Currently writing - The second book in the Debt of Crowns series. - and a novella between the two books.

Currently editing: The first Debt of Crowns book.

Brenna Kest – Two days following the death of Norbert and Kaylar Kest. – 1447FK.

A beam of light struck Brenna as she woke from a second night of terrors. Her curtains flashed pale blue in the morning light as they opened again. She tried to roll over, pulling her covers up, but the hem of the bedding was damp from another night of silent tears.

She groaned as the smell of funeral resin and incense reached her; she stifled a retch and swallowed the bile, feeling the sting in her chest. She tore back the blanket and swung her legs out, letting the cold ground suck the foul heat pulsing through her feet. She rolled her neck and pulled her fingers through her unkempt, flaming hair, loose coils pressed against her scalp, and she let her hands drop down to her thighs.

‘Up. Get up,’ she thought to herself as she forced her weight forward and out of bed. The curtain flicked again, and the stench from below her window rose back into her chamber. The heave didn’t come this time; she forced the feeling down, buried it deep and sealed it like a vault. She walked to the window and looked out over the swollen River March; the floods had loosened overnight, the water receding at the edges and pulling back toward the rivers. She took another slow breath of cool air to suppress the burning in her throat, and when she swallowed, the lump from the night before still lingered.

‘Fuck the balance. Fuck the Tithe, Bastard to the cowardly Rathains in their safe fortress…’ She watched the willow trees on the bank beside the ox-bow lake flicker, their leaves shimmering and dancing in the spring breeze. Then she caught a scent that drew her to the window, and she peered down at the stables; the stableboy had her horse and was pulling her around the courtyard. She closed her eyes and inhaled the smell of sodden hay, spring showers and the lingering sickly stench of the chamber.

“Breakfast, then horses. Breakfast, then horses.” She uttered to herself as a knock broke through the clutter.

She grunted, and the door swung open. “Morning,” Tamsin said with a fractured smile.

“Morning, Tam. How are-” Her stomach dropped. “Stupid. Sorry.”

“Can we ride today, Bren?”

“After breakfast, you need to eat. Especially today. I’ll speak to Mother,” Brenna said as she cleared the space between them and pulled her fingers through Tamsin’s fringe. “But you stay with us today, alright? We need to be back for the afternoon.”

Tamsin nodded and swallowed. “The orchards?”

“If you like.” Brenna pulled her into her arms and held onto her tightly.

“I keep telling myself what Father told me; I wrote it down last night. I tried to write it all down, but I can't keep it. It doesn’t go in. I want them back; I want.” Tamsin steadied her staggered breathing and took a shuddering breath before Brenna caught the stench again. Tamsin was blinking too quickly; she could smell it too.

“Come on, let’s get dressed in your room.”

“No, Bren, I don’t mind- no, I need to. I need to see them, I need to. Your father spoke to me last night; he talked to me about pa when he was my age, and- let's get dressed and go down for breakfast.”

Brenna nodded, took her hand, and pulled her toward the bed. She briefly placed her hands on Tamsin’s shoulders, and she started to brush through Tamsin’s sleek auburn hair. She took a washcloth and slowly wiped over Tamsin’s exhausted eyes and then her cheeks. They got dressed, and as they were close to finishing, Tamsin turned to her.

“Can we take out the new Screech Crow?” Brenna smiled, blinked away the water, and grasped her fingers tightly, balling fists so firm that her overgrown nails dug into the skin in her palms.

“I think that’s a lovely idea, Tam.”

They went down for breakfast and, en route, took a turn towards the Roost of Council’s chambers; they went the long way around the central pond in the courtyard to avoid the doors to the burial chamber, taking advantage of Tamsin being distracted by the swarming birds above the flood plains.

“The wagtails were my mother's favourite. She’s with them now; her essence flies in the air and with the willow blossom.” A glimpse of Tamsin’s usual warmth and inquisitiveness shone through the grief for a moment as she watched the dippers swooping down over the water, and two herons glided above them. They crossed the courtyard, and Brenna bristled at the hidden stares and the pity in the workers' expressions; she could see the maids glancing at Tamsin and her worriedly as they hung the clothes to dry.

“Uncle always liked the Herons,” Brenna said as she caught the eyes of the younger stable boy, the same age as her, around fourteen moons, who bowed his head and offered a weak smile.

“Father liked the Herons because birds of prey signify the elegance of the balance. They use what they need and give back what they don’t to the ground. The Herons show that the Tithe is working.”

“Yes. I- Yes, Tamsin.”

They reached the doors to the Roost and went inside, turned past their library and up the narrow spiral stairs into the rookery. Harpsing Marwell tended the seven adolescent Screech Crows, hand-feeding them small chunks of fish. They watched as each grasped a chunk, rose a few feet into the air, tucked into a small ball, and engulfed themselves in red-hot embers, searing the meat.  

“Morning, Councillor Harpsing,” Tamsin said, with a little more chime than was strictly ordinary.

He jumped. “Oh… G- g- g- good morning, my Ladies. What b- b- brings you to the Rookery this fine morning?” he said with his usual stammer.

“We would like to take the new Sc’row out with us,” Brenna said, turning to look anywhere but the overly sympathetic and soft eyes. Instead, she locked herself onto the burnt amber eyes of the fat chick. The ball in her throat swelled as she examined its small wings tucked close to its body, as it made its little chirping sounds.  ‘You can do this; you can do this. You need to do this for her. You need to be strong. You cannot let it consume you; he wouldn’t have-’

She pressed forward, and the Councillor took off one glove and picked up two smaller pairs. “W- W- What a lovely idea; he's a m- m- m- m- marvellous specimen. Remind me where you found him? His p-plumage is practically identical to the Crown’s breed.”

Brenna’s nostrils flared. “No, it's not… he was a gift,” she said, her tone flat.

“I apologise if I o-offended you, my Lady. I meant n-n-no harm.”

“Then do not compare him to their birds. He's nothing like their birds; these birds in the south are willing to help. It doesn’t-” She felt Tamsin’s hand squeeze her own, and she stopped talking.

“He’s beautiful.” The small Sc’row unfurled its wings as Tamsin spoke and hopped, sending a shower of deep orange sparks into the air. Brenna’s breath caught in her throat.

They took hold of the bird, pulled on the gloves, and grabbed a small leather sack filled with fish entrails. The bird was perched on Tamsin’s arm as they stepped back out of the chamber and into the spring air. They were walking across the yard, and the Sc’row rose from Tamsin’s arm, attached to her with a short leather binding. Tamsin hummed a familiar tune, and the chick immediately mimicked it. It reminded Brenna of warm spring evenings by the rivers, beside a campfire.

“Uncle used to sing that to us.”

“I’m going to teach him the whole thing today so that he can sing for father and mother at their goodbye.”

Brenna swallowed. “That’s lovely.”

“Good morning.” The older stable master said as they passed.

“Morning,” Tamsin sang back to him as the bird started to hover excitedly, releasing showers of embers and sparks with each rapid flutter of its wings.

“Our condolences to the family. Lord and Lady Norbert and Kaylar Kest were a radiant beacon of light to the south, and we feel your loss greatly.”

“Thank you,” Brenna said, as she watched Rowan walk down the steps from the Keep's entrance, his heavy footfalls echoing across the yard.

“What is it?” The young stable boy asked as he stepped from the gate leading to Brenna’s horse. Brenna's fists clenched as her heartbeat quickened in her temples.

Everyone turned to him. “It’s a chick, a juvenile Screech Crow,” Tamsin said.

Brenna frowned and turned to him. “What does it look like? It's clearly not a chicken. How many other birds do you know that shoot out sparks?”

He reached them and dusted his hands off. “I meant no offence. I just always found them quite ugly- but please accept my-”

She didn’t even consider what she was doing; her body twisted as her fist came up. She struck the side of his jaw with her full body weight behind it, feeling the bones in her fingers shift. Heat and pressure seared over her knuckles as the boy landed hard on the ground, grasping hold of his face as he groaned. Brenna glanced down at her knuckles to see a small patch of missing skin, covered with a smear of blood. The stable master darted forward and crouched down to his son. Tamsin pulled at her arm.

“Brenna Kest!”

Brenna’s shoulders deflated, and she groaned, wiping the blood from her knuckles on her trousers. “Mother, he-”

“Get inside this instant. No matter what our family goes through, we never stoop so low as to harm the people we are sworn to protect.”

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