Cover Reveal + Excerpt: THE RAVEN LADY by Sharon Lynn Fisher

I’m so excited to share the GORGEOUS cover of Sharon Lynn Fisher’s second book in her Faery Rehistory series, The Raven Lady, coming in October from Blackstone Publishing! Even if you haven’t read The Absinthe Earl, The Raven Lady can be read as a stand alone. It focuses on a couple of secondary characters from the first book, and is a great jumping off point for new readers. Sharon has also been kind enough to send over an excerpt from the book, so keep reading after the cover reveal below! And now for the reveal…

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In the aftermath of Ireland’s battle with her ancient enemies, Queen Isolde orders her cousin, smuggler Duncan O’Malley, to assume the throne of fairy as King Finvara. He’s a fish out of water when it comes to nurturing the alliance between Ireland’s mortal and fairy peoples. And the queen wants him to wed the daughter of Ireland’s enemy, the king of Icelandic shadow elves, to help keep the peace. But the Irish think of the elves as goblins, and Finvara refuses.

Elven princess Koli, affronted by the king’s rejection—along with his decision to bring her to court as little more than a captive—vows vengeance. Shortly after her arrival, she uncovers a plot that would bring swift satisfaction. A dark and powerful fairy lord, Far Dorocha, wants to take Finvara’s cro’n and lead both the fairy and elven people to war against the Irish. And he wants Koli to help him.

It’s the perfect setup for revenge, but Koli soon discovers that Finvara’s not the haughty lord she believed him to be. And as she navigates treacherous waters inside the court, she gets glimpses of the magic and passion that have been slumbering inside her. She must choose a side in the new battle for Ireland—will it be the fearsome father she has served for nearly a century, or the fairy king who has helped awaken her to herself?

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EXCERPT

Connacht, Ireland—1883

KOLI

Winter is no friendly season for voyaging across an ocean to offer yourself as a hostage to a sworn enemy.

I was resigned to it. But how tempting it was to read ill omens into gale and tempest—might be that was inevitable. As a child of the Elf King, you could rightly say that I was an ill omen incarnate.

Standing on the deck of the Danish mail steamer in the pelting rain, I could not beat back my resentment. I had been offered as consort to King Finvara, the lord of the Irish fairies. Our union was meant to reinforce a peace accord signed after the Battle of Ben Bulben, where my people, the Icelandic shadow elves, had fought alongside Fomorians, the ancient enemies of Ireland. Such unions were a longstanding tradition for good reason—they often worked. Yet in spite of tradition, even in spite of the wishes of his powerful cousin, Queen Isolde of Ireland, the haughty Finvara would not stoop to a union with a “goblin”—a slur his people often used against mine. And my mighty race—defeated decisively in the bloody battle for possession of Ireland—had no recourse but to agree to our enemy’s revised terms.

I wish not to be misunderstood. I had no desire to wed the fairy king. But I was proud of my lineage. I could have chosen any elven lord—any Fomorian prince, even—and would have made him a formidable ally, a curse upon his enemies. In obedience to my father, I had accepted my exile to the lower isle, and yet Finvara offered only scorn in return.

Now I would enter the stronghold of our enemy, offering myself as a political prisoner. I would be despised for the dark magic in my blood, as well as my fierce appearance. My hair was black as a cloudless night, and even the light of the Irish summer sun would raise no gleam upon it. The iris of my eye was a shade of gray so near to black that it unsettled mortals. Across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose had been stamped the small, star-shaped marks of the highland elves, so ancient they remembered an Iceland with trees.

If my mixed elven-mortal ancestry had taught me anything, it was how to live among those who would only ever see my otherness.

On the morrow, I would begin my life as a hostage among the soft and bloodless descendants of the Tuatha De Danaan. I would not run a household or hold court. Nor would I produce heirs for a noble husband. But I would serve my father and lord as a spy in the house of his enemy. For my father and his Fomorian allies would never accept defeat. They would bide their time and remain bound by the accord with the Irish for only as long as they must. As their appointed agent, I would gather the information they needed to mount a new offensive.

As prisoner rather than mistress of Knock Ma, this charge would not be easily carried out. But neither would I be required to live a lie, nor bear the children of a man I could never love.

“We approach Galway Bay.” Ulf, a captain in my father’s army who’d served many years as my bodyguard, joined me on the foredeck. Menacing as he was—large and wolfish, with flesh both scarred and inked, and forever scowling—he was visible to no one onboard but myself. All the other passengers were mortal, and the elves were Hidden Folk. They had lived among Icelanders for many centuries—for the most part, without ever being seen by them. It was a subtle magic, requiring blending in with the surroundings. Yet, there were still seers who could perceive Hidden Folk.

I had a foot in both worlds, and my elven kin’s ability to hide in plain sight was one I did not share, though I could melt into a shadow easily enough. Neither was I immortal, though time had not marked me—despite the fact I had outlived my mother, so far, by nearly sixty years.

An angry wind whipped the ends of my hair against my face, stinging my skin. Ice needles rained onto the deck and collected in my traveling cloak. As Ulf studied the waves, my gaze came to rest on the upside-down ash tree branded into his neck—the mark of the Elf King, which both symbolized and mocked our ancestors, the ancient gods of the Northmen. It was a mark we shared, though mine had been inked between my shoulder blades when I came of age, rather than burned into the flesh. The mark served as a reminder that however far I might venture from Skaddafjall, my father’s stronghold on Vestrahorn Mountain, I was still his to command. Trusting me with such an important task had demonstrated his faith in me—though as an unmarried daughter, I was in a unique position to serve. And I was eager to prove myself.

My gaze followed Ulf’s, settling on the Irish ironclads guarding the mouth of the port. Only three months ago these ships had destroyed the entire Fomorian fleet. It had happened in a harbor just north of here, turning the tide of the battle for Ireland. Early in the fight, the Irish goddess of war—for reasons neither mortal nor immortal would likely ever understand—had becalmed the ironclads, snuffed their steam engines, and bewitched their powder, rendering their cannons useless and forcing them onto even footing with the Fomorian longships. But King Finvara himself had raised a wind that freed the ironclads. Vain and vile though he might be, I must never let myself think of him as weak.

The fairy king, our returning warriors had told us, was mortal, or at least had once been. He was the youngest son of an Irish earl whose immortal ancestor—the King Finvara of ancient days—had taken possession of his body and mind before the battle of Ben Bulben. In fact, a number of the Irish nobles—including Queen Isolde herself—had immortal ancestors who had worked through them to assist the allied armies of Faery and Ireland.

What must it be like, I wondered, to commune with the spirits of ancient heroes within your own head? Navigating the marshland of my complicated ancestry had been challenging enough.

The steamer drew alongside Claddagh quay, and I studied the mist-shrouded waterfront, just stirring to life in the gloomy morning light. The rain had now lightened to a drizzle, and I prepared to disembark with the other passengers, but without my escort. Under the terms of the agreement, I could bring no attendant of my own kind.

I bid farewell to Ulf, who had been my constant companion since the death of my mother. As he conveyed my father’s final command, the mark between my shoulder blades tingled.

“Remember where you come from.”

In the court of the fairy king, I would hardly be allowed to forget.

Making my way along the quay, I watched as my fellow passengers were greeted by waiting friends. It was a snug and orderly harbor, filled with fishing boats. When I reached the end of the walkway—beyond which was the village with its neat, white cottages—I looked for a carriage from the fairy king’s court. I watched the passengers proceed into the village, friends carrying their bags or straining under the weight of their trunks. I watched as some of them climbed into carriages, while others walked along the waterfront. I watched the steamer’s crew transfer bags of mail to waiting carriers.

While I had expected no fanfare, neither had I expected to be kept waiting for longer than the steamer’s paper cargo. I glanced at the ship, which was already drawing away from the port. My trunks rested alone on the stones of the quay.

As the last straggling passengers moved past me, they failed to hide their curious, pitying glances, and I grew hot with anger under the confining layers of clothing that had been forced on me before I left Iceland. The fact that Irish women would tolerate such purposeless torture was a sure sign I would never fit in among them. No one could bowhunt in such clothing, or even breathe without making noise. I swatted at the mourning veil that masked my alien features—the star markings, and the curved and pointing tips of my ears. Shoving the dark net back over the top of my hat, I glanced up and down the waterfront.

Sighing heavily, I tipped back my head, welcoming the cold winter rain on my fevered cheeks.

He will answer, I vowed. I was nearly a hundred years old and had spent many of my days staring out at the ever-changing Atlantic, wandering across the lava fields and black-sand strand, watching the aurora borealis painting itself upon Iceland’s sky. I knew how to bide my time.

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RWA RITA-nominated author SHARON LYNN FISHER writes smart, twisty, passionate tales–mash-ups of science fiction, fantasy, and slow-burn romance set in lush and atmospheric worlds. She lives where it rains nine months of the year and is mom to two lovely tweens, two huge dogs, two ridiculous goats, an orange cat and orange mare, and a fluctuating number of poultry.

Sharon has published sci-fi romance with Tor Books and adult fairy tales with Penguin Random House. Her fantasy historical romance trilogy The Faery Rehistory is being released by Blackstone Publishing.

Find newsletter and book information here: www.sharonlynnfisher.com.

“…Fisher’s writing shines.” –Kirkus

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