Fate Forgotten (51 page)

First of all, thank you to everyone who read and loved
Forged by Fate
! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all the reviews and support, and I hope very much that you’ll love
Fate Forgotten
just as much. Without you, it wouldn’t have been possible for this series to reach as far as it has!

Second, I must thank Stephanie Sauvinet for her help with my French. Any errors in this novel or
Tempting Fate
, are mine—and all the credit for the stuff that’s correctly translated goes to her, because I’m pretty hopeless.

For help with the Latin in these books, I have to thank Sarah Walker, who has been my Latin mentor since our days together at the University of North Dakota. She’s probably forgotten more Latin than I ever knew. (And what I did manage to learn is all to her credit as well.)

Thanks also to Diana Paz, who I hope will see the changes I’ve made to her favorite character and not hate me for it—and whose advice regarding
every
character I value deeply; and Zachary Tringali, who always says yes when I ask him, “can you just read this one scene for me and let me know if you think it is terrible?” You guys are the best Alphas and Betas and just plain friends I could ask for as a writer, and I’m glad we’re traveling together on this road.

Thanks to Emily Hogarth, who sent me my first piece of fanmail for
Forged by Fate
, which TOTALLY made my month, and thank you to Mia-and-the-Zombies for providing me with the good humor to keep going even when writing seemed like the most frustrating endeavor in the universe. Dan Denton receives my eternal thanks for every single one of these Fate of the Gods books, and an extra heap on top of that for being my number one fan before I even knew what I was doing with these manuscripts.

Some other writers I’d like to thank, who have been totally supportive at every turn: Stephanie Thornton, Gary Corby, Vicky Alvear Shecter, Saranna DeWylde, Wendy Sparrow, Valerie Valdes, Cait Greer, Trisha Leigh, LT Host, ST Bende, and Nazarea Andrews—I am wishing you all so much success of your own, and rooting for all of you and your books!

Of course, no acknowledgment section would be complete without a huge, HUGE thank you to my family—from El Husband to my mother, my siblings to my aunts and uncles, and even my cousins. I feel like becoming an author has been an incredible journey, transforming me from child to adult, and you guys have been fantastic companions to have along the way. Thank you, thank you, thank you, and I hope you won’t get tired of reading early drafts for me any time soon, because I’m not giving this dream up! Special thanks to: Adam (forever), and the Cousintry, particularly Emi, Mattias, and Con. Your emotional support has been completely invaluable to me.

Finally, thanks to Eileen at WWP for her continuing enthusiasm and especially for helping me to make these books even better than they were when she first read them.

About the Author

Amalia Dillin began as a biology major at the University of North Dakota before taking Latin and falling in love with old heroes and older gods. After that, she couldn’t stop writing about them, with the occasional break for more contemporary subjects. She lives in upstate New York with her husband, and dreams of the day when she will own goats—to pull her chariot through the sky, of course.

You can find her online at amaliadillin.com

or follow her on Twitter @AmaliaTd.

SHARDS OF HISTORY
by Rebecca Roland

Only she knows the truth that can save her people.

“Shards of History is a passionate tale that will engage both young adults and more weathered fantasy readers.”

—NewMyths.com

“Fast-paced, high-stakes drama in a fresh fantasy world. Rebecca Roland is a newcomer to watch!”

—James Maxey, author of the
Dragon Age
trilogy and
Greatshadow: The Dragon Apocalypse
.

“One of the most beautifully written novels I have ever read. Suspenseful, entrapping, and simply… well, let’s just say that
Shards of History
reminds us of why we love books in the first place.
Five out of five stars!
”

—Good Choice Reading

“A must for any fantasy reader.”

—
Plasma Frequency Magazine

“A captivating tale of a deadly clash between matrilineal and patriarchal cultures in a pseudo Native American setting replete with dragons! Roland delivers the goods with engaging characters, innovative world building, and plot twists galore!”

—Susan Abel Sullivan, author of
The Haunted Housewives of Allister, Alabama
.

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.

Turn the page to read chapter one…

Shards of History by Rebecca Roland, Chapter One

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.”

A war would mean sending Dalibor to fight. And her younger brother Vedran, on the verge of becoming a man. She twisted the feather around the leather strap one way and then the other.

“So what happens next?”

Dalibor shrugged. “The men’s council will meet tomorrow. Most likely a group of men from several villages will try to find the source of the problem.”

“But that means trying to leave the valley.” Malia laid a hand on Dalibor’s shoulder. “That means facing Jeguduns.”

The harsh lines on Dalibor’s face softened. “There will be plenty of us. We’ll be fine.”

Malia nestled next to him until he put his arm around her and pulled her close. He smelled of sun-warmed grass and sweat, an altogether pleasant combination. She missed this, being close to him. This was what their first days together had been like, Dalibor coming to her at the end of the day, to the mud-brick home she’d built for the two of them. She hoped for more moments like this. But then the arguments had started, always over something petty like how she’d forgotten to tidy up because she’d been so involved in her pottery.

She studied the home she’d built for the two of them. Wooden shelves worn smooth by her hands gleamed along one wall, holding cooking utensils, extra clothes and blankets, Dalibor’s hunting gear, and her brushes. Outside the door of their second-level home, the cloudless sky deepened to late afternoon’s dark blue. Children’s laughter rose and fell, men’s voices spoke of the day’s work, and women called out to their families to come inside and eat. Thick walls protected them from the worst of the day’s heat, and a slight breeze stirred through, cooling Malia’s forehead.

Dalibor shifted, and she sat back. He picked up the deer bowl and studied it. “You spent a lot of time on this?”

“Yes.” Malia explained her trial and error with the first two bowls and how she found the perfect balance. The deer stood on four short, stout legs. Its back was open to allow water in, and a simple tilt of the bowl would cause water to pour from the deer’s mouth.

“You talk about it like a proud parent,” Dalibor said.

“I put a lot into it. So yes, I suppose I
feel
like a parent.”

“And what is it for exactly?”

Malia hesitated. Any mention of Enuwal seemed to upset Dalibor, but neither could she lie. “It’s for Enuwal.”

Dalibor’s face darkened. The afternoon light dimmed, and the voices of the villagers faded. “I thought your mother already gave him plenty—food, clothes. Why do you feel the need to give him more?”

She wanted to shake her head in exasperation. Instead, she sat very still. “He saved my life.”

“It’s been more than a year. Why now?”

“Because I’m traveling to Posalo with my mother in a few weeks. I can bring this to him.” It made sense to her. Why couldn’t Dalibor see it that way? “Why does this bother you?”

“Why does this bother me?” Dalibor rose to his feet, still holding the bowl.

Malia hastily stood. She wanted to snatch the bowl from his hands.

“It bothers me that you spend all this time on a bowl for a man who is not your husband.”

Malia’s illness had postponed their wedding. She had returned to Selu as soon as she could travel. Dalibor had seemed his usual self until she showed him the pottery she’d made during her recovery. Enuwal had encouraged her to resume that skill, and it had indeed done wonders for her—the walks to gather materials, the time her hands spent creating bowls and pitchers, and the satisfaction of accomplishing something on her own. But Dalibor had seen it as time spent far from him when she could have been regaining her strength on a trip back to Selu.

Try as she might, Malia couldn’t understand what she did to provoke Dalibor’s jealousy. It was acceptable for women to give gifts to whomever they chose. And she had a perfectly good reason for giving this bowl to Enuwal.

“Dalibor, there’s no need for you to be upset. I love you. And when I go to Posalo, my mother will be with me the entire time.” An idea came to her, and she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it earlier. “Why don’t you come with us? Then you can meet Enuwal, and you’ll know you have nothing to worry about.”

The moment yawned, filled with the fire crackling in the hearth. Malia shifted her weight from foot to foot, the floor holding warmth from the day. Her hair, twisted back in a bun, hung low on her neck, a few strands clinging to the light sweat there.

Dalibor said, “All right. I’ll go with you. You’ll give this bowl to Enuwal. And when we come back, you’ll concentrate on what you need to do to become clan mother. No more pottery. It takes up too much of your time.”