by Renee Peters
“As our Emperor has noted, your rest has too often been disturbed on account of our territory. Perhaps a change will suit, and it is fitting that the Sovereign remain of the House of the first-born Heir.”
Iona bowed her head. “Our House Fellenne will recognize the will of the Imperial Council and the Sovereign they so name.”
The Emperor appeared to release a hardly noticeable tension that he had been holding, and Lian noted his expression was gentler when he turned toward his blonde sister.
“Athanasia,” he said quietly, “you have heard the testimony, and the pact spoken before the Councils this day. These are your children. The decision will be yours. Empress of the Isles, speak your will.”
Athanasia opened her eyes. Like a flower blooming, her fingers unfurled from the ring. In silence, she looked over the jewelry. Her first words were no declaration but a question, spoken so quietly that, even for his preternatural hearing, Lian nearly missed them.
“Are you a Celt, Lian Redmond?”
He bowed his head. “I was born Lonan Reimonn of Innisfail, Mother.”
Again, she was quiet before extending her hand, and the ring, in his direction.
“You are the son of my Heart. If he gave his blood for you to have your right, then it is yours. I recognize you and your House Anowen as Sovereign among my children, and so too do they. Wear your crown wisely.”
Her fingers slipped around Lian’s when he reached for the ring, and a gentler touch slid it back into place. It was not the first time he had felt the weight of the signet’s burden, and he lowered his hand to his side as if it were leaden.
In silence, the new King sank to his knee before his Empress Mother.
His was the Sovereignty; dominion of a kingdom that had torn itself apart at the seams with infighting, even as it lured the hunters to itself. His now was the treachery that marked Eromerde’s history, the gardens of thralls and forgotten mortality.
And the price of it all was six souls and ash on the wind.
His family of rogues, of Free Immortals, had died with the pyre fires. What must remain now was the court of the Sovereign — whatever the cost. He felt the touch of Athanasia’s lips in a kiss upon his crown.
When Lian Redmond rose, House Anowen rose with him.
Thank you!
End of Rise of Anowen
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Rise of Anowen
Continue reading to enjoy a free excerpt of Claiming Joanna: The Refugee’s Song — the sequel to Rise of Anowen.
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Saving Eden: The Urchin’s Song
More from the Aegean Immortals Series
Best enjoyed in the order listed
Rise of Anowen
The Refugee’s Song
Songs of Blood
Medley of Souls
Rhythm of Hearts
Fall of Eternity
Symphony of War
Free Excerpt: Claiming Joanna
The Refugee’s Song
Please enjoy this free excerpt of our upcoming Aegean Immortals Prequel, Claiming Joanna: The Refugee’s Song, a sequel to Rise of Anowen.
“You’ll want to keep along the path, sirs,” the driver of the prison transport spoke in a deferential tone.
Wearily, Joanna lifted her head from the pillow she had made of her knees and curled them more tightly to her chest. A few hours remained yet of travel to their night’s stop in Rochester, but the cart had come to a standstill.
The reason lay just ahead. In the golden light of the afternoon, two well-polished coaches gleamed like black oil. The drivers of the coaches, one older and the other a younger man with similar enough features to be related were as finely dressed as any gentleman.
They were not as elegantly dressed as the man who had stepped out of the vehicle and onto the road to block the cart’s path. He appeared an angelic figure in his blue satin-doublet and silver short cloak. His gold hair curled in gentle waves, just brushing the laced collar that settled over his shoulders. The Lord was pale and terribly tall and staring at her strangely.
Joanna lowered her head and closed her eyes, willing his attention away. She could still feel him watching her, and more eyes than his own if she thought to let her imagination run wild.
“Unlock the door.” The voice that spoke now was dark velvet and lifeless. It did not belong to the driver.
“M’lord, these are vagrants and paupers to be delivered to the workhouse in —” the driver began, only to cut himself off with a croaked syllable.
She heard the heaviness of boots hit the path, and the metallic clunk of the key as it slid clumsily into the lock. Her eyes squeezed closed as the iron swung open with a low moan. The soft sound of footsteps approached then faded as someone — as the Lord, surely — rounded the cart to the rear where the door was open.
“You —” His voice resounded again, and it felt as if something solid had struck her with the word.
Startled, Joanna raised her head, and this time, when she met the blue of his eyes, she was caught in them.
“She’s a Frog, m’lord,” the driver said. His voice sounded far away. Then he coughed and corrected himself. “A Huguenot refugee. She don’t speak English.”
“Come down,” the Lord continued.
The Frenchwoman felt heavy and light at once as if she were floating on ripples in water while sinking slowly into the depths. Her body was moving on the tops of the waves: first, an arm reaching out to grip the iron bars, and then her legs unfolding. She pulled herself into a stand and walked, drifted, to the door of the cell.
His hand was cold to the touch when he took her own to ease her onto the ground, and he released her as soon as she had landed.
“I am taking this one,” his voice over her head sounded as if it were coming from above the waters, and suddenly lightheaded, Joanna began to wobble. His palm found her back again, nudging her toward the pair of carriages.
Somewhere, the driver of the prison cart was protesting, but no one stopped her from her walk.
A masculine drawl carried from within the nearer coach. “You do realize she stinks of piss and shite…” The voice hovered somewhere between confusion and annoyance as it addressed her savior. “We have some time yet upon the road.”
It was a woman, not the golden Lord, who answered the speaker.
“How polite you are to skirt the obvious, Dorian.” Her voice bore the hint of an accent Joanna did not recognize. “I, for one, want to know why our devoted Sovereign has determined to take the vagrant to begin with. It is the most interest he has shown beyond his own person in decades.”
Something more than an accent — disapproval — weighted the noblewoman’s words.
Her rescuer was unmoved by either observation.
“Put her on the bench for now, then. We shall find a river to dunk her into until the stench has faded.” His voice spoke from behind her. “Owain.”
At the name, the older coach driver hopped down, and it was his gentle touch that guided Joanna up to his driver’s bench.
Once she was seated Owain turned away. Somewhere through the fog of her senses, she was aware of the creak of the ca
rriage that betrayed when the blond Lord entered it — and of his muffled words spoken from within the shadows of the coach.
“Was it not the consensus of this Council that I have been utterly irresponsible in my duty of claiming a song?” the Lord asked. “No doubt she sings more sweetly than she smells.”
Claiming Joanna: The Refugee’s Song
Available April 26, 2020
Acknowledgments
Creating the World of the Aegeans as we know it today has been a journey that could not have been accomplished without our editors and readers of the Aegean books in all of their various stages.
Thank you to Joel Bailey.
We would also like to thank our editors: Cate and Paul who helped us learn to write, and Jennifer Dinsmore, who gave us the encouragement and constructive critique that made this book the best that it could be.
Renee and Rae
About the Authors
Renee Peters is a lifelong teacher and writer, Renee is the co-author of the World of the Aegeans historical paranormal series.
Rae Stilwell is a coder, a doodler, and an indie author writing about monsters, magic, and mushy stuff.
