Feast
of Fates
Four
Feasts Till Darkness
Book
One
Christian
A. Brown
Genre:
Fantasy Romance
Date
of Publication: September 9, 2014
ISBN:
978-1495907586
Number
of pages: 540
Word
Count: 212K
Cover
Artist: Brian Garabrant
Book
Description:
"I
am a new woman. A new creature. I am myself, and yet so different."
Magic
and destiny collide in Christian A. Brown's breathtaking debut novel,
Feast of Fates.
Together
known as the Sisters Three, Eean, the hand of fate, Elemech, the
reader of fate, and Ealasyd, the spinner of fate, foresee a war
between the Immortal Kings--and only one girl who can stop it.
Morigan
lives a quiet life as the handmaiden to a fatherly old sorcerer named
Thackery. But when she crosses paths with Caenith, a not wholly
mortal man, her world changes forever. Their meeting sparks long
buried magical powers deep within Morigan. As she attempts to
understand her newfound abilities, unbidden visions begin to plague
her--visions that show a devastating madness descending on one of the
Immortal Kings who rules the land.
With
Morigan growing more powerful each day, the leaders of the realm soon
realize that this young woman could hold the key to their
destruction. Suddenly, Morigan finds herself beset by enemies, and
she must master her mysterious gifts if she is to survive.
Book
Trailer: http://youtu.be/8E_RVXgpqB8
Excerpt
from Chapter 2
It
was quite a jog from King’s Crown to Fates Row, the modest,
middle-class district where Caenith lived on the outskirts of the
Faire of Fates, and Morigan took an earthbound carriage for part of
the trip. She wasn’t a spendthrift and saved almost all of what she
worked for, as Mifanwae had taught, but the urge to see the smith
again was a weight as heavy as stone, drawing her in his direction.
Her unburdening to Thule and his approval emboldened her further, for
he was a father and friend—the only one she had, lonely as that
might seem—and his opinions were valued. Never did she forget the
cautious side of his encouragement, however, of his unusual but apt
warnings of a wolf. The more she dwelled on the idea, the more she
found that a wolf was a fitting match for Caenith’s character:
wild, noble, and dangerous.
Once
settled with her fare, she was deposited amid squat white houses and
tall white shops, with roofs that glittered in the early evening
light and streets filled with weary working folk headed home for the
day or into noisy taverns, of which more than a few were around.
Caenith’s house, she remembered, was in quieter environs a few
blocks ahead. She stayed off the road and along the path, asking
strangers to pardon her as she strode at a hastened pace.
Slow
down. Get a hold of your wits or lose your knickers, like Thule said.
I’m paraphrasing, but still, she warned herself. She didn’t know
much about men. She had kissed a few, groped some of the hardness
that they kept behind their trousers, but wasn’t impressed by much
of it. In recent years, she had given up on courtship entirely, for
men weren’t interested in courtship with handmaidens living in less
respectable neighborhoods, even though she was sure that they had
other uses in mind for her. Perhaps that was what intrigued her about
Caenith so much, his biding patience or surety. She knew that he
desired her in a ravenous way, and yet she felt none of the frantic
insistence that her other suitors had expressed toward her. None of
that childlike need.
You
say that, but let’s see how he behaves tonight. This whole thing is
silly. You’re acting as if you know this man when you spent maybe
an hourglass with him. Therein was the rub: that for a stranger, it
seemed as if she knew him so intimately. Or felt as if she grasped
the most fundamental aspects of him: honor, bestial pride, and the
beauty and destruction of a wild rapid. All that remained was to mine
out the details. Why do I trust you? Of all the men I have met, only
Thule has earned that right through burying my mother’s body with
me, through sheltering me when I was alone. What right have you to
command my trust as you do, Caenith? What right?
She
proceeded down the lane with a fury in her step, her riding cloak
billowing, her dark skirt sweeping the ground like a black ghost. She
was a startling vision to those who saw her, and they moved out of
her way as if she was a mad but exquisite queen. A few roughnecks,
red in the cheeks and leering from a tavern porch, did not heed her
stormy expression and whistled at her from their chairs. Pigs! she
hissed with such righteous indignation that the fools pouted into
their ales, feeling as if the Everfair Queen herself had shamed them.
Night was hungry for the day, and sterling lamplights, their starry
magik trapped in hanging glass spheres, were winking on alongside the
lane. She arrived at Caenith’s run-down property even angrier from
the catcalls, stomped up the stairs, and went to knock on the door.
It was wrenched open before her knuckles touched the wood. There was
the smith.
Some
civility had found its way into his comportment this evening, though
he wore it awkwardly, like an animal stuffed into clothing, and
haphazardly, as if he had just dressed himself and not with great
success. His highwayman’s shirt was a mess: its laces loose, a
sleeve up, the other down, and the hem half tucked into trousers. The
boots she recalled from yesterday. He wore a plain ebony ribbon in
his hair, which was pulled back from his face. While he had certainly
made the effort to be more trimmed than yesterday, she could only
call him shorn, not shaved—she didn’t think he could ever be
stripped to less than stubble. Still, he was no less disarming or
enticing with his cologne of steel, sweat, and the deeper aromas of
woods and silky fur, and what portions of his sinewy strength burst
against his clothing took the remainder of her focus. She found
herself completely drained of her anger and fumbling for words.
“I…I
am sorry. You seem as if you are dressed and on your way out.”
Caenith
stared but did not speak. Distantly and with sorrow, he remembered
the Daughters of the Moon, victims of the New Age, with their milky
skin and coats of nettles, raven feathers and black leaves: garments
with haunting similarities to the lacy bodice and sweeping train that
Morigan wore. She was as magikal as these phantoms of the past, but
paler and prettier still, and her bust and cheeks were flushed from
rushing. He could taste the salty-sweet sweat of her on his palate
and hear the pounding of her blood as a rousing tribal drum in his
ears.
“I
was waiting for you,” he said.
Morigan
looked around suspiciously. “You…you were?”
“I—”
Smelled you down the street and hurried to make myself presentable.
“I felt that you would return today, that the winds would bear your
sweetness my way, and I see that Geadhain has granted my wish.”
“I
see. How very…strange,” replied Morigan.
Caenith
welcomed her with a grin; his canines were unusually long, they
glimmered in the lamplight. “Cups! I have been working on cups!
Come inside, dear fawn.”
Cups?
And there’s that “fawn” talk again. I think he’s some manner
of a lunatic, thought Morigan, and against what little sense
prevailed in the company of this man, she went into Caenith’s shop.
Inside was brighter than she remembered, and small lamps had been lit
in vases on the floor. She had to blink to understand them, these
twining metal flowers, their petals opened and stigmas made of flame.
She stopped to admire one, seeing the wick inside the fire, amazed
that this was not magik, but more of the smith’s work, impossibly
detailed and manufactured by enormous fingers.
“Resilience
and beauty,” said Caenith, breathing over her neck. “The strength
of steel and the beauty—and power—of fire. I was inspired to
create them this morning. The metal’s song was clear with how it
was to be made. Do you like them?”
“Yes,
they’re…lovely.”
“I
agree,” muttered Caenith, and he placed a hand upon her back,
leading her farther into his den. “Cups,” he promised, but said
no more.
About
the Author:
Christian
A. Brown has written creatively since the age of six. After spending
most of his career in the health and fitness industry, Brown quit his
job to care for his mother when she was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins
lymphoma in 2010.
Having
dabbled with the novel that would eventually become Feast of Fates
for over a decade, Brown was finally able to finish the project. His
mother, who was able to read a beginning version of the novel before
she passed away, has since imbued the story with deeper sentiments of
loss, love, and meaning. He is proud to now share the finished
product with the world.
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