I had a request in the diner for info about the next in the British Empire. I know, I know, the snippet is on my website, but I thought I’d put a tease here. So… here is… Soul of Fire — the first Peter chatper, which I don’t think was on the preview at back of last book. If it was, I’ll just have to give you more. (Yes, I am too lazy to go downstairs to the other bookshelf where the books are. I’ve been hanging out with musketeers all day and they ARE exhausting):
Dispossessed
Peter Farewell stumbled down the streets of Calcutta, looking like a drunken man but feeling all too starkly sober.
A tall Englishman with dark curls, his classical features—whose symmetry could have shamed the marbled perfection of ancient statues—was marred only by a black leather eyepatch, hiding his left eye. The right one, as though to compensate, shone brightly, and often sparkled with irony.
Many a woman had gazed into that eye and been captivated by the verdant depths that seemed to hide all promises and sparkle with possible romance. Peter Farewell knew his gaze’s power and had consciously avoided capturing any hearts when he could not offer his own in return. For the last ten years, he’d known he wouldn’t make anyone a good husband. Once, he’d dreamed of a world where he could live like anyone else—a world where he loved and could be loved. Now, he did not know what dreams he had, if any. All he had was a mission. One at which he was failing miserably.
He walked blindly through Calcutta. He’d arrived here six months ago, and was staying in one of the palatial mansions of Garden Reach—that place inhabited by East India Company employees and their families. The vast houses would make most noble families in England blush with envy, and it put Peter’s own inherited estate, the rambling Summercourt, to shame.
Summercourt.. As his mind dwelt on his ancestral house, his hand plunged into the pocket of his exquisitely tailored suit to feel a bundle of papers. He did not need to take it from his pocket to see its text floating before his gaze as vividly as if he were reading. The top line read: To Peter Farewell, Lord Saint Maur.
He hadn’t needed to read the next lines—though he had—nor the twelve pages following to know what his estate manager was telling him. That Peter’s father was dead. That Peter was now the only heir to that ancient and noble family name descended from Charlemagne.
The manager’s faithful account of Peter’s inheritance made Peter groan. He’d received the letter—by bearer—just before dinner, and how he’d got through dinner, he’d never know. He’d left immediately after. He’d come, without quite knowing how, all the way to Esplanade Row, where he now stared at the impressive facade of Government House. Like his estate manager’s letter, it resonated with the power of the expected and the prearranged. The manager never said it, but it was clear in his every word that he expected Peter—who, for the last ten years, had been abroad and sown his wild oats, such as they were—to return and shoulder the name of Farewell, the title of Saint Maur, and the responsibilities and needs of his house and retainers.
Not that there was much. At least, there hadn’t been when Peter had last seen it. A large, rambling farm, and an assortment of smaller farms, let to various tenant families. Enough for a shabby gentility of the kind that supported a living similar to a wealthy farmer’s, with pretensions that would make the Royal Family’s seem small.
But compared to the way he had been living, it would be paradise. He couldn’t think of his north-country domains without longing for the smells of the fields around his house. He craved the twang of local speech; the Sunday afternoons in semi-deserted streets; the parks visited by serene families, the children named for kings and queens; the museums; the lending libraries; the places that had sheltered his childhood when he was, in fact, still full of illusions. When he still thought that he might grow up to be Peter Farewell, Earl of Saint Maur, and scion to a noble family.
Only it couldn’t be. Oh, England had shape shifters aplenty among its noble families. Despite the law’s command that they all be killed upon discovery, it was an open secret that several noble families threw out weres now and then.
But all known noble weres were foxes or dogs or—at worse—wolves.
There was even a charming story of a Scottish nobleman who turned into a seal at the waxing of the moon. But Peter didn’t have that innocuous a form. His other shape was a dragon. An eater of humans. A killer.
It was beyond the pale to even think of such a dangerous beast being tolerated. Witness the story of Richard Lionheart, trudging his weary way home from the crusades only to be put to death because more of him was a lion than his heart.
The laws that had allowed John Lackland to execute his older brother and lawful sovereign were still extant. And still enforced.
Tomorrow morning, early, he’d pen a letter for his manager, apprising him of his intent to never return. The man would be disappointed. He would possibly be crushed, destroyed by such a complete break with the past and by his internal certainty that Peter did not care about house or family. Let him think it. If that kept Peter’s secret—and if it kept Peter safe—it was enough.
Peter would stay in India and try to fulfill his mission here. He’d find Soul of Fire, the ruby once used to bind all the magic of Europe to Charlemagne. Six months ago, on the highlands near Darjeeling, he’d separated from Nigel, who might be his last friend in the world, and he’d promised Nigel that he’d find the ruby. And then he’d reunite with Nigel—who held the ruby’s twin, Heart of Light, which would attract Soul of Fire like a beacon—so Nigel could return both stones to the temple at the heart of Africa: the oldest temple of mankind.
Neither man knew what would happen once the jewels were returned to the temple. They’d been convinced that such an act was necessary to prevent horrible catastrophe, and as close to the end of the world as bore no distinction. But Peter didn’t think it would in any way improve his life or his material circumstances. He presumed he would still be followed by his curse, still separated from normal men and limited in how close by them he could live. Yet, for the last six months, since his visit to the temple, the curse had been so slight and so easily controlled that he’d dared to dream. Perhaps, once the rubies were returned, he would be free…
But now, after six months of following a long-dead trail for the ruby that Charlemagne had used to bind magical power to him and his descendants, and then abandoned, he’d grown to believe the jewel had been cut up or destroyed, and no longer existed. His scrying instruments and all his attempts at divination showed him nothing. They had led him here, to Calcutta. For a brief, shining moment, he had been sure the jewel was here. Right in this city. And then, before he could pinpoint its location, the trail had vanished. His scrying instruments had been unable to find it again.
Meaning he’d live out his days in India, futilely trying to find an artifact that couldn’t be found.
He’d already broken his father’s heart, through no design of his own, on that cold morning, so many years ago, when his father had discovered Peter’s secret. He had packed his son up and told him to get out—and stay out. Money would find him, but he must not—he must never—make his way to Summercourt again. He remembered his father’s dour face and the instruction to: “Seek some form of employment that will not disgrace you. And strive not to commit more sins than needed.”
Did his father know, then, that it would be the last time they’d see each other? He had to, didn’t he? He’d told Peter to stay away and never let their paths cross again.
Something caught at the back of Peter’s throat, something that might have been laughter or tears; he wasn’t sure which. He looked up, trying to find something to fix his eyes upon, something that would take his mind off his own misery and the final renunciation of his inheritance, his birthplace—his own being—that he must perform in the morning.
And he saw the girl creeping along the outside of a verandah’s railing. “Good God,” he said to himself. “What can she be about?”
Then his body contorted in cough, as fear for the stranger’s circumstances disturbed the balance of his mind, and allowed the beast within to take control….
Summercourt.. As his mind dwelt on his ancestral house, his hand plunged into the pocket of his exquisitely tailored suit to feel a bundle of papers. He did not need to take it from his pocket to see its text floating before his gaze as vividly as if he were reading. The top line read: To Peter Farewell, Lord Saint Maur.
He hadn’t needed to read the next lines—though he had—nor the twelve pages following to know what his estate manager was telling him. That Peter’s father was dead. That Peter was now the only heir to that ancient and noble family name descended from Charlemagne.
The manager’s faithful account of Peter’s inheritance made Peter groan. He’d received the letter—by bearer—just before dinner, and how he’d got through dinner, he’d never know. He’d left immediately after. He’d come, without quite knowing how, all the way to Esplanade Row, where he now stared at the impressive facade of Government House. Like his estate manager’s letter, it resonated with the power of the expected and the prearranged. The manager never said it, but it was clear in his every word that he expected Peter—who, for the last ten years, had been abroad and sown his wild oats, such as they were—to return and shoulder the name of Farewell, the title of Saint Maur, and the responsibilities and needs of his house and retainers.
Not that there was much. At least, there hadn’t been when Peter had last seen it. A large, rambling farm, and an assortment of smaller farms, let to various tenant families. Enough for a shabby gentility of the kind that supported a living similar to a wealthy farmer’s, with pretensions that would make the Royal Family’s seem small.
But compared to the way he had been living, it would be paradise. He couldn’t think of his north-country domains without longing for the smells of the fields around his house. He craved the twang of local speech; the Sunday afternoons in semi-deserted streets; the parks visited by serene families, the children named for kings and queens; the museums; the lending libraries; the places that had sheltered his childhood when he was, in fact, still full of illusions. When he still thought that he might grow up to be Peter Farewell, Earl of Saint Maur, and scion to a noble family.
Only it couldn’t be. Oh, England had shape shifters aplenty among its noble families. Despite the law’s command that they all be killed upon discovery, it was an open secret that several noble families threw out weres now and then.
But all known noble weres were foxes or dogs or—at worse—wolves.
There was even a charming story of a Scottish nobleman who turned into a seal at the waxing of the moon. But Peter didn’t have that innocuous a form. His other shape was a dragon. An eater of humans. A killer.
It was beyond the pale to even think of such a dangerous beast being tolerated. Witness the story of Richard Lionheart, trudging his weary way home from the crusades only to be put to death because more of him was a lion than his heart.
The laws that had allowed John Lackland to execute his older brother and lawful sovereign were still extant. And still enforced.
Tomorrow morning, early, he’d pen a letter for his manager, apprising him of his intent to never return. The man would be disappointed. He would possibly be crushed, destroyed by such a complete break with the past and by his internal certainty that Peter did not care about house or family. Let him think it. If that kept Peter’s secret—and if it kept Peter safe—it was enough.
Peter would stay in India and try to fulfill his mission here. He’d find Soul of Fire, the ruby once used to bind all the magic of Europe to Charlemagne. Six months ago, on the highlands near Darjeeling, he’d separated from Nigel, who might be his last friend in the world, and he’d promised Nigel that he’d find the ruby. And then he’d reunite with Nigel—who held the ruby’s twin, Heart of Light, which would attract Soul of Fire like a beacon—so Nigel could return both stones to the temple at the heart of Africa: the oldest temple of mankind.
Neither man knew what would happen once the jewels were returned to the temple. They’d been convinced that such an act was necessary to prevent horrible catastrophe, and as close to the end of the world as bore no distinction. But Peter didn’t think it would in any way improve his life or his material circumstances. He presumed he would still be followed by his curse, still separated from normal men and limited in how close by them he could live. Yet, for the last six months, since his visit to the temple, the curse had been so slight and so easily controlled that he’d dared to dream. Perhaps, once the rubies were returned, he would be free…
But now, after six months of following a long-dead trail for the ruby that Charlemagne had used to bind magical power to him and his descendants, and then abandoned, he’d grown to believe the jewel had been cut up or destroyed, and no longer existed. His scrying instruments and all his attempts at divination showed him nothing. They had led him here, to Calcutta. For a brief, shining moment, he had been sure the jewel was here. Right in this city. And then, before he could pinpoint its location, the trail had vanished. His scrying instruments had been unable to find it again.
Meaning he’d live out his days in India, futilely trying to find an artifact that couldn’t be found.
He’d already broken his father’s heart, through no design of his own, on that cold morning, so many years ago, when his father had discovered Peter’s secret. He had packed his son up and told him to get out—and stay out. Money would find him, but he must not—he must never—make his way to Summercourt again. He remembered his father’s dour face and the instruction to: “Seek some form of employment that will not disgrace you. And strive not to commit more sins than needed.”
Did his father know, then, that it would be the last time they’d see each other? He had to, didn’t he? He’d told Peter to stay away and never let their paths cross again.
Something caught at the back of Peter’s throat, something that might have been laughter or tears; he wasn’t sure which. He looked up, trying to find something to fix his eyes upon, something that would take his mind off his own misery and the final renunciation of his inheritance, his birthplace—his own being—that he must perform in the morning.
And he saw the girl creeping along the outside of a verandah’s railing. “Good God,” he said to himself. “What can she be about?”
Then his body contorted in cough, as fear for the stranger’s circumstances disturbed the balance of his mind, and allowed the beast within to take control….
According To Hoyt 