth ran through the listeners around the fire. “Nothing to joke about,
Gerta,” Derie said, lofty and hard, and Gerta nodded.
“I know it. They
just seem so damn young, that’s all.” The driver sighed and shook her head.
“Well, it’s a momentous occasion. We’ve come here to see the two of you off,
and we send with you the hopes of all the Slonimi, all the Workers of all of
our lines, back to the great John Slonim himself, whose plan this was. His
blood runs in both of you. It’s strong and good and when we put it up against
what’s left of Martin’s, we’re bound to prevail, and the world will be free.”
“What’ll we do
with ourselves then, Gert?” someone called out from the darkness, and this time
the laughter was a full burst, loud and relieved.
Gerta smiled.
“Teach the rest of humanity how to use the power, that’s what we’ll do. Except
you, Fausto. You can clean up after the horses.”
More laughter.
Gerta let it run out, and then turned to the girl.
“Maia,” she said,
serious once more. “I know Derie’s been drilling this into you since you were
knee-high, but once you’re carrying, the clock is ticking. Got to be inside, at
the end.”
“I know,” Maia
said.
Gerta scanned the
crowd. “Caterina? Cat, where are you?”
Next to the boy,
the herbalist cleared her throat. “Here, Gerta.”
Gerta found her,
nodded, and turned back to Maia. “Our Cat’s the best healer the Slonimi have.
Go see her before you set out. If you’ve caught already, she’ll know. If you
haven’t, she’ll know how to help.”
“It’s only been
three days,” Tobin said, sounding slighted.
“Nothing against
you, Tobe,” Gerta said. “Nature does what it will. Sometimes it takes a while.”
“Not this time,”
Maia said calmly.
A murmur ran
through the crowd. Derie sat up bolt-straight, her lips pressed together. “You
think so?” Gerta said, matching Maia’s tone—although nobody was calm, even the
boy could feel the sudden excited tension around the bonfire.
“I know so,” Maia
said, laying a hand on her stomach. “I can feel her.”
The tension
exploded in a mighty cheer. Instantly, Tobin wiped the sulk off his face and
replaced it with pride. The boy leaned into his mother and whispered, under the
roar, “Isn’t it too soon to tell?”
“For most women,
far too soon, by a good ten days. For Maia?” Caterina sounded as if she were
talking to herself, as much as to her son. The boy felt her arm tighten around
him. “If she says there’s a baby, there’s a baby.”
After that the
adults got drunk. Maia and Tobin slipped away early. Caterina knew a scout from
the other group, a man named Sadao, and watching the two of them dancing
together, the boy decided to make himself scarce. Tash would have an empty
bunk, now that Tobin was gone, and he never brought women home. He’d probably
share. If not, there would be a bed somewhere. There always was.
In the morning,
the boy found Caterina by the fire, only slightly bleary, and brewing a kettle
of strong-smelling tea. Her best hangover cure, she told her son. He took out
his notebook and asked what was in it. Ginger, she told him, and willowbark,
and a few other things; he wrote them all down carefully. Labeled the page.
Caterina’s Hangover Cure.
Then he looked up
to find the old woman from the bonfire, Derie, listening with shrewd, narrow
eyes. Behind her hovered her apprentice, the pale boy, who this morning had a
bruised cheek. “Charles, go fetch my satchel,” she said to him, and he scurried
away. To Caterina, Derie said, “Your boy’s conscientious.”
“He learns
quickly,” Caterina said, and maybe she just hadn’t had enough hangover tea yet,
but the boy thought she sounded wary.
“And fair
skinned,” Derie said. “Who’s his father?”
“Jasper Arasgain.”
Derie nodded.
“Travels with Afia’s caravan, doesn’t he? Solid man.”
Caterina shrugged.
The boy had only met his father a few times. He knew Caterina found Jasper
boring.
“Healer’s a good
trade. Everywhere needs healers.” Derie paused. “A healer could find his way in
anywhere, I’d say. And with that skin—”
The boy noticed
Gerta nearby, listening. Her own skin was black as obsidian. “Say what you’re
thinking, Derie,” the driver said.
“Highfall,” the
old woman said, and immediately, Caterina said, “No.”
“It’d be a great
honor for him, Cat,” Gerta said. The boy thought he detected a hint of
reluctance in Gerta’s voice.
“Has he done his
first Work yet?” Derie said.
Caterina’s lips
pressed together. “Not yet.”
Charles, the
bruised boy, reappeared with Derie’s satchel.
“We’ll soon change
that,” the old woman said, taking the satchel without a word and rooting
through until she found a small leather case. Inside was a small knife,
silver-colored but without the sheen of real silver.
The boy noticed
his own heartbeat, hard hollow thuds in his chest. He glanced at his mother.
She looked unhappy, her brow furrowed. But she said nothing.
“Come here, boy,”
Derie said.
He sneaked another
look at his mother, who still said nothing, and went to stand next to the
woman. “Give me your arm,” she said, and he did. She held his wrist with a hand
that was both soft and hard at the same time. Her eyes were the most terrifying
thing he’d ever seen.
“It’s polite to
ask permission before you do this,” she told him. “Not always possible, but
polite. I need to see what’s in you, so if you say no, I’ll probably still cut
you, but—do I have your permission?”
Behind Derie,
Gerta nodded. The bruised boy watched curiously.
“Yes,” the boy
said.
“Good,” Derie
said. She made a quick, confident cut in the ball of her thumb, made an
identical cut in his small hand, quickly drew their two sigils on her skin in
the blood, and pressed the cuts together.
The world
unfolded. But unfolded was too neat a word, too tidy. This was like when he’d
gone wading in the western sea and been knocked off his feet, snatched
underwater, tossed in a maelstrom of sand and sun and green water and foam—but
this time it wasn’t merely sand and sun and water and foam that swirled around
him, it was everything. All of existence, all that had ever been, all that
would ever be. His mother was there, bright and hot as the bonfire the night
before—not her face or her voice but the Caterina of her, her very essence
rendered into flame and warmth.
But most of what
he felt was Derie. Derie, immense and powerful and fierce: Derie, reaching into
him, unfolding him as surely as she’d unfolded the world. And this was neat and
tidy, methodical, almost cold. She unpacked him like a trunk, explored him like
a new village. She sought out his secret corners and dark places. When he felt
her approval, he thrilled. When he felt her contempt, he trembled. And
everywhere she went she left a trace of herself behind like a scent, like the
chalk marks the Slonimi sometimes left for each other. Her sigil was
hard-edged, multi-cornered. It was everywhere. There was no part of him where
it wasn’t.
Then it was over,
and he was kneeling by the campfire, throwing up. Caterina was next to him,
making soothing noises as she wrapped a cloth around his hand. He leaned
against her, weak and grateful.
“It’s all right,
my love,” she whispered in his ear, and the nervousness was gone. Now she
sounded proud, and sad, and as if she might be crying. “You did well.”
He closed his eyes
and saw, on the inside of his eyelids, the woman’s hard, angular sigil, burning
like a horse brand.
“Don’t coddle
him,” Derie said, and her voice reached through him, back into the places
inside him where she’d left her mark. Caterina’s arm dropped away. He forced
himself to open his eyes and stand up. His entire body hurt. Derie was watching
him, calculating but—yes—pleased. “Well, boy,” she said. “You’ll never be
anyone’s best Worker, but you’re malleable, and you’ve got the right look.
There’s enough power in you to be of use, once you’re taught to use it. You
want to learn?”
“Yes,” he said,
without hesitating.
“Good,” she said.
“Then you’re my apprentice now, as much as your mother’s. You’ll still learn
herbs from your mother, so we’ll join our wagon to your group. But don’t expect
the kisses and cuddles from me you get from her. For me, you’ll work hard and
you’ll learn hard and maybe someday you’ll be worthy of the knowledge I’ll pass
on to you. Say, Yes, Derie.”
“Yes, Derie,” he
said.
“You’ve got a lot
to learn,” she said. “Go with Charles. He’ll show you where you sleep.”
He hesitated,
looked at his mother, because it hadn’t occurred to him that he would be
leaving her. Suddenly, swiftly, Derie kicked hard at his leg. He yelped and
jumped out of the way. Behind her he saw Charles—he of the bruised face—wince,
unsurprised but not unsympathetic.
“Don’t ever make
me ask you anything twice,” she said.
“Yes, Derie,” he
said, and ran.
Excerpted from The
Unwilling by Kelly Braffet. Copyright © 2020 by Kelly Braffet.
Published by MIRA Books.
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