“Have you no faith in your Creator, Archangel?”
Michael’s wings flared again, his gaze locked on the sword in the old man’s hands.
“You ask me to leave my creation in your hands, but to keep it you would destroy my greatest achievements. The world will not survive without my daughter, Michael, and I dare not leave her life in your power any longer. The sword will remain with me, and when the child is born, you and your brother will bring the babe here. This is my command.”
“The other gods will never allow it.”
“Won’t they?” The old man smiled, ancient eyes twinkling. “When my first born has returned to me, at last, to guide them?”
Michael hissed and turned away, one stroke of his broad wings lifting him into the air. “So be it.”
The old man nodded and closed his eyes, his fingers still tracing the lines of the sword. So well made. He had not the strength for it now. He would never have the strength for such a making again. But all was not lost. Not as long as Eve lived and loved. Not as long as Adam loved her. He sighed.
Today, he had earned his rest.
Acknowledgments
This book would not have been written if it had not been for my husband, of course, who told me over and over again that staying home and writing was a completely legitimate contribution to our household. Thank you, forever, for giving me the freedom to chase after my dreams and supporting me while I learned how to fly with them.
But it also would not have been written without my Alpha Reader, Dan, who read each chapter as I wrote it and was always eager for the next one and ready to talk to me about whatever plot-problem was festering in the back of my mind, always with the proper level of enthusiasm. I left him hanging more than once for an unforgivable amount of time, but he never lost faith.
After Dan, the book went to my even more patient betas, who read and reread and read again tirelessly, fell in love with my characters, and showed me how to make my book even stronger by helping me take it apart. In particular, Diana Paz (whose book,
And I have to thank my mother, who must have read the first five chapters of this book a dozen times before I finally presented her with an actual novel, and the rest of the family, most especially my aunts and uncles, who read for me, book after book, and get more upset than I do when I get rejections. You have given me every validation and support during this journey, without which, I would never have come this far. Thank you.
Not to be forgotten either, are Bjarni Bjarnason and his father who took the time to correct my Icelandic and Old Norse. Any errors within that language are born of my own stubbornness and my inability to focus long enough to learn it properly. Slowly but surely! Thank you for your patience!
Finally, a huge thanks to Eileen and Elizabeth at World Weaver Press for giving Adam, Eve, and Thor a place on their shelves and the chance to be on yours.
Excerpt from
“One of the most beautifully written novels I have ever read. Suspenseful, entrapping, and simply … well, let’s just say that
Like all Taakwa, Malia fears the fierce winged creatures known as Jeguduns who live in the cliffs surrounding her valley. When the river dries up and Malia is forced to scavenge farther from the village than normal, she discovers a Jegudun, injured and in need of help.
Malia’s existence—her status as clan mother in training, her marriage, her very life in the village—is threatened by her choice to befriend the Jegudun. But she’s the only Taakwa who knows the truth: that the threat to her people is much bigger and much more malicious than the Jeguduns who’ve lived alongside them for decades. Lurking on the edge of the valley is an Outsider army seeking to plunder and destroy the Taakwa , and it’s only a matter of time before the Outsiders find a way through the magic that protects the valley—a magic that can only be created by Taakwa and Jeguduns working together.
“Fast-paced, high-stakes drama in a fresh fantasy world. Rebecca Roland is a newcomer to watch!” — James Maxey, author of
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Malia ran her hands over the finished bowl, made in a deer’s effigy. It had taken her three tries to get the shape and balance right, to find the perfect cinnamon shade for the deer’s coat, to make the eyes sparkle with a hint of life. In the end, she’d used some of her own blood mixed with the paint. It was the finest piece she’d ever made, and loathe as she was to give it away, Enuwal deserved it. He had saved her life the summer before.
A hand fell on her shoulder. Malia juggled the bowl for an instant, then set it carefully on the packed dirt floor. Her heart thrummed in her throat.
“I called your name three times,” her husband Dalibor said. He sat beside her, a frown deepening the lines around his mouth and eyes. A few strands of dark hair escaped the long braid hanging down his back. Dirt smudged his deerskin breeches and tunic.
Malia wiped her hands on her plain cloth skirt, the one she always wore when working pottery, then moved to the hearth where a large kettle bubbled with stew. She stirred the pot, releasing the aroma of onions, husk tomatoes, beans, and the turkey Dalibor had caught that morning. It gave her time to think about what to say. Dalibor was in a bad mood again, a common occurrence ever since she’d mentioned she would be joining her mother for the trip to Enuwal’s village. This was a new facet to her husband, and she didn’t quite know what to do about it.
“You know my head is in the clouds half the time,” she said.
“Your head should be focused on lineages so you can take your mother’s place as clan mother.”
Malia clanged the wooden spoon against the pot harder than she’d intended. “We spent the better part of the day reviewing.” Wanting to change the subject, she said, “Any news from upriver?” The Big River had dropped over the past few days, and until the monsoons began, they had to rely on it for their crops.
“A couple of scouts finally came in. There aren’t any blockades upriver. Tuvin’s Falls have dwindled, so the problem must be outside the valley.”
Malia sat beside Dalibor. “Jeguduns?” The fierce winged creatures guarded the cliffs that lined the valley where Malia’s people, the Taakwa, lived. Her hand fiddled with the Jegudun feather hanging from a leather strap around her neck. It was well worn, handed down from one clan mother in training to the next. Her mother wore a necklace filled with feathers as befit a clan mother. They had all come from the same sable colored creature and had once shone like polished wood. Seasons upon seasons of use had dulled them.
“They’ve been more active than usual, although they haven’t threatened any villages.”
The Jeguduns ignored the Taakwa save when anybody tried to leave the valley. Then the creatures would attack and drive them back. They had lived like this for generations, ever since the war when the Jeguduns had slaughtered so many Taakwa.
Heaviness came over Malia as if her innards had all turned to stone. “Do you think the Jeguduns mean to attack us? Are they preparing for another war?”
“That is what some fear.”
