Wednesday, July 31, 2013

WATERSPELL Wins First Place—Texas Association of Authors 2013

Waterspell: A Fantasy Trilogy

by Deborah J. Lightfoot
2013 TAA Trilogy Book Award








Waterspell Book 3: The Wisewoman by Deborah J. Lightfoot 

WATERSPELL Book 3: The Wisewoman
Plague and pestilence have come to Ladrehdin. With their worst fears realized, Carin and Verek set out to put right everything that has gone so badly wrong. On the final leg of their quest, they retrace Carin's journey north from the plains—accompanied this time by the village wisewoman, Megella. Along the way, Meg dredges up—from an increasingly unreliable memory—the oldest of the "old stories," revealing how the actions of the Ancients continue to menace every life on the Wizards' World, and beyond.



WATERSPELL Book 2: The Wysard by Deborah J. LightfootWATERSPELL Book 2: The Wysard
After blundering into the last stronghold of magic, Carin discovers that she is right to fear the wizard Verek. He is using her to seal the ruptures in the void, and she may be nothing more to him than an expendable weapon. What will he do with her—or to her—when his world is again secure? Or has he erred in believing that the last bridge has been broken? The quest may not, in fact, be over … and Lord Verek may find himself not quite as willing to dispose of his fiery water-sylph, Carin, as he once believed himself to be.





The WarlockWATERSPELL Book 1: The Warlock
Drawn into the schemes of an angry wizard, Carin glimpses the place she once called home. It lies upon a shore that seems unreachable. To learn where she belongs and how to get there, the teenage traveler must decipher the words of an alien book, follow the clues in a bewitched poem, conjure a dragon from a pool of magic—and tread carefully around a seductive but volatile, emotionally scarred sorcerer who can’t seem to decide whether to love her or kill her.






Book 1 - Chapter 1
Carin felt the hoofbeats before she heard them—a barely noticeable tremor underfoot, hardly enough to suggest the approach of a rider but enough to stop her mid-stride.

She turned and studied the leafless trees. Nothing moved. No breeze rattled the branches, no acorn fell to earth, no dead limb snapped. Nothing relieved the woodland’s emptiness.

But she was no longer alone under these oaks. A season on her own had taught her what solitude felt like, and it didn’t feel like this.

Every impulse that had brought her to this place screamed at her to get out of sight. Don’t get caught—not now, after all this time and all that way, those long miles that stretched behind. And not here in this high, pathless woodland that had seemed to hold no life.

The papery dry leaves under her boots barely rustled as Carin darted into a thicket. “Unh!” she gasped at the cold and darkness enveloping her. The pale autumn sun didn’t penetrate here. To a passing rider, she would surely be invisible.

She grew still and listened. But the woods stayed silent, with a hush like the calm while the storm-clouds build.

Carin tensed. A shiver ran through her.

There—

She caught them again, tremors in the earth: hoofbeats, now unmistakable. As she hid in the shadows, her breath suspended, she followed their rhythm, the cadence they struck at the threshold of hearing.

Nearer the hoofbeats came—ever nearer and more distinct. They broke to a gallop.

With a sudden sharp burst of noise, a great snapping and splintering of brittle limbs and underbrush, the horse came crashing into the thicket.

“Stop!” Carin shouted. She had no time to run. She couldn’t even straighten from her crouch before she was bowled over onto her back. Instinctively she put up a foot, struggling to boot the animal away. “Get off!” she yelled. “Get off me.” She aimed a kick at the animal’s foreleg but the horse sidestepped and she hit nothing.

A blur dropped from the horse’s back. Steel flashed. And Carin felt the point of a sword touch the hollow of her throat.

“Oh sweet Drrr—” She almost rolled out an oath. But it died on her tongue.

The swordsman was glaring down at her with the angriest, most frightening eyes she had ever glimpsed in a human face. They were as black as volcanic glass, but they burned like fiends’-fire. Their unnatural luster hinted of … insanity? Demonic possession? She couldn’t say what she saw in their depths, but they took her breath away.

The man leaned in slightly. His weapon nicked the skin of her throat.

“No!” Carin yelled. “Don’t.”

He pulled up, just a fraction. His eyes scorched her. And when he spoke, he sounded as furious as he looked.

“Can you show cause why I should not remove your head at once?” he snapped. “The boundaries of my land are clearly marked. Those who would dare to enter here know the offense they commit, and the penalty for it. Do you have a defense to offer? Or shall I execute you now and save you the trouble of arguing your case?”

“Wait! Let me explain!” Carin demanded, blustering a little, attempting a show of outraged innocence. It fizzled. Her voice quivered and muffed the effect.

The swordsman pulled back another fraction—not enough to let her up. But he allowed enough space, between his sword and her skin, that Carin could heave a breath without risking major blood loss.

He gave her a curt nod. “Whatever you have to say,” he growled, “say it quickly.”

Why’d I tell him I’d explain? she thought, aghast at herself. How do I explain what I don’t understand?

“I’m … not from around here,” Carin ventured, feeling her way with him. “I came up from the south—from the plains. And I’m only passing through. I’m not a poacher, I swear.” She wiped her sweating palms on her leggings and tried to sound convincing. “I haven’t even seen a game trail to follow. Not that I would—follow it, I mean. I didn’t come up here to hunt.”

She resisted the impulse to touch the sling that she wore concealed under her grubby shirt. With the weapon, she had killed enough prairie hens and rabbits to stay just shy of starvation. That was down on the plains, though. These high woods harbored no sign of game—no tracks, no droppings, no fresh scratches on a tree trunk.

The swordsman didn’t budge. “Poachers do not concern me,” he snapped. “I accuse you of trespassing. And your presence here, on my land, is all the proof I require. Your guilt is clear.”

He leaned in again, poised to stab the blade through her throat.

“Stop!” Carin shouted. She raised both hands, palms open. “I haven’t done anything. I just climbed up a hill.” Her hands shook uncontrollably, which made her mad. She clenched her fists and demanded: “How was I supposed to know this was private property? There’s no fence on that hillside where the grass ends and these trees start.”

The man’s eyes flickered. The sword in his hand wavered, very slightly, but enough to make Carin press on, talking fast.

“I swear I wouldn’t be here if I’d seen anything that said ‘Keep out.’ But the way I came, there’s nothing. Maybe the sign’s down. Or,” she hazarded a guess, “somebody stole it.” She gulped a breath and added, “Let me up and I’ll leave—right now. Just let me go and I’ll clear out of here.”

The swordsman was staring intently at her. Is he a bit thrown by my accent? Carin wondered. People often are.

She tried to look the man in the eye. But she caught a gleam so strange, like a flame deep in the darkness of his eyes, that she recoiled. Carin found herself studying his throat instead, where a burnished badge fastened his cloak of black wool. One half of the badge was a crescent moon worked in silver. The horns of the crescent locked around the red-enameled, golden-rayed sun on the design’s other half.

“Cock and bull,” the swordsman snapped, whipping Carin’s gaze back to his. He gave her a look that, like a cautery knife, burned as it cut. She flinched, but she didn’t cry out—

—Not until he flicked the point of his sword up to her eyes. The blade was so close, she couldn’t focus on it. She couldn’t see much of anything, nor hear much over the pounding of her heart in her ears. But still she caught every word the man said next.

“I had planned to show mercy and kill you quickly,” he growled. “But you deserve a slow and painful death for your poor attempts at lying. It is not possible for any mortal to ‘steal’ the warnings that protect these woods from interlopers. Nor is it conceivable that any living thing could fail to notice those warnings. Your own words condemn you.”

“I can prove it!” Carin yelled. By now she was breathing so hard and so fast, she could barely talk. “I’ll take you—show you. There’s nothing. You’ll see.”

The blade was too close. She couldn’t look. Her eyelids clenched shut in a spasm of terror. Her body went rigid and her senses threatened to desert. For a moment, there was nothing: no brambly undergrowth pricking her skin. No spicy scent from the autumn woods’ decay. No sound of her own ragged breathing.

(Continue reading at Goodreads.)

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Summer/Fall 2013 WATERSPELL Blog Tour

Waterspell Blog Tour! 20 stops in four weeks.  
August 18 - September 15

Deborah J. Lightfoot, author of WATERSPELL

Please join us for reviews of the award-winning WATERSPELL fantasy trilogy plus interviews with the author. 

Organized by Reading Addiction Virtual Book Tours.
 

"I was hooked instantly when I started reading [WATERSPELL Book 1] The Warlock. I willingly gave up sleep and honestly could not wait to get up to read more of this book. I'm reading the whole series, and I absolutely am loving it."
Sarah (Amazon Verified Purchase)

"Grabbed my attention and kept it. It’s a truly unique book. This is a series not to miss."
Tahlia Newland, Awesome Indies

"… a fabulous trilogy that should be read by every fantasy reader who would like something a little different. The author cleverly creates tension without resorting to the battles, complex political intrigue and predictable structure favoured by many in the traditional fantasy genre. I give it 5 stars without hesitation."
Tahlia Newland, Awesome Indies

"The writing is absolutely fantastic with so much detail and description. The imagery was so vivid that I felt like I could see this mystical world forming around me."
—Laura Hartley, "What's Hot?"

"It's a great medieval tale, and would be equally as interesting for men as women. (It's no wispy piece of fluff fiction!) … plenty of mystery and twists and turns. "
—Ebook Apothecary

"I adore the world building of the novel. It just felt like a thin mist crawling in … rearranging the landscape. Everything was so detailed and full of imagery."
Fire Star Books

"Waterspell is a really good book. It flows so smoothly that once I started reading, I didn't want to stop. … Carin is never portrayed as a victim even when she is bruised, poisoned, punched, imprisoned and terrified. Instead she is a resilient survivor throughout the entire book."
Goodreads Review

"Great characters." Lord Verek is "mesmerizing! I mean dark, dangerous, slightly rude, yet still somehow gentle and tortured by his tragic past. What's there not to love?"
Hazel the Witch

"Wonderfully written. I was hooked right away and loved that I couldn't predict what was to come next. 5 out of 5 stars! Highly recommend to young adults and older."
Memories Overtaking Me

"I don't see how this could avoid being a hit—I couldn't put it down. Good, complex story; well crafted, well written."
S. Caldwell

"This is one of the best books I've ever read. Everything about it is gorgeous. Every word is a work of art!"
Amazon Review

"A good mix of magic, mystery and a bit of romance."
Becky's Barmy Book Blog

"A delightful read … tight writing, fast-moving narrative and intriguing characters."
Goodreads Review

"The story just keeps getting bigger and bigger."
Book Briefs

Thursday, July 11, 2013

On Books: My Favorite Memes 1

On my Facebook timeline, my favorite memes become difficult or impossible to find, sometimes in a matter of hours. (Those pesky algorithms.) Blogging them seems to be the best way to preserve them. Here is the first of what I expect will be many collections of book- and writing-related images.


 




Monday, July 8, 2013

Creative Widowhood 4: When Things Break




My husband’s broken body. My broken heart. My shattered world.

            When Gene died, it seemed that everything in the universe had broken or was about to break. I walked on eggshells, expecting the ground to shatter beneath my feet and the sky to finish falling. I drove gingerly to keep the car from flying to pieces. At the supermarket, I handled my shopping cart as if it were made of glass.

            I had good reason: things around me broke with remarkable frequency in the first weeks and months after my husband’s death. Right away, his theretofore reliable CTS would not start. With almost his dying breath, Gene had told me to renew the AAA membership. Prescient? Having renewed, I called for a tow. The repair bill came to $800.

            Almost simultaneously, my computer would not boot. I spent $100 on parts trying to fix it myself. Failing in that, I paid another $100 to have the hard drive wiped and the operating system reinstalled.

            Then the phone went dead. Getting a technician to repair it cost me nothing, but almost a week passed before the landline was back in service.

            Soon after that, the garage-door opener failed. Gene had prepared me to address this problem on my own. Years ago, the other one had quit in the same way, and I remembered how he had gone about repairing it. He’d bought a replacement gear from the Sears parts house, and all the related paperwork was carefully tucked inside the owner’s manual, giving me full details of which part to buy and how to replace it. The entire operation went so smoothly, I felt Gene there in the garage with me, guiding my hands on the nut driver and socket wrench.

            Other things have broken in the year since his death, but nothing so far has been unfixable. When the lawnmower wouldn’t start, my next-door neighbor gave the carburetor a sharp tap with the handle of a screwdriver and got it going again. When a tire developed a slow leak, I went to the local Discount Tire store and found they had Gene in their computer. Unbeknownst to me, he’d bought many tires there. They fixed my flat for free.

            His 1987 Toyota Supra Turbo project car was in need of major repairs, including a blown head gasket. That got fixed too, as a direct consequence of him advising me to renew the AAA. My membership includes a magazine, “Texas Journey.” In the first issue after Gene’s death was an ad for a local repair shop where I could get the oil changed in his CTS. (Gene had always done that himself.) Talking cars with the guys there, I mentioned Gene’s Supra. Soon, one of the mechanics brought a Toyota specialist to see the car. He loved it, bought it, repaired it, and is restoring it to a like-new standard that even my perfectionist husband must admire.

            I have no doubt that Gene’s intervention put his beloved Supra into the hands of exactly the right new owner. He guided those events toward the outcome he wanted.


July 8, One Year Later …

            I am no longer walking on eggshells. I am not driving gingerly. Two weeks ago I got a speeding ticket—my first in years. I wear it as a badge of honor.

            Inevitably, more things will break. Texas summers murder air conditioners; I keep an ear tuned to detect any change in the busy humming of my A/C. I check the oil frequently in the car and lawnmower and inflate the tires, doing what I can to forestall the next round of repairs. But now when things break, I don’t feel as though the world is shattering. Things can be fixed.

            Only my husband’s death is irreparable. My life continues, but can never be the same.

“Nature repairs her ravages, but not all. The uptorn trees are not rooted again; the parted hills are left scarred; if there is a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the hills underneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no thorough repair.” —George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss (1860)

          
Creative Widowhood

I believe this post will conclude my “Creative Widowhood” series of personal essays.

  • The first one, Climbing Out of the Pit, has done good. I’ve heard from other widows who found that it helped them process their feelings.
  • The second one, Adapting, I view as personally important in recording an episode that has special significance for me.
  • The third one, Looking for Meaning, is a bit whiny, but I allow myself the occasional bout of self-pity.
  • This fourth one, When Things Break, represents a milestone in my life.

             After this, I plan to return to book-related subjects. It’s time I scheduled another blog tour. My first tour ended about two weeks before my husband’s sudden and unexpected death. I know he would want me to go on getting the word out about my WATERSPELL trilogy. Gene knew better than anyone the years of effort and craft I put into producing the best writing of which I am capable. The books are getting highly favorable reviews, and many more fantasy fans will enjoy and value them if I can help readers to discover them.