The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)(92)

The reaction to the Kingfountain series has been such an honor and very humbling. Thank you for being part of my journey as a writer. I have so many stories still left to tell. Every time I get a book idea, I send myself an e-mail with the details to store it in a folder to look at later.

By the time you get this Author’s Note, I’ll have already decided what I’m doing next and will likely have written it and been done. But at this moment, the future is a blank page.

It’s like that for all of us. What we do tomorrow starts with a thought. Truly the best way to predict your future is to create it. Wise words from Alan Kay at Xerox PARC.

Until we meet again.

P.S. If you are still hungering for more in the world of Kingfountain, I have written another stand-alone novel, which tells the origin story of Trynne’s namesake, Ankarette Tryneowy. Watch my website for the announcement of The Poisoner’s Enemy in early 2018!





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It takes a special kind of person to endure suffering cheerfully. As always, my sister Emily endures the pangs of suffering week by week to read my books as I write them. My daughter Isabelle joined in this time and has been a source of encouragement and support and a tireless advocate for Fallon. I also let one of my good friends and early readers, Robin, give it a try after she asked to read weekly, but eventually the strain proved too much and she begged me to stop sending her chapters until it was done.

I’d also like to thank my awesome editorial team for their continual support and suggestions. Jason Kirk: editor, shark lover, and partner par excellence, Angela “Eagle Eyes” Polidoro, and Wanda Zimba. Their capacious memories often save me from myself. Thanks also to my wonderful early readers who see these books before you all do and are still my friends after cliffhanger endings: Robin, Shannon, Karen, Travis, and Sunil.





AN EXCERPT FROM JEFF WHEELER’S

THE WRETCHED OF MUIRWOOD

There is a difference between a wretched and an orphan. An orphan is literally a child whose parents are dead. It is a pitiable state, to be sure, but the child still knows, by means of relations or guardians, who their parents were and what Gifts they have inherited. The necessary rites can or already have been performed for them, binding them through the Medium to their ancestral

forebears

and

the

consequences

appertaining to them.

A wretched is like an orphan. They have no family, no relations, no one willing to own them or care for them. Their parents may be alive or dead. They are often born in secret, with no one aware of their coming into this second life, except for the unlucky souls who find them abandoned on Abbey steps in the dark of night. After laboring and searching the most ancient references, I have thus concluded that the original meaning of the word is this—a wretched is someone deserving pity. And by this definition, I say that those children found in this state are appropriately named.

—Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey CHAPTER ONE

Cemetery Rings

Lia lived in the Aldermaston’s kitchen at Muirwood Abbey. More than anything else in the world, she craved learning how to read. But she had no family to afford such a privilege, no one willing to teach her the secrets, and no hope of it ever happening because she was a wretched.

Nine years before, someone had abandoned her at the Abbey gate and that should have put an end to her ambitions. Only it did not. One cannot live in a sweet-scented kitchen without hungering after pumpkin loaves, spicy apple soup, and tarts with glaze. And one could not live at Muirwood Abbey without longing to learn the wisest of crafts—reading and engraving.

Thunder boomed above Muirwood Abbey, and water drenched the already muddy grounds. Lia’s companion, Sowe, slept next to her in the loft, but the thunder and the sharp stabs of lightning did not wake her, nor did the voices murmuring from the kitchen below as the Aldermaston spoke to Pasqua. It was difficult waking Sowe under any circumstances, for she dearly loved her sleep.

Running drips dampened their blankets and plopped in pots on the kitchen tiles below. Rain had its own way of bringing out smells— in wet clothes, wet cheeses, and wet sackcloth. Even the wooden planks and the eaves had a damp, musty smell.

The Aldermaston’s gray cassock and over-robe were soaked and dripping, his thick, dark eyebrows knotted with worry and impatience. Lia watched him secretly from the shadows of the loft.

“Let me pour you some cider,” Pasqua said to him as she fidgeted among the pots, sieves, and ladles. “A fresh batch was pressed and boiled less than a fortnight ago. It will refresh you. Now where did that chatteling put the mugs? Here we are. Well now, it seems someone has drunk from it again. I mark these things, you know. It was probably Lia. She is always snitching.”

“Your gift of observation is keen,” said the Aldermaston, who seemed hurried to speak. “I am not at all thirsty. If you . . .”

“It is no trouble at all. In truth, it is good for your humors. Now why did they stack those eggs that way? I ought to crack one over the both of their heads, I should. But that would be wasteful.”

“Please, Pasqua, some bread. If you could rouse the girls and start the bread now. Stoke the fires. You may be baking all night.”

“Are we expecting guests, Aldermaston? In this storm? I doubt if a skilled horseman could ford the moors now, even with the bridges.

I have seen many storms blow in like this. Hang and cure me if any guests should brave the storm tonight.”