I love historical fiction, but as hard as it is to find time to write, I thought that all the research would mean I'd never get anything actually written, lol. I thought (idiot me!) that writing something with the scope of a historical saga but set in a make-believe land of my own creation would be "easier."

So taking a cue from some of my favorite books (as diverse as Dune and The Thorn Birds, Gone with the Wind, Maia by Richard Adams (yes, the Watership Down guy), The Clan of the Cave Bear and the entire Song of Fire and Ice series by George R. R. Martin), I began Misery's Child.

I have a hard time summarizing the plot in anything approaching a good 30-second sound bite (a major failing for an author trying to sell a book, so sue me; that's why I write novels.) In short: a young heroine, Leah, overcomes the curse of her birth to become the only hope of her country's salvation. Along the way there is political intrigue, romance, betrayal, thievery, murder, slavery, sex, more political intrigue.

Now I know why all those "fantasy" books have glossaries, character indexes and maps. They aren't for the readers, but for the writer trying to keep it all straight. I spent days just trying to figure out how my holy women, the Cadia, dress and live.

So far, I have three volumes completely done, and a pretty specific outline of the final volume. I've submitted it to the major "fantasy" presses, but fantasy is a tough genre to crack. They rejected Misery's Child on the grounds it was not "magical" enough; not enough time travel or dragons or dwarves or what have you, I really don't know what they mean except that perhaps its too accessible to those who aren't hardcore fantasy fans. Yet the mainstream publishers who have looked at it don't quite know what to do with it either. My agent doesn't like it, either. I suspect she just wants me to write something more like Small Change.

Sigh. So here's my poor orphan, my beloved epic that has long since become a very real world to me. Misery's Child is loved by those who have actually read it, and I have three people ready to string me up if I don't tell them how the whole thing ends. If you read these sample chapters and want more, just email me here and I'll send you the whole first book in pdf format. I'd love some feedback.

This first sample introduces Marta, the as-yet-unborn heroine's aunt. Marta is self-centered, vain and shallow, but she's also smart, resourceful and utterly without scruples when it comes to getting what she wants. If only she had an inkling just how badly all her plans and dreams are about to be derailed!

Misery's Child, Vol. I, Chapter 2: Marta 

Marta waited until the copse of fen trees shielded her from view of the house before pulling the stolen fruit from her pocket and biting into it. The juice dribbled down her chin and hand, leaving sticky pink streaks that she wiped hastily on her dress before she remembered that doing so would leave evidence of her crime. Her mother’s eyes were too scriving sharp for her liking.

Scriving. She said the word aloud, giggling guiltily and enjoying the way it rolled off her tongue as she strode through the tall grasses of the east meadow. She wondered contemptuously if her mother even knew what the word meant. Then she supposed she must, having borne seven children, only five of which survived infancy. It was a dirty, common word, but Marta liked it anyway. Scrive the whole lot of them.

She stumbled over another of the small rocks that littered her family’s land. She kicked it with her scuffed boot and then winced at her own childishness. Her father was a fool to try farming this land, nothing but loose sandy soil and rocks everywhere. Small wonder they were starving. Even Marta knew that to make money in Kirrisian, you had to have ships. Ships to fish or to bring in things that people wanted from other places along the coast. Silk and lace and Corellian wine, spices from the Ceanese Isles. Tomack’s father had ships, lots of them.

Tomack had taught her that deliciously dirty word, whispering it in her ear as his hands groped in the front of her loosened bodice. Marta knew that’s what he wanted to do to her, to scrive her in the haystacks of the far meadow. But she wasn’t that foolish, though she let him think that perhaps she was. Tomack was a swaggering fool, but he was handsome and his father was rich. One day Tomack would have his father’s ships.

And she meant to have Tomack.

It was difficult to keep him dangling. He was very persistent, used to having his own way and not without a rough charm. He was sixteen, two summers older than she. It was a pity she was so young, she thought; it would be another summer at least before her father would even begin to think of choosing a husband for her, and another summer or two after that spent considering suitors and alliances. That was a great deal of time to simultaneously hold Tomack at bay and yet fan his desire for her. Well, that was all right. Let him spend that time bedding every village slut in the province; when he got ready to marry, he would think of the one he hadn’t been able to bed. His pride wouldn’t be able to stand it.

Besides, she was the vidor’s daughter. If it weren’t for her family’s poverty, Tomack could never hope to wed so high above his station.

The village was just over the rise of the next hill, a dreary congregation of stone huts and white-washed wooden buildings that became more cramped as she moved toward the heart of Jennymeede. She gnawed at the core of the paggie, then threw it aside as she cut through Widow Hargrow’s raggedy garden and made for the lane that led to the docks.

The old men were gathered outside Griffith Tavern as usual, settled on rough-hewn benches overlooking the common. Above their heads swung the wooden sign emblazoned with a dreadful carving of what was supposed to be a coat of arms. The Griffith was a tame establishment where a man too old for the fields or the docks could bid his time without his wife accusing him of whore-mongering. The Griffith was owned by Widow Hargrow, who wasn’t against a game of dice or drawing a flagon of ale, but drew the line at admitting the local trollops. In the Griffith they were also safe from the young pups eager to prove their manhood with their fists. All of that trouble kept to the waterfront, despite all of her father’s efforts to keep the riff-raff away from the merchants’ offices and warehouses.

Marta waved, flashing a dazzling smile and putting an extra swing in her hips for the old men’s benefit. A corpulent old grunt named Syfert waved back, and she laughed at his invitation, but kept on walking. Old Sy always gave her a sip of his cider ale when she sat on his lap, pretending that she didn’t know she was too old for men’s laps and too young for ale. The rest of them were too afraid of her father to let her try such games, but old Sy wasn’t quite right in the head anymore. 

Today she had no time for such pleasantries if she wanted to be back home in time to change her dress and bind up her hair properly before her father returned. She turned the corner and squinted towards the end of the packed-dirt lane where the land ended and the sea began.

The afternoon was bright and the sun that glinted off the water was nearly blinding. As she neared the waterfront, the noise of the docks swelled with rough voices barking orders and the cries of the seabirds spiraling overhead.

“Ya break that case of wine,” a deep voice boomed over the hubbub, “and it’ll be coming out a’ya pay, you scriving arse!”

People swarmed like ants over the wooden piers. Bare-chested sailors in their funny short pants outnumbered the merchants in their somber-colored coats that flapped about their legs as the wind gusted off the water. Small dirty children ran as if they had some purpose and indeed many were legitimately employed carrying messages and cargo bills from the storefronts to the captains and back again. Still others hung around hoping to pick up a coin or two when the next ship docked. Women with baskets scurried to and fro, bearing produce from their fields down to the markets where they could be sold or traded for mullocks and gantry fish.

Marta felt safe knowing her mother had already been to the market that morning and her father was still at least an hour’s ride away. They always warned her it wasn’t safe for a young woman to roam Jennymeede alone, but Marta dismissed their pleas and demands. She’d been coming to the docks alone since she could walk; she knew every nook and cranny, every shadowed alley and sun-lit lane. She knew the dockmas and foremen by name, as well as the merchants and tavern-keepers. She recognized, too, the less reputable character that even now hung out of an upper window of the notorious Blue Darma Tavern, calling to one of the sailors lolling against the pier.

“Hallo, buckie!” Tanra Jille was nearly forty and quite plump, but Marta couldn’t help admiring any woman who ran her own business as successfully as Tanra Jille did. Unlike the Widow Hargrow, Tanra had not inherited her tavern from a dead husband nor did she have any pretensions about the morality of her establishment. “Yer lookin’ mighty dry and lonely down there, sweetie!”

The sailor, a lean and tawny fellow with a rag tied about his throat and a beaten copper bracelet straining against one bicep, laughed to show crooked, gray teeth. He elbowed his companion and then made an obscene gesture with his hand. Marta caught his eye and he smiled brazenly.

“Why should I spend my hard-earned coppers on you, you old whore,” he bellowed, “when such fine fresh companionship is available right down here?”

Marta tossed her head and kept on walking, knowing the effect of her disheveled hair as it bounced down her shoulders. Her hair was her best feature, just like her sister’s, a glorious mane of red-gold tresses the color of the setting sun, inherited from their mother. Next year she’d be too old to appear in public without binding it up properly, but for now she intended to make the most of it.

“Don’t be a dolt,” Tanra Jille yelled from her window, her thick lips pursed in annoyance. “That ain’t no village wench, that’s the blinkin’ vidor’s daughter.”

Marta was a good four jackles away now, careful not to walk too fast or too slow, but his throaty reply followed her on the breeze.

“Makes a man’s mouth water, so she does. Rowle’s daughter or no.”

Fifteen or twenty boats sat on the water. Above most of the bigger ones flapped the blue and gold flags of House Danaus. The boats were barrel-shaped constructions of wood, stained with a dark pitch from the fen trees, with massive strips of metal forged around their bellies. Those most recently put to port still had their sails unfurled, a sight that never failed to thrill Marta’s heart, for the sheer beauty of the sails made up for the clumsiness of the hulls. The sails were a riot of color and design as every family tried to outshine the others.

Danaus’ ships had blue sails more vivid than the sky. Yagret’s ships, the next most numerous, sported brilliant orange sails with a single globe of yellow in the center. Billra had only two ships, but Marta wished him more, simply because his green, white and crimson striped sails were so splendid. Even the poorer fishermen were proud of their patched and sun-bleached sails.

Only one small boat, an ancient vessel showing signs of rot around the stern, flew the colors of Marta’s house: a red field with three interlocking gold circles. Rowle had two sailors whom he paid not in coin but in a share of the catch.

Marta sped past her father’s men, glad their heads were bent over a tangled net. She didn’t want to speak to them or she would feel the flush of humiliation creep to the very roots of her hair. They fancied themselves her equal just because her father had no coin with which to pay them. Her father said they were good fellows and honest men. Marta thought him a fool for not seeing the way they snickered behind his back.

“You’re too proud, calla Marta,” her father would only laugh, “to imagine slights were none are intended. Vidor or no, I grew up with Cal and Ryton. I’m lucky to have good fisherman and they are lucky to have a boat.”

She heard Tomack’s voice before she saw him. He was standing on the pier scowling over a cargo bill.

“There are supposed to be five cases of Farcali brandy, not four,” he bellowed. “Next, you’ll be telling me how one of them fell overboard—”

She crept up behind him, standing on tiptoe to clap her hands over his eyes.

He grabbed her hand hard enough to make her cry out as he spun around.

“Oh, it’s you.”  His voice matched his looks, bright and cruel. He released her hand and frowned absently. “Oman’s beard, girl. Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a man down here? I might have drawn my dagger on you.”

“You hurt me,” she pouted, rubbing her bruised wrist. But she could tell he was in no mood for gallant apologies. She changed her tactics quickly, tossing her head and laughing. “As if a thief would walk up to you in broad daylight and cover your eyes with soft, white hands!”

He was not as tall as her father, but few men were. He was sturdy and broad-chested with thickly muscled arms from working on his father’s ships. Danaus was in no danger of spoiling his seven sons. He put them to work at early ages learning the family business. It was only in the last summer that Tomack had distinguished himself enough to be trusted with overseeing the unloading of the cargo rather than heaving it ashore along with the other hands.

But he was handsome, this eldest son of Jennymeede’s wealthiest family, with bright blonde hair cut short in the military fashion, like his father’s, and strong, wide cheekbones, also like his father’s. From his mother came the heavy-lidded blue eyes and the brooding, almost sultry lips that curled ever so slightly under his short, thick beard, turning his smiles into something nearer a sneer.

He smiled then. Marta pressed against him for a fraction of a second, letting her small breasts rest against his arm. He reached for her but she danced out of his grasp.

“Bah,” he grunted, turning his attention back to the cargo bill, “run on home, child, to your mother and send your sister back in your place—”

She kicked him. He bellowed as if in mortal pain.

“Ow! What’d ya go and do that for, silly goose?”

“Because you’re a dolt, that’s why!” She wanted to kick him again, but stomped her foot impotently instead. He’d mentioned Lillitha just to rile her; surely, even Tomack was smart enough to know that he’d never, ever get his hands on her, not if he lived to be two hundred and twelve. No one in the village had even seen Lillitha in four summers, not without a ton of robes and veils and Yannamarie two steps from her side.

It never occurred to Marta that her future plans would have been hopeless had not her sister been consecrated as an Offering to Oman. If Lillitha were still available as the eldest marriageable daughter of House Kirrisian, Marta would be nothing more than the second daughter, hardly worth the trouble of marrying for the meager dowry she would bring, more likely a candidate for the Cadia’s lesser legions.

“I was only teasing,” he muttered, rubbing his shin. His blue eyes glinted maliciously. “Which is no more and no less than what you’re doing now, is it?”

“Do you dare accuse me of teasing you?” Marta put her hands on her hips, swaying invitingly. She arranged her face into an expression of wounded innocence. “If anyone is playing fast and loose with their affections, it’s you, Tomack.”

“Oh, no! You’ll not be turning this around on me! I waited half the night for you by the olive grove and you never came—”

Idiot, she thought contemptuously. Did he really believe she could just slip out of her father’s house in the middle of the night like some village girl?

“Of course, I didn’t come! I won’t have those lips against mine after they’ve touched such riffraff as Annya Syfert’s!” She thrust her lower lip out as if to invite a kiss and regarded him from under her lashes. “Even if they are such sweet lips...”

She nearly laughed at the surprise on his face. So he thought she didn’t know where he’d been spending his nights, did he? Annya was a silly cow, bragging all over the market that she’d snared Danaus’ heir in her web of giggles and airy chatter. As if Danaus would ever allow his eldest son to wed a scatterbrained girl already nineteen, pretty though she might be. A few too many buckets had been dipped in Annya’s well. Perhaps Syfert’s dim wits had been passed down to his son, Annya’s father, for the man should have married off his wayward daughter long before.

“Tis not my fault the wench can’t keep her legs together,” Tomack shrugged. “Least she’s old enough to give a man what he wants.”

“Well,” she said loftily, clasping her hands behind her back in a posture that accentuated her ripening figure, “if you don’t mind wallowing in other men’s leavings...”

His head flew back and laugher rang. “Oh, sweet calla Marta, your flesh may be only fourteen summers, but you’ve a mouth much too old for such a child.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Calling you what? But you are a child, aren’t you? Your mother still allows you out of the house with your hair unbound, as loathe as I am to see such glory hidden under kerchiefs and wimples—”

Her eyes flashed up at him as she leaned close enough to whisper.

“If I am still a child then why can you not keep your hands off me? Can a child kiss you the way I do? Do a child’s lips taste as sweet as mine, dearest Tomack?”

“Oman’s beard, I don’t know what you are!” he grunted, stepping away from her reluctantly. As much as Tomack enjoyed the chase, he was too afraid of his father to play such games where Danaus might come upon him. And certainly not with this one. Danaus had an eye for the ladies himself, but not when it interfered with business. “The devil’s own daughter, perhaps. Will I see you tonight then?”

She confused him and Tomack was not a man who liked to be confused. His mind whispered she was too young even as his flesh was sorely tempted. The child could kiss as if her mouth had been fashioned for just such sport.

“No, my sweet dolt,” she sighed wistfully, “I fear you’ve missed your chance for now. My father’s expected home this evening.”

He had hardly noticed her until last summer when he’d seen her as if for the first time at the Festival of the Tides. Like all the boys, he’d been straining for a look at Lillitha, the consecratia, but she’d been nothing more than downcast eyes behind a veil. The cadia who stood beside her in severe black robes seemed to dare anyone to come within speaking distance of her charge. But then a flash of red behind the consecratia had caught his eye, a cascade of incredible hair and dancing eyes that looked right at him and smiled coyly. When he saw the thin childish body, he dismissed her from his mind, only to spy her again later that day, dancing the Shaka with the other children, as her body moved in ways that made the childhood game seem obscene. Again she smiled at him. It was a woman’s smile, one that hinted at all sorts of possibilities. He couldn’t help but notice the hair, the graceful curve of her throat, the ripeness of those pink lips...

“Have you finished the unloading then, that you’re standing around passing the time of day like some lolling dandy?” Danaus stumped down the pier toward him, and Tomack’s spine stiffened.

Recognition came to his father’s face. The older man bowed stiffly to Marta with the bearing of a man who did not easily or willingly bend a knee to anyone. “My lady, I beg your pardon. I did not realize to whom my son was speaking.”

“No, I should beg your pardon, sir.” Marta inclined her head slightly as her mother had taught her to do in deference to her elders. “Your son was too gallant to inform me that I was keeping him from his duties. But I do find the ships so fascinating! And the cargo! So many things from such faraway places!”

Danaus was not too old to be swayed by Marta’s smile or by her appeal to his enormous pride in his ships. His face relaxed and he offered his arm.

“Allow me to give you a tour, if it pleases you, my lady.” He gestured with a thick, jeweled hand. “The Danaus Iberius, only two summers old and a sounder vessel does not float in these waters...”

Tomack made as if to follow them but Danaus turned and scowled.

“Get back to your work, boy, before the rest of the crates rot in the hold.”

“Yes, father.”

He explained in tedious detail how he’d designed the Iberius himself. Marta nodded pleasantly though she wondered if one could be bored to death. She didn’t care how many iron staves circled the ship’s belly or about the improved mixture of pitch that sealed the hull. She wanted to see the cargo, even now being hoisted from the hold.

Danaus ordered one of the seamen to pry open a crate. Marta gasped as the lid was set aside, revealing rolls of real silk. All the colors of creation were inside, some woven with gold and silver threads, some bordered in brilliant needlework. Danaus took no small satisfaction in her reaction, for he felt a similar thrill every time he surveyed his own merchandise, a lust based more on his ownership of it than its beauty.

“The Iberius docked at Glisenheath in Modan and took on this cloth,” he explained. “The Modanite weavers are second only to Oman’s cadia in the quality of their cloth. Of course, cadian linen and silk is almost impossible to procure at any price, so it’s hardly worth making a comparison...”

He opened a small chest containing ropes of gold and copper, beaten metal bracelets studded with ganymite, chains of silver and medallions of all shapes and sizes inset with glistening stones.

“So beautiful,” Marta breathed, her admiration sincere. “The gold chain is from Polania, isn’t it? And the ganymite, it is mined in the Darban hills, is it not?”

“Very good,” Danaus said, obviously pleased. So Rowle’s youngest daughter had a head on her shoulders for something other than silly girlish games. That was very good indeed. “You know something of the craftsmen in Correlia?”

Marta feigned embarrassment, as any proper girl should for speaking so boldly.

“I’m afraid my father says I soak up such things like a sponge and shouldn’t eavesdrop on the merchants in the market,” she confessed, widening her eyes as she looked up at him quickly, then dropped her gaze to the ground. “But it’s so interesting! Everyone says the finest jewel craft comes from Correlia and the best wines, too. Of course, I’ve never seen such things before up close, only behind the glass cases in the village shops...”

He fell silent and she was afraid she’d gambled and lost with such a bald invitation. So she smiled brightly and began to move away. A gentle hand on her arm pulled her back.

“Tis a pity that a child with your eye for quality should have to gaze at such things behind a jeweler’s glass. Allow me to make a small gift of some token. Is there a piece here that catches your eye?”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t!” She forced her gaze from the open chest that beckoned wickedly, wildly praying that Danaus would not accept her token protest. “I am most indebted for the offer but—”

“I insist. It would be an honor if you’d accept something from this meager assortment.”

Danaus gritted his teeth against belittling his own merchandise, but certain rules of gallantry could not be ignored, even though he knew Marta spoke the truth when she said such treasures were beyond her grasp. The House Kirrisian hadn’t seen such luxuries in two generations. Her grandfather, may Oman have mercy on his ale-sodden heart, had been a fool. A lucky thing for Danaus’ own father.

Though giving away even a copper trinket for nothing went against his grain, he was curious to see just how good an eye the child really had. Granting small favors to the lord of the province’s only marriageable daughter—and the sister of a possible shallana breda—was a good investment in the future.

Marta’s dimples deepened as she bent timidly over the chest. Her eye was drawn immediately to the heaviest gold chain with a nugget of ganymite imbedded in a large medallion, but it would be bad manners to choose something so expensive. Besides, she could never hide something so large and flashy from her mother, as much as the enormous medallion appealed to her.

She knew Danaus was watching her intently. He would think her foolish to chose anything as common as the copper bracelets and armlets. So she pushed some of the chains and ropes aside until she came upon a gold chain similar to the one she really desired, but much daintier. She pulled it from the heap and admired the small oval medallion that dangled from the chain, its stone catching the sunlight.

“A very good eye, indeed,” the merchant sighed appreciatively. So, she was smart enough to pick something of quality, but more importantly, clever enough not to appear greedy. It was a fine piece, easily worth thirty placas. “That clear white stone, they call that the Star of Belah. And the craftsmanship of the chain is quite fine. A good choice.”

“Thank you most sincerely,” Marta said, grinning widely at this stroke of good fortune as she draped the chain around her neck. “I never dreamed of owning anything so splendid.”

Impulsively, she tiptoed to brush his cheek with her lips, then gave him the little-girl smile she usually saved for her father. It was an innocent smile that rendered her blameless for such a brazen show of affection to a man outside her own family.

Danaus was no fool. After he escorted the girl down the gangplank and bid her good-bye, he stood beside his son, watching the subtle swing of her hips as she made her way back up the lane. Before she vanished between the rows of whitewashed buildings, she spun quickly and waved once more.

“Be careful of that one,” Danaus said lowly to his son.

“She’s just a child, father,” Tomack protested, feeling a guilty heat rise to his face. “She doesn’t mean any harm—”

The merchant grunted something between a laugh and a snort of contempt for his son’s feeble defense.

“The hell she doesn’t. That child knows exactly what she’s doing. You be careful with that one, or I’ll skin you alive and throw what’s left of you to the nivey fish.”

“I would never lay a hand on her—”

“You’d better not,” Danaus said as he turned to go. “If I have my way, you’ll be marrying that girl.”