The Source of Storms Chapter One and ARC Sign Up

A sneak peek of chapter one and an invitation to be an ARC reviewer

The release date for my debut, The Source of Storms, is rapidly approaching and I am both excited and completely terrified.

In celebration, I wanted to offer you all the entirety of Chapter One, which you can find below. There has been a sneak peek of the first scene in my welcome email for a while, but I think it’s time I share more.

The Source of Storms is a dark epic fantasy rooted in nature and mythology, and brimming with deep feminine rage and romance. It’s as if the folklore of Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés met the romantic dreamy nightmare of Rachel Gillig’s One Dark Window, and the fury of John Gwynne’s Bloodsworn Saga.

If this sounds interesting to you, I would like to invite you to sign up to be an ARC reader. If you follow this link and enter your email, it will put you on the list to receive a free ebook copy in exchange for an honest review shared on Amazon and Goodreads. You should receive a welcome email from me when you sign up - if not, check your spam and promotions folders.

Reviews are extremely important to the success of any book, but especially those that are self-published, and I am deeply grateful to all of you who review it. All ARC instructions will be in an email when the ARC is released in the coming weeks, and I will also send a reminder to post your reviews later.

With all that out of the way, I hope you enjoy chapter one and all of The Source of Storms! I have really loved writing it and the series, and hope you love it as much as I do.

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CHAPTER ONE

The sea danced under the wild forces of an ocean-brewed storm. Waves churned and frothed, white tongues of water licking up columns of black rock in violent, brilliant displays of power.

A storm petrel skimmed across the ocean, sleek and dark, racing through the troughs of the waves. It flew with a seemingly uncontrollable speed, effortlessly navigating the swells. The white band of its tail flashed in the leaden light filtering through heavy clouds, a bright contrast to the gray of the sea.

A pang of longing tugged sharply in my chest as I watched it soar. To be so steady, so unhindered by the maelstrom around it, so confident in the face of chaos. The petrel was small, seemingly fragile, but it held constant in the storm, moving with grace and ease.

The storm petrel was said to be the harbinger of storms and sea witches, who bring death and chaos where tempests fall. But I was no longer a child and wasn’t scared by such things. There had not been a witch known on this coast for many years, long before I was born.

I pulled my attention back to my foraging. Freezing rain spattered my face, but I stayed dry beneath my wool sweater and lanolin-oiled cloak. It was cold and uncomfortable, but I had chosen to be out here over being at home with my father. His mood was foul as the weather, and he’d thrown a shadow over the steading this morning. I couldn’t stand the way he prowled about, stress leaking from his skin like sweat.

He’d snapped at me after he had spilled a bag of oats, claiming I hadn’t tied the bag closed. He’d called me stupid, told me I’d starve to death if I didn’t have somebody around to show me how to eat. When tears had stung my eyes, he’d thrown his hands up in frustration, shaking his head in disgust.

“You’re so emotional,” he had barked. “I can’t even have a conversation with you.”

I kicked a rock and watched it clatter down the stone blocks of the shore. It collided with a rocky shelf and split into two, sharp edges lining a flat plane where two had been one.

So I’d chosen to weather the actual storm, rather than his. At least this one wasn’t personal, just natural. I had always found solace in the indifference of nature.

I pried mussels off the rocks with my small knife, taking only a few and leaving most behind. Filling my basket wasn’t really my goal. I was just happy to be alone.

I neared a promontory where the shoreline grew steeper, rising high above into sea cliffs slick with rain. The wind whipped down the coast and I nearly turned back, but then I spotted a sheltered cove in the rock wall, tucked away on the leeward side of the wind. I hurried to it, eager for a respite from the weather, and ducked inside. It was deeper than I’d thought, and surprisingly dry. Relatively, at least –– nothing in Seonaid was ever really dry. I wrung out my tangled silvery-blond hair and pulled off my cloak, shaking it out and draping it over a dark stone plinth.

The shoreline here was formed by large hexagonal columns. Their edges fit together in neat rows, and they rose from the sea like dark building blocks of the ancient gods. It made for an oddly uniform and organized structure in some places and a chaotic jumble in others, where they flowed sideways and had been broken and weathered. This particular broken segment made for a tidy place to hang my cloak.

Drawn by the dark extent of the cave, I wandered further. My mind filled with stories of lost treasures and shipwrecks –– maybe the silver and gold of ill-fated seafaring raiders of northern shores, washed up in a storm long ago.

But it did not take long to reach the cave’s end, and all I had found were twisted pieces of driftwood, bleached light and worn soft by tide and salt. I picked up one that resembled a mage’s staff, with a gnarled end, and was thinking of tales of sea witches and magic when something caught my eye.

Under a few scattered pieces of driftwood, a tightly rolled bundle was tucked behind a stone column. I pulled it from under the wood and brushed off the fine dust of dried old algae. It had the light, dappled silver spots and short, bristled feel of seal fur, rolled and bound tightly with a leather cord. I picked at the cord, stiff and crusty with age, until it came loose. The fur rolled out reluctantly, clearly tied tightly for a long time. I shook it out: A fine, simple sealskin cloak.

I wrapped it over my shoulders and pulled the pin from my own cloak. I hesitated to put it on the sealskin, realizing I would have to punch a hole in it. The edges showed no sign of being pinned in any way in the past; they must have been clasped or tied. I didn’t want to damage it, and it smelled musty besides, so I rolled the cloak back up and tucked it under my arm before donning my own cloak and making for home.

I scanned the steading for my father as I approached up the sea path. I proceeded into the house quickly, keeping my hood up and my head down –– a force of habit. I had learned it was best if I didn’t draw his attention. I hung my cloak by the door and threw my damp sweater over the rack suspended from the ceiling near the fireplace, then padded to the kitchen in my thick socks.

My mother looked up from her work as I entered and set my basket on the table. Her black eyes fell instantly on the sealskin bundle under my arm. I froze at the intensity of her stare.

A moment of tense silence as I felt a shiver build in my muscles, rippling up my spine in a wave.

“Where did you get that, Halja?” Her voice was steady, her words measured. I felt something rising in the air around us, an inaudible hum of energy, more palpable than auditory.

“By the sea to the west, in a cave.” I stumbled over the words.

There was a shift in her face, but I could not identify exactly what changed. She looked animalistic, almost predatory, her black eyes lupine.

“Mother?”

The single word seemed to break the spell that bound us there, snapping her from her reverie. She blinked and stood up straight. I hadn’t realized she had leaned forward, as if preparing to pounce.

“Show me.” Her words were casual but did little to mask the tension behind them. It was more of a demand than a request.

I set the sealskin on the table and she reached out to touch it tentatively, as if afraid it wouldn’t actually be there.

“It was in a little cave, past the beach. Hidden away in the back. Have you seen it before?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice still low, almost a whisper now. “It’s mine.”

I watched her run her fingers over the spotted silver fur, like she was touching some sacred relic. A sudden and inexplicable swell of emotion rose in my chest, and my own eyes––large and black, just like hers––flooded with tears. She looked up, her gaze meeting mine, and the energy suspended between us dropped, vanishing through the floorboards. I could feel it go, almost see it dissipating into the earth beneath the house, draining away.

The familiar double creak of the front door opening and closing sounded, and we heard my father’s heavy footsteps in the entryway. My mother swept the sealskin bundle off the table. I asked no more questions.

That night, I lay wide awake under heavy blankets, listening to the wind of the autumn storm. The house shifted and creaked with its force. I felt more than heard the deep, resonant grinding of massive boulders being moved against the cliffs by the sea swells, their occasional booming cracks sounding through the dark. So powerful were the storms that they could rearrange the entire coastline overnight, flinging boulders onto cliff tops and erasing beaches. The wind howled and the house shuddered. I burrowed deeper into the blankets.

I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother and her sealskin cloak. I had never seen her look that way before, had never heard that tone in her voice. And the energy, that radiating, palpable energy that had filled the kitchen... What was that? It had come from her, no doubt, but I had felt it in myself too, hanging between us like a delicate spiderweb glittering with dew droplets. And I’d felt it leave, felt it wash away like water flowing from us when it went. I could not shake the eerie sense of power in it. How enticingly familiar it had felt.

Father and a few neighbors took the surplus harvest and the many skeins of yarn we had spun into the village to sell. My mother grew calmer, more settled the moment he had disappeared down the road with our horses and cart. I heard her singing around the steading sometimes while she worked.

In the evenings, I played games with my younger sister, Noirin, while our mother knit. Rather than reminding us of our own work, she watched us with reserved amusement. Noirin’s triumphant laughter rang through the house when she won. She had my father’s dark brown hair and his brown eyes, but my mother’s beauty. I always thought she had gotten the best of both their features.

The air felt lighter, the house warmer without the usual shadow hanging over us. I walked more easily, less conscious of my actions. A freedom I didn’t often feel.

One morning, we walked to my mother’s friend Mureal’s steading with three large jugs of mead, dried cloves and spices, two loaves of crusty sourdough, and a heavy package of smoked salmon. We brought our aprons, prepared to spend the day helping cut and preserve meat and vegetables. Mureal’s husband and her son, Sigurd, were away at the market with our father, so it would be just the women and the young children. Our spirits were high as we walked the dirt road to their steading through the morning fog.

“This is a lot of mead,” Noirin giggled as she swung a jug in her fingers.

“We can’t show up empty-handed,” Mother said. “Besides, we’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?” Noirin asked.

“Mabon, of course!” Mother answered. “Or at least the coming of it, and another successful harvest.”

“But I saw how disappointed Halja looked when you said Sigurd wouldn’t be there,” Noirin chirped.

I felt my face flush hot. “I did not!”

“You did! I saw!” Noirin said.

“No! I don’t even care! Doesn’t matter to me if he’s there or not.” I shoved Noirin’s shoulder, and she laughed.

“Easy, Halja,” Mother chuckled. “It’s alright. Sigurd is growing up to be a handsome young man. And love is to be celebrated. Amongst the darkness of this world, it is one of the only bright lights worth celebrating.” I looked at her, shocked to hear her say such sentimental things, but she was looking down, a flicker of sadness––or perhaps nostalgia––in her eyes. It was gone a moment later when she looked up and smiled at me. “Besides, we can all see how he feels about you.”

“Mother! Stop!” But I was smiling at the ground, trying desperately to hide the joy that radiated through me.

We spent the day at Mureal’s steading, helping in their winter preparations. On several occasions, I passed the kitchen to hear Mureal and my mother laughing –– a rare thing for my mother it seemed. I glanced in to see Mureal’s mother, Móraí, stirring the contents of a large cauldron over the fire and chuckling at the conversation of the women working in the kitchen. I was drawn to the room, wishing to be one of those women who got the jokes, who laughed easily and worked skillfully.

Yet there was work to be done outdoors, so Noirin and I headed outside. Winter would be here soon, and the chicken coop needed more insulation in the walls. Irial, one of Mureal’s younger children, brought us scrap wool, the dirty, rough ends that tear out of locks when the wool is picked in preparation to be spun. These bits were always saved for other uses; nothing went to waste. Noirin and I made quick work of the chicken coop repairs, packing wool in between the double-layered walls and replacing any of the structure’s loose or broken poles with small lengths of wood.

Smaller log sizes for constructing homes and barns were common in Seonaid. Saplings and young trees were more flexible than large logs or split boards, and maintained this flexibility when joined properly with small wooden pins. This helped structures withstand the extreme winds from the coastal storms, as smaller logs could flex both along their lengths and between each pole, rather than breaking apart under the gusts.

By the time we packed away the tools, the light was fading and our stomachs were rumbling.

“Móraí, tell us a story?” little Irial asked.

Darkness had fallen and we had all found places around the hearth. The fire glowed and popped. Empty bowls of stew were scattered about the room with the last crumbs of sourdough, the only remnants of a comforting, warm meal. We were slower to clean up without the men around. No need to rush the last of the chores.

Móraí continued her knitting. She did not look up or speak, but my mother leaned back into her cushioned chair and drew her feet up, looking expectantly at the older woman.

“Aye, a story then,” said Móraí. “But then off to bed! It’s late and I am old.”

The littlest children giggled. Mureal came in from the kitchen and quietly placed a mug of warm spiced mead in my hands with a wink, then settled into her seat. My mother glanced over at me but made no indication that she cared. It wasn’t my first mead––far from it––but it felt strange to drink in front of my mother after she and my father had so heavily discouraged it in my younger years.

I sipped from the mug, delighted to enjoy the same treat as the adult women. I supposed I was an adult now. Warmth spread from my center and radiated through me as I drank. I wiggled my toes near the fire.

“There was once a very lonely prince,” Móraí began. “He was a prince by title, but not by power. His older brother had inherited all the wealth and rule of the kingdom, and had given him a steading by the sea to stay out of his business. The young prince ran his steading quite successfully, and year after year he had abundant crops.

“But his prized products were his beautiful fleeces. He had the finest sheep in the kingdom, and for years his black rams and white ewes had made the softest, most silvery lamb fleeces imaginable. He sold his fleeces at the market but still had so many of them, and every day he wished he had a beautiful wife to spin him yarn and weave him lovely things from that precious wool.

“But nobody wanted to live on his distant steading. The girls from town all wanted to be closer to the castle, lest they miss out on any balls or parties. And it was dangerous to be so far from others. The winter nights were long, dark, and full of shadowfiends.

“So, the prince grew more and more lonely with each passing day. He would walk along the shore so the sea spray and rain would hide his tears, and he would pray for a wife to come spin his beautiful wool and keep his bed warm.”

Noirin giggled and I felt myself blush slightly, my thoughts flashing to Sigurd.

Móraí continued, “One evening, the prince was walking along the rocky shore when he saw three women. They were dancing and laughing, naked in the sunset. He hid behind some rocks and watched as they danced joyfully in the sea spray. The setting sun lit them all in gold, and the prince was enchanted. He crept closer to them, and that was when he saw three neat bundles of fur sitting on the rocky shore.”

“Their sealskins!” Irial interrupted.

“Yes, child. Their sealskins. The prince then realized that these women were not just women, oh no, they were something special. These women were selkies. He crept close to them, and snatched one of the sealskins up and hid it away. But the women saw him, and two of them slipped into their sealskins and transformed into seals! They dove into the sea and were gone.

“But one woman, a beautiful woman, with long black hair and large, dark eyes, was left searching desperately for her sealskin. The prince approached her.

“‘Where is my sealskin?’ she asked.

“‘I have it. It is safe with me,’ the prince answered.

“‘Please, give it to me so I may go home with my sisters,’ the beautiful woman begged.

“But the prince refused, unable to tear his eyes away from her beauty.

“‘Stay with me,’ he said. ‘Stay with me and be my wife. You will be happy here. I have a nice home, and I will keep you safe from the shadows.’

“But the woman shook her head. ‘No, I cannot be your wife.’

“‘Please,’ the prince begged. ‘I am so lonely, and you are so beautiful. Stay with me and be my wife for ten years, and then I will give you your sealskin and let you go.’

“The selkie woman saw that she had no choice, and thus said, ‘I will go with you and be your wife for ten years, and then I will return home.’

“So she went with him to his steading. For years she was his wife, and they ran their home together. They had a child, a strong and healthy lad, and the woman taught her son of the sea. She told him the names of the otters, the whales, and the seals, and sang him their songs. She told him about the kelpies and the naiads too.

“But as time went on, her voice grew dull. Her skin dried and her hair turned brittle. She began to lose her sight, for she had been too long from her home.”

I looked to where my mother sat with her legs drawn in close, her hands wrapped around her warm mug. If she was thinking of her own sealskin cloak, she did not show it. I wondered if this story was more than a story for her, but perhaps a memory.

“On the tenth summer since she had gone with the prince, she asked him for her sealskin back. But the prince grew angry and told her she could not have it.

“‘You would leave us! You would abandon your son and your faithful husband,’ he yelled. ‘A bad wife and mother you would be!’

“‘I do not know if I would leave!’ she argued. ‘But I do know it is my choice to make. I know I must have it.’

“He stormed away, refusing her request. She asked him again and again as the seasons turned until, finally, he gave in. With tears in his eyes, he brought out the sealskin from where he had hidden it and gave it to his wife. She embraced him, and then she ran to the sea, pulled it on, and disappeared into the waves.

“But her son saw this and he chased her, crying, begging her to stay. So she came back to the surface and slipped off her sealskin. He saw that her eyes were clear, bright, and sparkling, her hair was silky and her skin glowed. She laughed and scooped her son from the shore, becoming a seal once more and diving with him beneath the waves. She gave him her breath as they dove, and he met the other seals, his aunts and his grandmother and his grandfather. He danced with them and listened to their songs.

“When the boy returned to his father, he found him lonely and bereft, grieving. So he sang him the songs he had learned from the selkies, and his father smiled to hear his beautiful voice. And for all his life the boy sang beautiful songs and brought people joy, for he was of the spirit world and of our world, and he carried in him all the beauty of both.”

Everyone was quiet for a while, until Simidh, Mureal’s youngest boy, spoke up. “Móraí, why didn’t the boy stay with his mother?”

“Do you think you would have gone to live in the sea?” she asked.

“Of course!” Simidh squeaked. “I would live in the ocean, and I would fight sharks with a great spear and become Manannán’s champion!”

“You would not!” piped up Irial. “You’re too skinny, you’d freeze in an instant in the cold water!”

“No! I can swim better than you! And fight better too!”

“Show us then!” encouraged Móraí. “Show us your fine spear skills!”

The two boys eagerly snatched up sticks near the hearth and squared off against each other, whacking their makeshift spears together with loud cracks as they tried to poke one another. They stumbled into a basket of carded wool in which a cat slept; it startled awake, then stretched and yawned. Móraí laughed.

“Are selkies real?” Noirin asked, watching the jousting children.

“Of course they are,” Mureal answered. “Just like the fae and the dryads, the naiads too. They are real, but they are secretive. They live in the spirit world, and they only show themselves when the Veil is thin.”

“Like it will be soon, right?” Noirin asked. “Samhain is coming, when the Veil is thin and we can speak to the fae.”

“That’s right,” Móraí confirmed. “Some meet the fae folk. But they must be careful if they do. The fae are not always as nice as the selkie woman of the story, and dealing with them can be dangerous. The fae are tricky folk, always looking to bind humans into some sort of deal to their own advantage. This is why you must never accept food from them, nor a favor, not even a dance, oh no. Always politely decline. You know, it’s said that people who are fae-touched, like your mother and Halja, have eyes like theirs because they had dealings with fae in the past.”

“I don’t know that our past relatives made any deals with them,” my mother countered, “but somewhere in our bloodline, our ancestors were fae.”

“Our ancestors from the north?” I asked.

My mother nodded. “From my side of the family. The old seafaring bands of the Svanr Isles, and this coast. Where your name comes from, Halja.”

Noirin’s eyes sparkled. I could almost see the images of selkies, dryads, and mysterious fae princes in her mind. I glanced at my mother, but she was staring blankly into the fire. Orange flames danced vibrantly in her black eyes.

“Were all fae folk only in the north, in Seonaid?” Noirin asked.

“No, no.” Móraí waved her hand dismissively. “They were everywhere. You know, it wasn’t always such that the fae stayed on the other side of the Veil. Oh no, they once ruled this land. Long, long ago, they lived here alongside humans. They had whole cities, with castles grander than anything you’ve ever seen.”

“Really?” Noirin asked.

“Really, child, really. My great grandmother used to tell me stories of them, those who walked among us with long, pointed ears and strange, ethereal beauty.”

“Sigurd says the fae weren’t real. It’s all just made up stories,” Irial interjected.

“They were real, child. Just as real as you and me,” Móraí said.

“Then where did they go?” Noirin asked.

“They left. Crossed the Veil, and closed it behind them. The fae and humans didn’t always get along, you see. Many fae wanted to keep humans out of their cities. They didn’t trust them, oh no, didn’t like them. Didn’t want to share their food and space with them. It led to many wars between humans and fae over thousands of years,” Móraí explained.

But Mureal chimed in, “Not all fae despised humans, Móraí. There were the legendary Lane and Lorelei.”

“Who were they?” Noirin asked eagerly.

“Warriors,” Mureal answered. “Leaders of an army that fought in the wars between humans and fae, before all of the fae left for the other side of the Veil. Lane was a human, and Lorelei his fae partner.”

Móraí picked up the story. “Legend says that alone, they were each more powerful than any other fighter, fae or human. And together, they were unstoppable. They led a legion of both humans and fae that fought together to protect the weak. But when the last war ended and the fae left, when they abandoned their cities and disappeared, Lane and Lorelei disappeared too. Nobody knows what happened to them. Some tales say they departed with the fae, and Lane gave up his place among humans to go with his fae partner. Other stories say they remained here. Disguised themselves, and lived out their lives among humans.”

“They disappeared? Just like that?” Noirin asked.

“Just like that,” Móraí repeated. “Lost to the ages of legend and lore.”

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