Hi everyone! I'm revising my novel before I hit the query trenches. Just wanted to know if the first chapter is hooking you and hitting all the right notes! Are there places where you felt like putting it down? Does the ending make you curious about what happens in the next chapter?
Any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated! If you enjoy the works of authors like Rachel Gillig, Hannah Whitten, Kalie Reed, Allison Saft, and Erin A. Craig, you're definitely my target audience!
Thanks in advance!
CHAPTER ONE
I was ten when the Anointed King summoned me to the crypt.
With rising dread, I studied the crumbling urns mounted within shallow niches. Rainwater trickled down gray, cobwebbed walls. I hadn’t been brave enough to venture into the burial chambers beneath Willow Abbey before. Some of the novices swore the place was haunted.
Have I misbehaved? My thoughts raced quicker than my blood. Did he call me down here to dole out punishment?
Inside the torchlit chamber, three people loomed over me like towers cast in shadow: King Mordred, Queen Nerys, and Mother Angharad. Their eerie, black gazes tracked my movements the way some portraits did in dark, ghostly hallways.
When Nerys reached for my arm, I flinched. She turned my hand over to expose the tender skin of the palm. Small, rosy, unmarked.
“A Reaper is the Crown’s most precious jewel, yet there are many in the realm who seek to harm you,” Nerys whispered in a slick, unhurried tone. “A blood bond with the king will keep you under his watchful eye. You’ll be safe. Do you consent to it, Briallen?”
The hairs at the back of my neck stood erect. I swallowed hard before nodding my consent. Who better to protect me than the Anointed King himself? Yet an uneasy feeling sat heavy in my gut—the one that urged me to yank my hand out of her grasp. To run away.
Nerys unsheathed a small, ceremonial dagger from her hip. The inky blade—carved from a shard of black amber—emitted an unnatural, oily luster. Firelight glinted off its razor-sharp edge.
“This will only hurt for a moment,” she whispered, angling the dagger to my palm. “Don’t move.”
Sweat dampened the bodice of my black gown. Tears flooded my eyes, but I refused to make a sound in the king’s presence. His hawk-like gaze surveyed each drag of my breath, each beat of my heart. I wanted him to be proud of me—proud of my ability to swallow pain in silence.
Be obedient, be silent, be useful, I whispered the sacred motto to myself over and over again.
Nerys’s dagger etched an X-shaped mark on my palm in two clean strokes. My muscles clenched. I gritted my teeth to contain the vicious, red sting. Warm blood wept from the shallow wound, trickling down my elbow in a crimson rivulet. The smell of iron clogged my nostrils and turned my stomach.
Mother Angharad stepped forward to hold a small silver bowl under my hand, letting the vessel fill with blood halfway. Her veiled face was creased with worry.
Mordred took the ceremonial dagger from his queen, and made a similar cut across his own large palm. He didn’t so much as wince. Then he fisted his hand over the silver bowl in Mother Angharad’s grasp, and let his blood mix with my own.
Eyes closed, the queen let her forefinger swirl the bowl’s scarlet contents in slow, lazy circles. Her incantation came out in Fiendus. The tongue of magic. Each jagged, long-drawn word sank into my bones like frost.
“In the eye of the tempest, when the spirit wanes, let the blood bond blaze and endure. In the thick of battle, if the feet do stray, let the blood bond remain unbroken and sure.”
The orange torchlights shuddered, throwing lurching shadows across cracked walls.
A boiling pain spread through my veins as the bond slowly, darkly fell into place.
The king grunted like a wounded boar, hunched, his fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists. Agony twisted his bloodless face. I felt a second set of eyes watching me from behind the veil of Mordred’s jade irises—ancient, mercurial. An inhuman cry scraped out of Mordred’s mouth, and echoed across the crypt.
I fell to the ground, screaming and thrashing. Sweat dotted my forehead. Darkness swallowed my vision.
I woke up to the glare of candlelight in my own chamber. The king and queen were gone. My bandaged palm roared with pain.
Kneeling at my bedside, Mother Angharad pressed a poultice to my fevered brow. Her eyes were soft with pity. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, child. The king is not a man who leaves fealty to chance.”
That’s when I realized the blood bond wasn’t just for my protection. Dread knotted my gut, leaving me with a cold, jarring certainty: the spell had chained me to the king. I’d never be free of him.
Ten years later, that dread still sleeps within me, sharper than the memory of the pain.
***
Gwyn’s feral, one-eared tomcat hissed from a willow branch above me.
I sprinted across the abbey’s immense garden, clutching the worn journal to my chest. My heavy skirts whispered against tall, dew-soaked grass. With a vicious yowl, the little gray monster launched himself onto my shoulder. I shrieked. Tiny claws found purchase in the collar of my black gown. The diary slipped from my fingers, and landed on the ground.
With a triumphant purr, the cat leapt off my shoulder. He settled atop the upturned journal like a hen brooding over her eggs.
“Petal, please,” I pleaded. “I’m already late.”
His yellow eyes narrowed with possessiveness. My pleas fell on deaf ears. Or deaf ear, in his case. As usual, I’d lost track of time while scribbling in my journal. Even the bells had failed to rouse me from my thoughts.
A damp autumn breeze stirred the silver primroses in the flowerbeds. Their petals looked iridescent in the pale, dappled sunshine. Low thunder rumbled against vine-strangled columns, announcing an encroaching storm. A bell clanged from one of the towers. Nuns wove through the cloisters to attend morning prayers.
“Are you planning to strangle the poor creature, Bree?”
Gwyn’s gravelly voice made me jump. I whirled to find her approaching through the grass, lambent-eyed. Her wild, chestnut ringlets were a contrast to my own neat, raven-black braid.
I dusted the cat hair from my bodice. “Petal attacked me again.”
Petal padded over to Gwyn, meowing like a docile kitty begging to be loved.
“You naughty cat.” Gwyn cast him an admonishing look—the same look Mother Angharad, the late abbess, would flash us whenever we misbehaved as children.
A familiar pang awakened beneath my sternum. The late abbess had been Gwyn’s great-aunt. She had brought Gwyn to the abbey at the age of eight, shortly after her family’s tragic demise in a flood. With the passing years, she and I had become inseparable as sisters, nurtured by Mother Angharad’s loving hand.
Until the king’s elite knights—the Basilisks—dragged Angharad away last year. On the afternoon of my twentieth nameday.
I shook my head to clear the memory, and bent over to pick up my journal.
Gwyn threaded her arm with mine, pulling me toward the shadowed alcove. “Lili is waiting for her lessons in the library.” Her eyes glowed impishly. “With Sister Olwen.”
I grimaced at the mention of Sister Olwen.
“The other day, I heard Olwen complaining about you spending too much time writing in your precious book”—Gwyn thrust her chin toward the diary in my hand—“while ignoring your chores.”
My fingers tightened reflexively around the journal. Over the years, I’d made a habit of recording my life in the abbey: the quirks of various nuns, bits of gossip stolen from the novices, festivals, namedays, and small day-to-day occurrences of no significance.
There was a chest full of old journals at the foot of my bed, every last page crawling with my tight, loopy scrawl. For a child who spent too much time in her head, writing felt like a tool to make sense of the world around her. A way to feel less invisible among the inhabitants of Willow Abbey.
I gasped aloud, hand clamped over my mouth like an actress in a miracle play. “Me? Ignoring my chores? That’s impossible.”
Gwyn flashed me a mock-stern look, mimicking Sister Olwen’s high-pitched voice. “You shall receive the severest punishment, girl.”
“What’s that, Sister?”
“Twenty lashes on your ample, round—” She paused as three glaring nuns passed us in the cloister. “Arse.”
I giggled, placing a gloved hand over my belly.
Gwyn’s presence was the only thing warm enough to cut through Morven’s near-constant rainy skies. The carefreeness came easily to her—perhaps because she was never held to the same standards as me.
I was the king’s ward. A Reaper waiting her turn to serve the Crown. There was never any hope of a normal life for me. Gwyn was blessed to have been born without magic. She was free to become a nun here at the abbey, raise a family, or even try her hand at becoming a dancing mistress. The world was her oyster. I tried not to envy her too much for these liberties.
“I’m riding into town with Sister Gladys today,” she chirped as we glided through the drafty, gray corridors. “Do you want me to get you anything?”
I flashed her a furtive look. “You already know what I need.”
“More paper and ink, my dove?”
Nodding, I fished out a coin pouch from my pocket, and pressed it into her hand. “And whatever volume of poetry you can sneak into your basket without the nun noticing.”
She winked. “I’ll do my best.”
“Oh, and get those lace ribbons you wanted last week,” I was quick to add. “And those buttons with—"
“There they are!” Sister Olwen’s voice blasted us from the library’s doorway. “The Scatterbrain Sisters.” Her glowering gaze landed on me. “You’re late.”
I lowered my gaze. “Apologies, Sister.”
Sister Olwen straightened her spine, staring at me down the bridge of her large, hooked nose. Tall and bony, she had all the appearance of a pale vulture.
“It was the tomcat,” Gwyn jumped to my defense. “Petal attacked her in the garden again, Sister.”
The tops of Sister Olwen’s cheekbones deepened to a startling shade of scarlet. “I don’t need you to make excuses for her, Gwynevere. Now, get to the kitchen; the potatoes aren’t going to peel themselves.”
Gwyn shook her head, sighing. “You’d think they’d have learned by now, Sister.” She sprinted down the corridor before the nun could react.
I pressed my lips to hide a smile.
Sister Olwen spoke through gritted teeth. “Impudent child.” She fiddled with the polished slate amulet around her neck—a habit she indulged wherever she was rankled, apparently. Decades ago, her father had procured the sacred amulet from the king to heal Olwen from bouts of catarrh. She hadn’t suffered since.
The seething nun turned to me. “Get. Inside. Now.”
As soon as I entered the library, the scent of old parchment and cedar washed over me like a wave. Motes of dust swirled in faint, butter-colored patches of sunlight. Humming softly, Lili sat at our usual table near the eastern window, her curly head bent over a piece of parchment. My gown matched hers—deepest black wool embroidered with gold thread. The colors of a Reaper.
“Good morning, sweetpea,” I greeted her.
“Bree, look!” She held up the parchment to show me her handiwork: a grotesque caricature of Sister Olwen sipping sherry. Through her flared nostrils.
I snatched the parchment from her, crumpled it, and threw it in the fireplace. “Are you trying to get us both into trouble?”
She giggled uncontrollably, a tiny gloved hand clapped to her mouth. I pinched her round, rosy cheek. Eight years ago, the king’s men had brought her to the abbey as a baby, red-faced and squalling for her mother. Now that she had completed her ninth nameday, the girl was expected to begin her training in magic. Under my supervision.
I sat facing her, letting my fingers drum the desk. My elder, Lady Rhoswen, had been a natural teacher. I did my best to emulate her warmth and patience with Lili.
The girl grimaced. “We’re not using a subject today, are we, Bree?”
So far, she had only practiced once with a subject: a smelly, old sheepdog that belonged to the gardener. Lili had been terrified the whole time, breaking into tears right after the session.
“It’s Lady Briallen to you.” Sister Olwen strode into the library, wearing her signature scowl—the one that struck fear in the hearts of freckled novices. “Do not forget your manners in front of your elder, Lady Lili.”
Lili’s face fell. “Apologies.”
“As a matter of fact,” Sister Olwen announced, “I shall serve as your subject today.”
Lili let out a low whimper.
Bricks settled in the pit of my stomach. “Are you sure, Sister?”
“Magic is learned best through practice.”
“But—”
Olwen pulled up a chair to the head of the table. “The king has expressed his desire in the matter. He wants Lili to receive her training with human subjects.”
The protests died in my throat. I’d put off our practice for as long as I could. For Lili’s sake. But there was only so long I could justify it without raising the king’s scrutiny. His ire. There’s no way around it.
I let out an exhale. “Take off your gloves, Lili.”
The girl’s face blanched. Her hands trembled as she tugged at the oiled leather gloves, identical to my own. We wore them at all times, except during eating, bathing, and wielding our power.
“Now,” I instructed her, “place your palm on Sister Olwen’s cheek.”
“What if I get lost in there? What if—”
“Stop your infernal wailing, girl,” Sister Olwen scolded her. “It’s giving me a headache.”
I threw a venomous glance at the nun. “We’ll go together,” I assured Lili. “I won’t let you get lost in there.” While yanking off my own gloves, I tried my best to not look at the pink X-shaped mark on my left palm. The Reaper’s mark. Lily wouldn’t receive hers until her tenth nameday; the thought left a sour knot in my stomach.
Sister Olwen glowered at me. “You can’t handhold her if she has any hopes of making progress with her magic.”
“She needs someone to guide her.”
“You’re mollycoddling her.”
My cheeks burned with indignation. “No one in this abbey understands Lili’s magic better than me. In her current state of inexperience, it would be imprudent to allow her undirected access into your mind—into your memories.”
Dread darkened the nun’s eyes. “Fine. Do what you must.”
Lili’s shoulders sagged with relief.
“Would you mind focusing on a specific memory?” I asked the nun. “Lili shall study it.”
She grunted in agreement, letting her eyelids fall shut.
Lili and I pressed a hand to either side of Olwen’s bony face. The contact with another human’s skin—the feel of the nun’s warm, fuzz-lined cheek against my palm—was shocking at first. I was so used to experiencing the world through the confines of my leather gloves that touching another person was a novelty like no other. My magic swelled from the point of contact. I slipped into Olwen’s mind like a hot blade slicing through a block of wax.
The library faded around us.
Lili and I stood in the black, cavernous chamber of Olwen’s mind, its walls and floors twisting with white threads. Threads of her memories. The nun’s heartbeats echoed along the walls, like muffled beats of thunder. Some of the threads looked old and frayed that trembled at the slightest unseen current, while others appeared thick and strong as vines, coiled, anchoring the chamber with quiet, unyielding force. If I closed my eyes, I could feel them breathing. Moving. They stretched in every direction, crossing, tangling, diverging—an intricate tapestry of memory, will, and life.
“It’s so creepy in here,” Lili whispered. “Oh, I hate this, Bree.”
“Every mind looks the same,” I reminded her. “Don’t be scared of the darkness. It’s the memory threads that truly concern us. Brushing a thread, even accidentally, will awaken a specific memory in Sister Olwen’s mind. If we hold them, we can—”
“—Look into a particular memory,” she finished.
“And if we rip a strand?”
Lili’s shoulders wriggled in a shudder. “We’ll sever the memory from Sister Olwen’s mind.”
I gave her a reassuring smile. “It’ll be a long time before the king summons you to reap memories for him. You’ll probably be an old maid by then.” The Royal Reaper, Lady Rhoswen, had decades of service ahead of her before I’d be called to take her place. After me, it would be Lili’s turn.
Lili frowned and shook her head. “I don’t want to think about it.”
I let out a breath. “Let’s go find the memory Sister Olwen is focusing on.”
We padded about in the darkness. Searching. Careful not to touch or disturb any of the threads. A golden glimmer beckoned us to the heart of the cavern like a candle on a moonless night.
“There!” Lili’s index finger pointed at the light.
“Go ahead, sweetpea.”
She inched toward the flickering gleam, cautious and fearful, like a fledgling testing the air before its first flight. When her tiny hands closed around the glowing memory thread, Lili’s eyes glazed over. Her jaw slackened.
“It’s Sister Olwen’s dog,” she whispered, “from when she was a girl. Rhun. Oh, he’s so cute, Bree!”
“Study it well.”
After a few heartbeats, she dropped the thread and jolted backward as if it had caught fire.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Wolves,” she whimpered. “They mauled Rhun to death. There was so much blood. He died protecting Olwen and her sister. Oh, Bree!”
The sight of her distress splintered my heart. “It happened a long time ago.”
“Please,” she squeaked, “I want to get out of here!”
I nodded. “Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and remove your hand from Sister Olwen’s cheek.”
I did the same.
The library returned, its silence broken by the snap of logs in the fireplace. Sister Olwen sat in her chair, breathing hard. Blinking rapidly. Tears clung to Lili’s eyes.
I pulled on my glove and gave the girl’s hand a squeeze. “It gets better with practice, I promise.”
The nun’s narrowed eyes found Lili. “Did you find the memory I was focusing on?”
“Your dog. Rhun.”
“And how did Rhun die?”
When Lili began to weep, the nun smirked with quiet, sadistic satisfaction.
I ground my teeth. “Couldn’t you have chosen a different memory, Sister?”
Olwen got up from her seat. “Human memories are replete with pain and ugliness. A Reaper might as well get used to it.” She headed to the door, humming to herself.
Her words stung like a slap. I glared into the nun’s back.
Lili stared out of the window, her eyes puffy and red. Rain lashed the glass in flashing tongues of silver. I glimpsed my own reflection in the blurry pane: gray-eyed and cherry-cheeked. Freckles dusted the slender bridge of my nose.
Out in the courtyard, a young novice rushed to greet her silver-haired father. The wind carried their laughter to our ears.
“Do you ever think about your family, Bree?” Lili asked.
“I don’t,” I lied. “It’s an honor to be the king’s ward—to be granted a home in this beautiful abbey.”
“Well, I hate being his ward.”
Something twisted inside my gut—an old, nameless pain from years past. “Don’t say that.”
“The nuns are allowed to see their families,” she complained in a wobbling voice. “Why not us?”
Not too long ago, I’d asked the same question to Rhoswen. The old X-shaped scar on my palm awakened with a phantom itch. The king expected absolute loyalty from his Reapers, undiluted by the ties of blood. The ties of the heart. We were to serve no one but the Crown. But Lili was too young to understand such things.
“It is not our place to question the rules,” I said in a level voice. “We must find comfort in simple pleasures.”
“Simple pleasures?”
“Like your sketches.”
“And your poetry books?”
A smile curled my lips. “Exactly.”
I dreamt of owning a library someday, stacked with endless volumes of poetry. A place where I could lose myself in a world of ink and parchment. Even for a little while. For me, it would be the closest thing to freedom.
When the rain lightened, I took Lili out into the courtyard’s statuary for our chores. The gray faces of past Anointed Kings bordered the walls, wet from the rain, casting deep shadows on those who walked beneath them. Lili and I crouched on the gravel, scrubbing moss and dirt from the statues. Pebbles bit into my knees through the layers of skirt and petticoat.
The nickering of horses filled the air. Hooves thundered on the ground.
Nuns rushed out of the abbey, muttering to one another. Lili and I sprang to our feet. A host of black-armored knights dismounted in the courtyard. Their cloaks were embroidered with the crest of Basilisks: a pair of serpents coiled together in the shape of a blade.
My mind flashed with the memory of their arrival from a year ago, when they had come to claim Mother Angharad. A chill snaked down my spine. Who have they come to take this time?
One of the Basilisks, a hulking beast of a man with silver-threaded brown hair, strode toward me. It was Sir Blaidd, the Captain of the Royalguard. He accompanied the king on his monthly visits to the abbey.
When the knight knelt before me, I forgot how to breathe. Lili peered at him from behind my hips.
“Lady Rhoswen is dead, may peace be upon her soul,” he declared somberly. “I’ve come to fetch you for the upcoming Reaping Ceremony, Lady Briallen.”
The shock was an icy splash of water, drenching every part of me.
“Blessed be the Reaper,” the men shouted, kneeling around me. “Long may she serve!”