#Review - Shield of the People by Marshall Ryan Maresca #Fantasy

Series: Maradaine Elite #2
Format: Paperback, 400 pages
Release Date: October 29, 2019
Publisher: DAW
Source: Publisher
Genre: Urban Fantasy

he second novel in the Maradaine Elite series blends fast-paced high fantasy and political intrigue.

After stopping Tharek Pell and saving the Druth Parliament, Dayne Heldrin and Jerinne Fendall find themselves on the margins of the Tarian Order: lauded as heroes in public but scorned and ignored in private, their future in the Order hazy. Dayne is given an assignment that isolates him from the Order, and Jerinne is hazed and bullied at the bottom of the initiate rankings.

But it’s a grand holiday week in the city of Maradaine, celebrating over two centuries of freedom and the foundation of the reunified modern nation, and with that comes parades, revelry…and protests and demonstrations. A dissident group called The Open Hand—and their mysterious, charismatic leader, Bishop Ret Issendel—seeks to disrupt the Parliament elections with their message of secession and dissolution.

Despite orders to stay out of the public eye, Dayne and Jerinne are drawn into the intrigue of the Open Hand and kept apart by dark powerful conspiracies that brew around them. Dayne and Jerinne must fight for their own principles, and protect the will of the people as the election is thrown into chaos.

Story Locale: Maradaine (fictional world)

Series Overview: The fourth series of the Maradaine universe tells the story of Dayne Heldrin, an elite warrior and protector of the city of Maradaine.

Shield of the People, by author Marshall Ryan Maresca, is the second installment in the authors Maradaine Elite series. The author is calling this story Maradaine Sequence # 8. The story takes place approximately 5 weeks after the events of The Way of the Shield, a few days after Lady Henterman's Wardrobe, and two months before the events of The Imposters of Aventil and A Parliament of Bodies. The point I am trying to make is that all of Maresca's series will soon come together as one in order to solve the mystery of the members of the Grand Ten.

The Grand Ten is a group from the upper echelon of Maradaine society, including the military, who have decided that they do not accept the King's rule. Therefore, they have plans to disrupt and take the country from him, and install their own form of government. As with the authors other series, this story is set in the fictional country of Maradaine. This series in particular focuses on Dayne Heldin, a Third Year Candidate of the Tarian Order who has already stood up and saved members of Parliament, only to be undermined by those who want to see him gone.

Dayne could be called Captain America since he wields not only a sword, but also a shield. Dayne is in a relationship with a Lady Mirianne Henson. Truly be told, I hope that the author uses Dayne to get to the bottom of her secrets and the threads that she seems to hold over his head. I love the relationship/partnership that Jerinne and Dayne seem to have. Her banter back and forth with Dane is a delight, and worth picking up this series and reading it. Dayne has enough insecurities to fill an entire novel. 

His struggle to be the best he can be has been hindered by some glaring mistakes. He feels as though he isn't good enough, why else would he be given the job as liaison? Everyone now knows who Dayne is. It's only a matter of time before more trouble comes for Dayne. Dayne, however, doesn't bear the full focus of the story. 

Jerinne Fendall, third year initiate of the Tarian order, as well as Hemmit Eyairin, a journalist with the Veracity Press, and Amaya Tyrell, Adept with the Tarian order, all have their parts to play in the story as well. Of the once proud twelve Elite Orders of Druthal, only the Spatians and Tarians remained. Others have been folded into the military or disbanded entirely. Magic, adventure, and political machinations mix together in this story that focuses on an election, and those who are trying to disrupt it because they believe the process is corrupt.

While Dayne has been demoted to liaison between the Order, Parliament, and the Marshals, Jerinne is preparing for the most difficult year of her life. Jerinne suffered a really horrible injury while trying to help Dayne save the Parliament. She is being watched, degraded, put down, and pretty much told that she won't amount to a can of beans, let alone a proud Tarian Warrior. She also has to hide any possible relationship that might embarrass the Order. That doesn't stop her. With a little help from Amaya and Dayne and a character named Fredelle, Jerinne has the courage to stand and deliver when danger once again threatens the peace.

Hemmit and Amaya are pieces of a larger puzzle. Hemmit went undercover to try to gain access to a group of people who wanted to bring down the Parliament. But, he still has bills to pay. He and his partners Maresh Niol, and Lin Shartien, find themselves becoming part of the story again, not just covering it. Amaya is a character who has a connection to Dayne. She got the job he wanted thanks to Dayne's past. Amaya doesn't really care for Dayne's current love interest, but she no longer holds any anger towards Dayne. Thankfully, Amaya also knows that something is really wrong at the Order and has some plans which I can't wait to uncover.

I highly recommend this series to anyone who loves high fantasy, political intrigue, magic, fantastic world building, and characters who you can root for. 

Chapter 1

Dayne had never seen as many people in one place as were in the crowd surrounding the Saint Alexis Day parade. It was a massive celebratory event, as Great Maradaine Avenue was filled with marchers, riders, dancers, and musicians from all ten archduchies, and onlookers flooded the walkways, hung on lampposts, and found every other possible place they could to gawk from.

People filled the avenue from the head of the Great Maradaine Bridge-where the parade started-to the massive street fair in Victory Plaza, where Great Maradaine Avenue intersected with Unity Street, Victory Lane, and Freeman Road. The whole plaza was overrun with food vendors, entertainers, music, dance, and merriment.

Dayne found it delightful, a glorious way to launch Victory Days, the six-day celebration of the founding of Druthal in its modern form, starting today with Saint Alexis Day, continuing through the Revels of Liberation, and culminating on the actual Reunification Day at the end of the month.

“I absolutely adore this,” Lady Mirianne Henson said. “There’s nothing quite like the spirit of the people, celebrating the nation, our unity, our liberation from tyrannical incursion.”

Dayne noticed her sly smile. “You also like it because it suits your current enterprise.”

“Of course it does, I’m not a fool,” she said. “Why do you think I scheduled the Grand Opening for today?”

As much as Dayne delighted in the celebration, he felt a sense of unease. Lately, it seemed more and more people went about armed. There were quite a few folks with crossbows hanging on their hips, or swords at their belts, and that was just what he could see. No telling how many were carrying knives and knucklestuffers and handsticks. With this many people, it wouldn’t take much for a misunderstanding to turn heated, to escalate into violence. Watching from a balcony three stories above the plaza, there was nothing he could do to protect the people in the street should things turn ugly.

Dayne did appreciate his view of the revelry in Victory Plaza from this vantage point, though. Lady Mirianne’s private office was on the top floor of her latest venture, and many of the people in the street were incredibly excited for the opportunity to be the very first customers of Henson’s Majestic, a store that promised to be an experience like none other.

At least, that’s how Lady Mirianne had it promoted on the flyers she had printed and plastered all over the north side of the city.

“My lady, are we just about ready?” Mister Sefferin, her general manager, waited in the doorway of her office, wringing his hands.

She smiled and looked at Dayne, a warm twinkle in her eye. “Well, my dear, are we ready?” She certainly looked ready. She was dressed in a smart skirt suit-not dissimilar to the kind the professional women in shops and offices all over the city wore-but hers was satin and silk, impeccably tailored, with intricate embroidery and clasps of ivory and gold. She had fashioned herself as a perfect union of noblewoman and businesswoman.

“You and Mister Sefferin are far more qualified to answer that,” Dayne said. “Though I would like to be close to the polling station when you open doors.” He hoped she understood the responsibility, the sacred duty, she had taken on by making the store one of the polling stations in today’s election. She was focused on the store itself, and how hosting the polling station would help her, and he feared she wasn’t taking it seriously.

He was also anxious to cast his vote. That was his own sacred duty, as a Druth citizen, far above and beyond his duties as a Candidate of the Tarian Order.

“Yes,” she said. “Mister Sefferin, you do have the polling stations arranged, with manpower at the ready to guide folks back through the displays once they vote, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “And all the salespeople are versed in asking gentlemen to show their thumb to earn their good citizen discount.”

“Excellent,” Lady Mirianne said. “I think we should open the doors in-”

She held her thought for a moment, her attention returning to the street below. An announcer boomed out, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Royal First Irregulars!”

“In just a few moments,” she said. “They’re about to do their routine, and all eyes will be on them. But I want those doors to fly open as soon as the performance ends.”

She said this all without her eyes leaving the street below.

“As you wish, my lady,” Sefferin said, scurrying away.

Dayne had never heard of this group, which by its name sounded like an army unit. “What are the-”

“The First Irregulars. They’re a parade and morale unit. But they are truly something.”

She pointed down to the street, where ten women in uniforms were marching into the plaza. Dayne wasn’t quite sure what to make of them-their uniforms were essentially Druth Army uniforms, but they had been modified to display more bare skin than any practicality demanded. Far closer to stage show apparel than military-and not the kind of stage shows Dayne would attend.

“I don’t think I approve,” he started.

“Hush,” she said, wrapping her arm around his massive frame. “Watch.”

The women fanned out, forming a circle, all the while displaying their weapons. Each one bore a different weapon, and showed appreciable skill with it. After a moment, he recognized that the weapon each wielded represented one of the ten archduchies, their “traditional” weapon. Some of those designations were based on actual history, like the pike warriors of Oblune, the chain-flail fighters of Linjar, or the axe-men of Acora. On the other hand, he was certain that there was no grand tradition of staff fighters from the Archduchy of Maradaine. If anything, it came from the Kenalian Order, one of twelve Elite Orders of Druthal, now disbanded. Of the twelve, only the Spatians and his own Tarians remained. The Kenalians disbanded some sixty years ago, and their last members were folded into the Tarians. Their techniques and skills were integrated into the Tarian discipline.

Which explained why the woman spinning her staff with deft skill and grace had a certain familiarity.

“Is that Fredelle?” he asked quietly.

“Who?” Lady Mirianne asked.

“The one with the staff,” he said. “I think she was in our Initiate cohort. But she washed out during third year, never made Candidate.”

“It’s certainly possible. A trained Tarian would be well received in the army, especially in an exhibition unit like the Royal First.”

The performance was ramping up in energy, as the women incorporated a fair degree of acrobatics into their maneuvers, spinning and flipping as they whipped their weapons around. They also showed this was not mere stagecraft or pantomime. They knew their weapons, they knew their forms. Fredelle had been trained in the staff in her time as a Tarian Initiate, and her exhibition brought her into a spar with the woman wielding the Oblunic pike. Both of them were exemplary in their skill. Even though he could see that the battle they enacted was planned performance, choreographed like a dance, it was thrilling to watch. It reminded him of the best training spars with Amaya during their Initiacy.

“I told you,” Lady Mirianne said, noting his engagement.

“They’re very good at what they do,” Dayne said.

Their performance ended with a flourish, and they moved away as the parade continued below.

“Come,” Mirianne said, turning inside. “Let’s open our doors and show this city what Henson’s Majestic truly is.”

Dayne followed Lady Mirianne as she strode out of her office and down the hallway. Sefferin could be heard in the distance, clapping his hands and calling out instructions. Once Dayne and Lady Mirianne had reached the winding stairway, the shop staff were all standing at attention at their stations throughout the store.

And, Dayne had to admit, the store was quite a spectacle. He rarely gave much regard to clothing beyond his uniform, and things like fashion, jewelry, and haberdashery did not concern him in the least. That said, the wide array of clothing, accessories, and other wares on display was like nothing he had ever seen. The shopboys and shopgirls all looked impeccable in outfits similar to Lady Mirianne’s though far less extravagant. Dark gray suits with waistcoats and cravats, and the girls in almost identical outfits.

“Perfect,” Mirianne said. “They’re all perfect.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Sefferin said.

She raised her voice as she floated down the stairwell to the main floor. “You all should be so proud of the work you’ve already done, and what you’re about to do,” she said. “Open the doors.”

Three men went to the main doors and opened them, sunlight and crowds bursting through. If Mirianne had intended some further speech to the patrons, there was no chance for it. Within moments people were filling the aisles around the different stations of the store, examining all the bits of finery that they had for sale.

Though many of the men ignored that, instead pressing to the far side of the store where the election polls had been set up. They were clearly eager to cast their votes, a feeling Dayne shared.

“My lady,” Dayne said with a gesture. “With your permission, I’m going to get in line before it gets too unwieldy.”

“Of course, dear,” she said. “I know you won’t enjoy yourself until you take care of that. You already know

“Absolutely,” he said. “I would never come to the polls uninformed.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” she said with a kiss to his cheek. “Now I should attend to the business of business.”

Dayne made his way down while Mirianne went to consult with Mister Sefferin. He discovered that he couldn’t quite make a straight path to the voting polls. Instead he had to navigate through several different displays, where quite a few shopboys tried to offer him new suits or hats.

“A man your size needs something custom,” one overly eager boy said. “And we’ve got our measuring men already right here. Just as much service as your finest gentleman’s tailor.”

“Not now,” Dayne said, pressing through.

“Then if you’d consider, I have something else here. Not too many men come through here with a shield or sword. Rare thing, the shield, especially.”

“Please,” Dayne said, trying to work his way around.

“I’m saying, if you follow me, I have a fine selection of oils and polishes that would be just what you need.” The shopboy placed himself right in Dayne’s path. It was impressively bold, especially since he didn’t even come up to Dayne’s chin.

“What I need is to go vote,” Dayne said. The boy didn’t move. Dayne checked the badge on his waistcoat. “Eichorn?”

“That’s me.”

“I will tell her ladyship you were incredibly dutiful in your attempt to sell. Now move.”

Eichorn seemed to take this in for a moment, and then stepped aside.

Dayne had almost approached the polling line when he was accosted by four women. They were not shopgirls, but rather primly dressed ladies, all wearing suffragette pins.

“I see you are eager to vote, young man,” the lead woman said.

“I am-” Dayne started.

“As am I,” she said pointedly. “And yet, I am prevented.”

“I support your cause,” Dayne said quickly. He did not want to deal with the whole speech right now. “I have signed petitions, and if you wish me to sign again, I gladly will.”

She presented him a stylus and clipboard. “I’m glad the young men of today are so sensible.”

One of the other women raised an eyebrow at him. “I wonder if he should forsake his vote in solidarity. That would be a statement.”

“I can’t see how, ma’am,” Dayne said as he signed the petition.

“Imagine it! Thousands of men in this city not voting, to show that without our voice included, theirs will not be heard.”

“Jandalyn,” the lead woman said derisively. “I’ve told you many times how absurd that is.”

“It is a statement-”

“It’s handing the election to people who disagree with us.”

Jandalyn huffed and walked off.

“Thank you very much for your support, Mister…. Heldrin,” she said as she looked at the petition. “Are you from the city originally?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “I grew up in the Sharain region, near Jaconvale.”

“Emma, don’t you know who this is?” one of the other women asked. “He’s her ladyship’s beau. You know, the one who rescued the Parliament.”

Dayne held up a hand in protest. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

“No, it isn’t,” the woman said. “I read that pamphlet. You saved all of them from that horrible man, Tharek Pell.”

“Not all of them,” Dayne said quietly. Four members of Parliament had been killed. Perhaps not Dayne’s fault, but Dayne felt the weight of it, regardless. The impact on the nation had been profound. Not only were there more constables patrolling the streets in this part of the city, even the sheriffs of the Archduchy of Maradaine were making their presence known. That was uncommon in the city.

It also was why this election was so important. Instead of just voting for the usual twenty members of Parliament whose terms were ending, there were the four special elections to fill the seats of the murdered members.

“Still, he’s a hero!” the woman said.

“Well, then,” Emma said. “Perhaps you would be willing to speak at one of our rallies? It would mean so much to have a true hero speak in favor of our cause. Especially one as young and charming as you.”

Dayne hesitated. “Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to express political opinions while publicly representing the Order,” Dayne said.

“You could come out of uniform, perhaps,” Emma said.

“I’ll have to ask the Grandmaster,” Dayne said. “But if you have a card I will get back to you.”

She handed him her card, and finally let him pass. The line had already started to grow, in no small part due to an argument that had boiled up between the administrators and one of the men who had come to vote. Dayne cautiously moved in closer. He wouldn’t have imposed himself into the situation, but it looked like it was growing quite heated.

“Now don’t you tell me-” the man trying to vote shouted, shoving his finger just a few inches from the administrator’s face.

“I told you and will tell you, shove off!”

“I got a right, and you ain’t gonna-”

“You got a right to get a thumping!” The administrator pulled out a handstick, and was about to bring it down on the man’s arm when Dayne jumped in. He grabbed the handstick mid-swing and wrenched it out of the man’s grasp. That stung his hand, but it would have done far worse to the other man’s head.

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#Review - Bid My Soul Farewell by Beth Revis #YA #Fantasy

Series: Give the Dark My Love #2
Format: Hardcover, 336 pages
Release Date: September 24, 2019
Publisher: Razorbill
Source: Library
Genre: Young Adult / Dark Fantasy

The stunning finale of the epic fantasy duology from New York Times bestselling author Beth Revis. Alchemy student turned necromancer Nedra Brysstain has made a life-changing decision to embrace the darkness—but can the boy who loves her bring her back to the light before she pays the ultimate price?

Lunar Island is trying to heal. The necromantic plague that ravaged the land has been eradicated, and Emperor Auguste, the young and charming leader of the Allyrian Empire, has a plan: rid the island of necromancy once and for all. Though Greggori “Grey” Astor wants what’s best for his people, he knows that allying himself with Auguste threatens the one person he loves most: necromancer Nedra Brysstain. Feeling like he already failed to save Nedra once, Grey becomes determined to help the Emperor rebuild Lunar Island while still keeping Nedra safe from harm.

Back at the quarantine hospital, Nedra’s army of revenants are growing increasingly inhuman by the day. Wracked with guilt for imprisoning their souls, Nedra vows to discover a way to free the dead while still keeping her sister by her side.

But still reeling from the trauma of the plague, the people of Lunar Island are looking for someone to blame, and Grey can only protect Nedra for so long. And when Nedra and Grey are thrust into a battle with an even more terrifying adversary, Nedra will be pushed to the darkest depths of her necromantic powers. But can Grey let her go that far?

Bid My Soul Farewell, by author Beth Revis, is the final installment in the authors Give the Dark My Love duology. The story picks up right where book one left off. The story actually alternates between Nedra Brysstain, and Grey Astor. In the previous installment, Nedra saved the emperor from captivity and found the necromancer who started the plague and doled out justice. But in the process, Nedra solidified herself as a necromancer, a practice punishable by hanging. People are absolutely terrified of her believing the past has come back to haunt them.

Nedra's undead army, which includes her sister, is dying. Nedra's hope for finding a way to save her sister fades with each passing day. Nedra thought after she defeated the evil necromancer, she would discover a way of saving her sister. Her sister was the first soul she raised from the dead, but it may be too late to save her from dying all over again. Nedra's acceptance of being a necromancer has come with a high cost of her own arm. She also struggles with the loss of her entire family thanks to the plague. 

Meanwhile, despite the darkness and lawlessness that has encapsulated Nedra, Grey can’t shake his love for her and his need to protect her. Grey finds himself a pawn of the Emperor when all he really wants to do is help the north regain stability and spend his time with Nedra. The Emperor promises Grey that he will not punish Nedra as long as he plays his part in getting people to believe he's here to help the Island get back on their feet.

Grey's part in this story adds another depth to the story that one would not have had with just Nedra as the main storyteller. Grey constantly defends Nedra, even when he wasn't sure of her motives. He never failed to believe she was a good person and that she will find a way back from the darkness. The most twisted part of this story involves the Emperor and I can't discuss this without spoiling the story for you. Let's just say that you should enjoy the ride, along with the action, and the twists, as well as the ending which is probably as best as you are going to get out of this series.

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#Review - Fireborne by Rosaria Munda #YA / #Fantasy

Series: The Aurelian Cycle #1
Format: Hardcover, 448 pages
Release Date: October 15, 2019
Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Young Adult / Fantasy

Game of Thrones meets Red Rising in a debut young adult fantasy that’s full of rivalry, romance…and dragons.

Annie and Lee were just children when a brutal revolution changed their world, giving everyone—even the lowborn—a chance to test into the governing class of dragonriders.

Now they are both rising stars in the new regime, despite backgrounds that couldn’t be more different. Annie’s lowborn family was executed by dragonfire, while Lee’s aristocratic family was murdered by revolutionaries. Growing up in the same orphanage forged their friendship, and seven years of training have made them rivals for the top position in the dragonriding fleet.

But everything changes when survivors from the old regime surface, bent on reclaiming the city.

With war on the horizon and his relationship with Annie changing fast, Lee must choose to kill the only family he has left or to betray everything he’s come to believe in. And Annie must decide whether to protect the boy she loves…or step up to be the champion her city needs.

From debut author Rosaria Munda comes a gripping adventure that calls into question which matters most: the family you were born into, or the one you’ve chosen.

Fireborne, by author Rosaria Munda, is the first installment in the authors The Aurelian Cycle. Set about a decade after a bloody revolution, the story alternate's POV between Annie, the daughter of peasant farmers whose family was murdered by dragon fire, and Lee, a boy who was a member of the noble family who watched his family die in front of him at the hand of the leader of the rebellion. Despite their diverse backgrounds, Lee and Annie formed a bond of friendship while they were orphans together. They were nearly inseparable.

As orphans, they both tested into the role of Guardians (dragonriders) a role previously only reserved for the leading rulers, now open to anyone who is chosen by a dragon. The story begins with a competition to become a Firstrider, the person who will lead the Dragon army reporting to the leader of Callipolis, with both Lee and Annie rivaling each other, as well as other elite dragonriders. Lee is the odds on favorite to win the challenge, while Annie has struggled with expressing herself, and fighting back against those who want her to fail which includes fellow students and teachers.

Guardians are also supposed to be the chosen ones when it comes to picking the successor to Atreus, First Protector.  Before the revolution, Dragons of Stormscourge House, were known for terrorizing the countryside. Dragons were, and still are the Island's best defense against aerial invasions from other nations who want to see Callipolis fail. Before the revolution, your family determined your class - Commoner, patrician, dragonborn. Now, there's a class system that may be even worse where people are separated into what Atreus believes is a fair system of determining what you should be doing for work.

During the competition, Lee is contacted by a surviving member of his family he thought long dead. She is part of a resistance on New Pythos determined to bring back the old regime back to its former glory. Lee has to fight his feelings about the truth about the things his father did, and decide which side he belongs with. When Lee's new poetry teacher recognizes him for who he really is, things become even more dicier. Especially since Lee speaks fluent highborn, and Annie makes a pretty good guess that Lee has been hiding his real identity.

Annie is loyal to the current regime, and begins to worry that Lee might betray Callipolis. War is coming. Will Lee turn on Annie and their friends? Will Annie, despite her love for Lee, alert the leader of Lee’s possible betrayal? Will Lee and Annie end up on opposite sides of this war that is threatening their way of life? And If Lee chooses to fight for his birth family, does Annie have what it takes to fight against her best friend?

There’s plenty of gut-wrenching, emotional moments as Lee considers the choice he has to make. I think the most fascinating part of this story is how dragons choose their own riders and the classes of dragons that exist in this world. Ok, so I just love dragons! Here's a warning: don't get your hopes and expectations up that a straight forward romance is in the cards for either Lee or Annie. They are free to choose who they love, and sometimes it might not be each other. The struggle that both Annie and Lee feel in their relationship with each other and others in their circle was palpable and it was that push-pull that kept me engrossed. Considering how this story ends, I am very interested to see where the author takes the story from here.

Prologue
Later, he would be known as the First Protector, and under his vision the city would transform. Serfs would be freed, schools would be built, and dragons would, for the first time, be ridden by commoners.
Before that, he was the leader of the bloodiest revolution his people had ever seen.
He never doubted that he would create a just city. Nor did he doubt that the families of the old regime deserved to die. But he did, sometimes, regret the way it happened, the day the palace was finally overrun.
He remembered in particular one of the ruling families, their tormentors still at work when he found them. The dragonlord had been kept alive, to watch; his youngest son was the only child left. A boy of about seven or eight, his expression blank beneath a mask of blood. The remains of their family lay around them.
“Stop this foolishness at once,” the First Protector said, when he and his guard found them.
The revolutionaries let go of the boy, whom they had been hurting, and began to protest: This man is Leon Stormscourge, don’t you know what he’s done—but they fell silent when the dragonlord spoke from his knees on the bloodstained carpet.
“My son,” he said, in the language he and the First Protector shared. “Please, Atreus.”
The First Protector took a half glance at the child. He said, “Leo will be looked after.”
He gave one of his guard a murmured order. The soldier started, hesitated, and then lifted the dragonlord’s son in his arms. When the boy had been carried, limp and silent, from the room, the leader of the Revolution knelt before the dragonlord.
“Those—animals—” the dragonlord rasped.
The First Protector did not disagree. Instead, he put a hand to the knife on his belt. When he met the dragonlord’s gaze, it was in an unspoken question. The dragonlord closed his eyes and nodded.
Then, to the First Protector’s surprise, he spoke.
“Your vision,” he said. “Do you think it will ever be worth this, Atreus?”
The First Protector drew his knife.
“Yes,” he said.
The dragonlord’s question returned to him often in the years that followed. Even as many of the other details of the Revolution began to fade from his memory, he remembered Leon Stormscourge.
Leon’s son, on the other hand, was a detail he forgot.


Chapter 1 Messages from the Ministry
Nine Years Later
Lee
Morning is our favorite time to fly. Today, even with the tournament looming and the empty arena below us a reminder that soon we’ll be watched, for the first time, by thousands, it’s still possible to savor the city sprawled beneath a dragon’s wings. When we pull tight on a turn, I glimpse one of Pallor’s black eyes, depthless, turned on me. The line between us, of shared emotions and thoughts that are usually latent in the saddle, goes taut. Yes. Today it begins. Today we’ll rise.

But in order to do that, I’ll need a clear head. I gently extricate myself from Pallor’s simmering anticipation and refocus on the arena. Two other dragonriders fly with us, each riding one of the other two breeds: Crissa and her skyfish are in the air above us, while Cor and his stormscourge glide below, bellowing ash over the arena stands. We’re on our last rehearsal, this time with just the squadron leaders.

I lift my voice over the wind. “You’re taking her too low, Cor.”

Cor grunts, frustrated, and urges his stormscourge higher. We’ve been over the choreography of the tournament’s opening ceremony over and over with ministry officials, and every time the question of how to demonstrate stormscourge might becomes tricky. Before the Revolution, the dragon breed of Stormscourge House—of my family—were known for terrorizing the countryside; but in even older days, they were our island’s greatest defense against aerial invasion.

“They told us to fire low,” says Cor.

“Not that low. It’s risky for the audience.”

Our dragons are still immature, barely horse-size, and can’t yet breathe fire. But the smoke they produce can still burn.

Crissa and her skyfish, long, slender, and pale enough blue to blend with the morning sky, circle above us. “You want to impress the people,” she calls down to Cor. “Not roast them.”

Cor waves a hand. “All right, all right . . .”

Our fleet is still in training, dragons and riders both. Known now as Guardians, the new regime’s dragonriders are lowborn, commoners, even former serfs. No longer the sons of dragonlords.

Except for me, though I’m the only one who knows that.

Because in the wake of the Revolution, to be dragonborn is to be wanted for dead. I was born Leo but, since the orphanage, I’ve been Lee. Not even the First Protector, who saved my life and then welcomed me, without recognition, into his Guardian program two years after that, knows the truth.

That a Stormscourge tested into the meritocratic dragonriding program designed to replace everything his family stood for.

Even though I know I’m lucky to be here—lucky to be alive, lucky to have escaped the orphanage—memories of the old life have a way of intruding and twisting. Especially today, as Pallor and I circle above the Palace arena, open to the public for the first time since the Revolution. The old regime had tournaments here, too, that I watched my father compete in. Dreaming of the day it would be my turn.

I lean forward and rest a gloved hand on Pallor’s silver-scaled neck as his wings, translucent in the morning light, tighten in a dive. Pallor is an aurelian, a breed known for being small, maneuverable, careful, and the aurelian formation for today’s ceremony is the only one complex enough to require coleaders. I can rehearse alone but, really, to do the thing properly, I need—

Annie. There she is.

Another aurelian, this one amber-toned, has emerged from the cave mouth at the base of the arena, and on her back rides my sparring partner, Annie. She and I have trained together for as long as we’ve been in the Guardian program, and we’ve known each other since the orphanage before that.

It’s a past life’s worth of memories that we’re both pretty good at not talking about.

“Annie!” Crissa calls with a cheerful wave. “There you are.”

“Lee’s been flying like an idiot out here without you,” Cor says.

Pallor and I fire ash downward. Cor dodges the stream with a bark of laughter.

Annie’s lips curve at Cor’s remark, but instead of answering, she rolls seamlessly into formation opposite me, her dragon, Aela, mirroring Pallor’s movements. Her red-brown braid hangs low on her back, her freckled face is set in its concentration. I’ve thought of Annie as beautiful—strikingly beautiful—for almost as long as I can remember, but I’ve never told her.

“Play it from the top?” I suggest.

There are calls of assent from the other three.

We right ourselves only when the bell rings the hour. The arena below, the Palace to one side and the pillar supporting Pytho’s Keep on the other, the jagged rooftops, the plains stretching out to the sea—for a moment I feel a protectiveness, almost a possessiveness, of the city and island spread below. The vows that we took when we became Guardians echo in my mind: All that I am, henceforth, belongs to Callipolis. By the wings of my dragon I will keep her . . .

Today, eight of the thirty-two Guardians will compete in the quarterfinal tournament for Firstrider, commander of the aerial fleet. I’m one of those eight, along with Annie, Cor, and Crissa. Qualifying rounds have been going on among the dragonriders for weeks.

It will be the first time since the Revolution that Callipolis names a Firstrider, one of the only titles it’s kept from the old regime. The dragons of the revolutionary fleet are finally old enough, and their riders well-enough trained, to vie for a position that’s been vacant since the Revolution. For the other Guardians, the Firstrider Tournaments are a chance to prove themselves; for me, it will be that and something more.

Because Firstrider is a title I’ve wanted since before the Revolution. It would be all the recognition, power, and respect that my family lost over the course of a single bloody month when I was eight years old, regained.

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#Review - The Art of Theft by Sherry Thomas #Mystery #Historical

Series: The Lady Sherlock Series (#4)
Format: Paperback, 304 pages
Release Date: October 15, 2019
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery / Historical

Charlotte Holmes, Lady Sherlock, is back solving new cases in the Victorian-set mystery series from the USA Today bestselling author of The Hollow of Fear.

As “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective,” Charlotte Holmes has solved murders and found missing individuals. But she has never stolen a priceless artwork—or rather, made away with the secrets hidden behind a much-coveted canvas.

But Mrs. Watson is desperate to help her old friend recover those secrets and Charlotte finds herself involved in a fever-paced scheme to infiltrate a glamorous Yuletide ball where the painting is one handshake away from being sold and the secrets a bare breath from exposure.

Her dear friend Lord Ingram, her sister Livia, Livia’s admirer Stephen Marbleton—everyone pitches in to help and everyone has a grand time. But nothing about this adventure is what it seems and disaster is biding time on the grounds of a glittering French chateau, waiting only for Charlotte to make a single mistake…

Story Locale: Victorian England

The Art of Theft, by author Sherry Thomas, is the fourth installment in the author's Lady Sherlock series. This series revolves around Lady Charlotte Holmes who, along with Mrs Watson, have created a fictional crime fighting brother called Sherlock Holmes. There are only a handful of people who know the real truth. Charlotte and Mrs Watson are a brilliant team. One has life's lessons to import on Charlotte, while Charlotte has a brilliant and cunning mind which is often at odds with how many sweets she can eat before gaining another unwanted chin. 

Olivia Holmes has become a staple in this series as well. Olivia is the third oldest daughter and the one who isn't all that confidant about being around other women, or men for that matter. While Charlotte intentionally ruined her reputation in Victorian England, Olivia is still stuck under the thumb of her father. Liv has also been penning a manuscript featuring Sherlock Holmes while also being somewhat courted by the secretive Stephen Marbleton who has his own story to tell.

In this episode, while Charlotte is resettling her older sister Bernadette into a new living arrangement away from her parents, Olivia is meeting Stephen's parents, Mrs Watson is returning home from visiting her daughter, and Lord Ingram has filed for divorce from his wife putting much of his focus on ensuring his children are well taken care of and not Charlotte. Soon thereafter, Charlotte is visited by the Maharani of Ajmer who needs Sherlock's help in retrieving important from a wealthy collector in Paris. 

The client is being blackmailed by someone who is holding letters that could cause her and her small kingdom a lot of trouble and embarrassment. The letters are hidden behind a Van Dyck painting in the French chateau, Vaudrieu. It seems that the Maharani needs a cat burglar rather than a mystery solver. Part of the story surrounds Mrs. Watson and a romantic affair she had with the Maharani of Ajmer years before she was someone. The maharani has come to London hoping to hire Sherlock Holmes to steal some incriminating letters back from the blackmailer who holds them. 

Mrs. Watson convinces Charlotte to take the case and Charlotte recruits her friend Lord Ingram to help. Her sister Olivia and her sweetheart Mr. Marbleton are also recruited marking the first time that Liv has joined Charlotte and Mrs Watson in an investigation. Lieutenant Leighton Atwood, Lord Ingram’s cousin and a fellow operative for the crown, add his expertise as well. I will say that this is the first book where so many characters have joined to together in solving a situation where life and death is on the line, and a budding romance between Liv and Stephan may be tested severely. 

Meanwhile, what may have been a romantic future for Ash and Charlotte, has been put on the back burner until Ash takes care of his personal issues. However, this is the point in the series where I ask, where the heck is Moriarty? Moriarty is the dark cloud hanging over every thing just off stage waiting to make his grand entrance. Could the fifth installment be the time for him and Charlotte to go head to head? Also, how far does one have to go to actually trust Lady Ingram after all she's done?  

There is a sort of cliffhanger ending to this book which I believe is the first of its kind in this series. As I said, perhaps it is time for the mysterious Moriarty to finally challenge Charlotte in ways that she hasn't been so far. Also, yet another character who knows Sherlock isn't real, may play a pivotal role in what happens next. Sorry, no spoilers but if you have read this series, and this book, it's easy to guess who I am talking about.

One

Miss Olivia Holmes often found other women intimidating: the beautiful ones, the fashionable ones, the well-connected ones. And if they were all three at once, then she was certain to feel like a lowly grouse that had somehow wandered into an ostentation of peacocks.

The woman in front of her was handsome, rather than beautiful. She could not possibly be well-connected. And her attire would have bored Charlotte, Livia’s frippery-loving sister, to sleep; even Livia, who leaned toward the austere in her tastes, thought her guest’s visiting gown could use something: a brighter color, a more tactile texture, even a few folds and tucks to enliven the monotonous wintry blue of her skirt.

Yet Livia had never been as intimidated by a woman as she was now.

“Milk? Sugar?” she croaked. “And would you care for some Madeira cake, Mrs. Openshaw?”

Mrs. Openshaw was otherwise known as Mrs. Marbleton, who was otherwise known as the late Mrs. Moriarty. And she wasn’t really dead.

She inclined her head. “Thank you, Miss Holmes. Madeira cake would be delightful.”

“Excellent choice,” enthused Lady Holmes. “My housekeeper makes an exceptional Madeira cake.”

The Holmes family used to have a cook who made good cakes, when she’d been given the proper allowance for ingredients. But that cook had left their service several years ago, and the current cook was at best an indifferent baker. And the family hadn’t employed a housekeeper, who presided over a stillroom of her own, in decades-certainly never in Livia’s memory.

Livia would not have bragged about any cakes from the Holmes kitchen, not when their quality, or lack thereof, could be ascertained with a single bite. But her mother was a woman of scant foresight, for whom the pleasure of boasting in this moment always outweighed the embarrassment of eating her words in the next.

Their caller, who had already dined once in their household and had followed with an afternoon call, wisely set down the plate of Madeira cake Livia handed her.

Lady Holmes launched into a monologue on the importance of her family in the surrounding area (lies and exaggerations), and the advantageous match her eldest daughter had made (Livia wouldn’t touch Mr. Cumberland, Henrietta’s husband, with a ten-foot pole).

Then again, that might be why Livia herself approached spinsterhood at an alarming speed: There were too many men she wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole-and she was invisible to all the rest.

Except one.

When he’d unexpectedly walked into her house five days ago, she’d been so astounded-and enraptured-that she hadn’t immediately noticed that he wasn’t alone.

With him had come his parents.

Her pleasure had-well, not soured exactly, but been marred by enough tension and discomfort that she’d spent the rest of the evening on edge, unable to enjoy herself. Charlotte, in telling Livia about this young man, had been frank about the dangers of his existence-a hunted family, without a fixed abode or a trusted wider community, always on the move and never safe for long.

Livia, to her credit, had not imbued that life with any romance or excitement. She’d been deeply concerned, but even in her deepest concern she had not foreseen that-

“And what are your plans for this winter, Miss Holmes?”

Livia started. When had Mrs. Marbleton silenced Lady Holmes and taken charge of the conversation? She must have done so with sufficient skill, since Lady Holmes still gazed upon her with an intense and almost fearful hope.

That naked aspiration mortified Livia. But for her own purposes, Livia counted on Lady Holmes’s zeal for at least one more married daughter.

“I do very much enjoy a country Christmas,” said Livia in answer to Mrs. Marbleton’s question, not that she’d ever known any other kind of Christmas. “And you, ma’am, have you anything in mind for you and your family?”

This was a question she’d intended to ask anyway.

Mrs. Marbleton studied her for a minute. “I have been thinking,” she said with a certain deliberateness, “of the South of France. Winter is not the most charming season on this sceptred isle. The C™te d’Azur, on the other hand, has a sunny, temperate disposition even in December.”

Livia yearned to visit the South of France. She didn’t need to feign wistfulness as she replied, “Oh, how lovely that sounds. I can already imagine the aquamarine waters of the Mediterranean.”

“We might also spend only a day or two on the coast, and the rest of our time inland,” mused Mrs. Marbleton. “In Aix-en-Provence, perhaps. Or in a little hilltop village in the Alpes-Maritimes. Sitting by a roaring fire, sipping local wine, and savoring peasant stews, while looking down toward the distant sea.”

Livia felt a pang of homesickness for a life she had never known. She reminded herself that she must not forget that the Marbletons had been on the run or in hiding for at least two decades. That as alluring as Mrs. Marbleton made the experience sound, it couldn’t have been all sybaritic contentment. That even as they wined and dined and wallowed in the panoramic views, their pleasures were veined with fear and their lives riddled with instability.

“I daresay I don’t have the courage to try French peasant fare. I’d be afraid of a frog in every pot,” said Lady Holmes, laughing too loudly at her own joke.

Mrs. Marbleton did not respond to that. “And you, Miss Holmes, how would you fare in the French countryside?”

“Oh, I’ll be all right, ma’am. I don’t pay too much mind to my suppers. If there is sunshine I can walk beneath, and a good book to read in peace and quiet, then I’ll be happy.”

This earned her another considering look from Mrs. Marbleton.

Not an approving look, but at least not a contemptuous one. Mrs. Marbleton had her mind quite made up about Lady Holmes, but she didn’t seem to have an equally decided view concerning Livia. Yet.

Livia didn’t know what to make of it.

The door opened then, and her father and the Marbleton men came in-Sir Henry had taken the gentlemen to his study to inspect his latest acquisition of Cuban cigars, an extravagance the family could ill afford.

The senior Mr. Marbleton walked with a slight limp. Whether as a result of natural grace or sheer willpower, his strides gave the impression of near nimbleness, as if the ground he traversed were uneven, rather than his gait. And unlike Sir Henry, who put on a heartiness that seemed to say, Look how well pleased I am with myself. Could anything be amiss in my life?, Mr. Crispin Marbleton did not bother to convey any great conviviality. But in his soft-spoken words and his occasional smiles, especially those directed at his wife and his son, Livia thought she glimpsed a warmth that he reserved for his inner circle.

The younger Mr. Marbleton exuded far greater liveliness. It really was a shame that he’d led such a peripatetic life, never staying in one place for long: Livia could easily see him as a favorite among any gathering of young people, one whose good cheer and easy demeanor made his company sought after by both gentlemen and ladies.

She looked into her teacup.

She had longed to see him again, but she hadn’t been ready to meet his parents. Even his sister had been on hand, he’d told her, sitting in the servants’ hall disguised as their groom, visiting with the house’s meager staff.

They barely knew each other. They’d had three conversations months ago, during the Season, while he pretended to be someone else. Since then, he’d sent her a few small tokens of his regard, but had not appeared before her again until the dinner five nights ago, as she sat expecting Sir Henry’s newest business associate and his family.

Thank goodness her parents still had no idea what was going on, still thought of young Mr. Openshaw as an excellent but unlikely prospect for Livia. Everyone else, however, knew the true purpose of the visits: Stephen Marbleton was serious enough about Livia that his parents had no choice but to meet-and judge-her in person.

Too soon. Too soon. When she didn’t even know whether she wished to maintain her affection for him or to let it wither away in his continued absence-the wiser choice, given that the life he led was not one she would have chosen for herself.

The parlor filled with small talk, carried on capably by Stephen Marbleton. But soon Lady Holmes inquired, with no preamble and even less subtlety, whether young Mr. Openshaw would care for a stroll in the garden, accompanied by her daughter. Stephen Marbleton responded with just the right amount of enthusiasm to please, but not embarrass, Livia.

But as they exited the house, properly coated and gloved against the damp, chilly day, her heart palpitated with apprehension.

No, with dread.

What if he should offer her the choice to leave behind her current existence, which she hated, for something that would not resemble anything she’d ever known?

She didn’t know whether she dared to commit herself to Mr. Marbleton. She didn’t know whether marriage would suit her-her sister Charlotte wasn’t the only Holmes girl with deeply skeptical views on matrimony. And above all else, she didn’t know-though she had an unhappy suspicion-whether a trying marriage wouldn’t turn her into an exact replica of her disappointing mother.

Livia glanced back at the house. Through the rain-streaked window of the parlor her mother was just visible, gesticulating with too much force. Lady Holmes could be vain, petty, and coarse, sometimes all at once. Yet Livia still saw, on the rare occasion, the echo of the girl Lady Holmes must have been, once upon a time. Before she fell in love with Sir Henry Holmes, before she learned to her lasting bitterness that Sir Henry had never reciprocated her sentiments-and had courted her only to spite his former fiancŽe, Lady Amelia Drummond, by marrying another on the day originally intended for their wedding.

And the ghost of that girl reminded Livia uncomfortably of herself: She too possessed a fierce pride, alongside a bottomless need for affection and a desire to give that warred constantly with the fear of rejection.

Trapped in a miserable marriage, far away from family and friends, having for companions only a philandering husband and a quartet of difficult children, Lady Holmes had succumbed to all the worst tendencies of her character and hardened into an utterly unlovely woman.

Livia stepped on the garden path. The uneven gravel poked into the thinning soles of her Wellington boots-a sensation of jabbing discomfort, much like her awareness of the unlovelier elements in her own character. She could hold a grudge-oh, how she could hold a grudge. She was angry at the world and mistrustful of people. She wanted too much-wealth, fame, wild acclaim, not to mention abject groveling from everyone who had ever slighted her, however unintentionally.

Could the young man next to her, strolling lightly on the leaf-strewn garden path, know all that? Or was he under the illusion that she was someone whose gratitude at being rescued would ensure that she would remain a happy, pliant partner for the rest of her life?

“I think we fear the same thing,” he said softly. “That you would choose me-and someday regret your choice.”

She halted midstep. Their eyes met; his were clear, but with a trace of melancholy. For a fraction of a moment it hurt that he had fears-that his feelings for her hadn’t inspired an invulnerable courage, blind to all obstacles. And then relief inundated her, so much so that her heart beat wildly and her fingertips tingled, as if they were recovering sensation after being chilled to the bone.

“I mistrust myself,” she said, resuming her progress. “I’m not happy here, and there’s a chance I’ll bring that unhappiness with me wherever I go. I’d be concerned to be asked to make a home for anyone.”

“Some people are like desert plants, needing only a bit of condensate and perhaps a rainstorm every few years. The rest of us require decent soil and a reasonable climate. It is no fault of yours not to have thrived at the edge of a desert. Your eldest sister married a stupid man at the earliest opportunity to get away. Your younger sister chose to shed her respectability rather than to remain under your father’s thumb.”

Charlotte would have preferred to overthrow their father’s control while keeping that respectability, but Livia understood his argument. “They are women of strength. I would label Henrietta a brute, but brutes know what they want and they care not what impediments stand in their path. And while Charlotte is no brute, she is both ruthless and resilient.

”More than anything else I envy her that resilience. She goes around if she cannot go through-and a cup of tea and a slice of cake seem to be all she needs to keep herself even-keeled. But I will work myself into a state. I will teeter between desperate hope and black despair. And I fear that I will not bend but simply break, should life become too heavy to bear.“

He sighed. The sound conveyed no impatience, only a deep wistfulness. ”You are telling me that before you can be sure of your affections, you must be sure of yourself.“

And she was so very unsure of herself.

”I will gladly attribute some of the blame to Charlotte. She has always viewed romantic love as highly perishable.“

”I hold a slightly more optimistic view of romantic love. I see it not as doomed to spoilage but as prone to change. Yes, it can dwindle to nothing. Or harden into bitterness and enmity. But it can also ripen like a fine vintage, becoming something with extraordinary depth and maturity.“

He spoke with confidence and conviction. Briefly her gloved hand came to rest against the topmost button of her bodice. How did it feel to hold such lovely, uplifting views-was it like having been born with wings? His views did not change her own, but she rued that her own beliefs were nowhere near as luminous.

The garden path turned-she’d been waiting for this moment, when they would be temporarily hidden from view by an arbor. She gave him a letter. ”Will you drop this in the post for my sister?“

He stowed the missive inside his coat. ”Of course."

His cheeks were pink with cold. He wore a beard as he had in summer, when they first met, but this beard was much shorter, the accumulation of a fortnight at most. She wondered how it would feel against her palm-and was astonished both at the direction of her thoughts and that she had lived to be twenty-seven and never had a thought like that before.

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