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I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the CURSES OF SCALE by S.D. Reeves Blog
Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the
giveaway!
CURSES OF SCALE
Author: S.D. Reeves
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Pub. Date: November 15, 2017
Publisher: Riversong Books
Formats: Paperback, eBook
Pages: 297
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Find it: Goodreads, Amazon, Kindle, B&N, iBooks, Kobo, TBD, Bookshop.org
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Synopsis
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Sixteen-year-old Niena wants nothing more than
to attend an elite bardic college, but when the dragon that shattered the
empire awakens again she finds herself on the run, through the fey realm of
Fairhome, to the city where she was born. On her trail are her army veteran
grandfather, thrown into a commander’s role he doesn’t want, the lord of the
fairies, trying to steer her to his own ends, and the husband she won’t meet
for fifteen years. If she kills the dragon, she’ll save everyone she holds
dear. But if she kills the dragon, she’s cursed instead to become it.
Curses of Scale is the 2018 First Place Winner of Red City Review’s Young Adult
Category, and an Official Selection of the 2018 New Apple
Literary Awards. It also has the distinction of being a finalist in the
following awards:
- Chanticleer’s Ozma Fantasy Award
- Readers’ Favorite General Fantasy
- Wishing Shelf Young Adult
“★★★★ Curses of Scale is a coming of age tale with a lot to say about life and taking charge of
one’s destiny in the search for independence. ” -Reader’s Favorite
“★★★★★ Curses of Scale is a Pandora’s box of world-building elements, and Reeves shows great
skill at parceling out the pieces of lore and mystery that today’s fantasy
readers crave. Readers will be sure to enjoy this crafty, utterly transportive
novel.”
– Red City Review
A deleted scene.
This is a deleted scene, actually, more along the lines of a deleted opening of a entire rewrite. Long ago, the whole premise of the story was quite different, and the main character was a boy named Christian (I did reuse this name, of sorts, for Christaan De Rein, in the follow up series). This book was originally set in modern times.
It was a jolly night for a stroll thought the wisp of wind. The air was clean, the night sky somber, and magic touched the surrounding countryside. Farm houses, their occupants frozen in toil, grew and shrank in size as it whirled past. To the west a wooden fort arose, and the wind swirled and danced around the little men. None seemed to notice. They did not wave as the wind spirited by, chase angrily after their hats, or do anything that little wisps find funny. By now the wisp, being only as bright as one can expect from a puff of wind was becoming irritated. Why were they being so rude? Racing around the strange furry sea it fell upon a little sailboat. Men and women in white caps clung fast to railings as the gale shook the tiny ship. The little boat was tipped, dashing many into the sea below. Yet still, still none cried out. Disappointed and tired the wisp swooshed down onto a little boys head.
He was young, possessing fewer years than toes. Curly brown hair framed his head, making a nice swirly resting spot for any tired puff; if he were to stay still. The night was unfriendly to him, stealing the warmth from his lips in frosty huffs. Even now he tried to shake off his dreams, succeeding in only throwing more covers on the floor.
Across the room, beyond velvet hills and defended by wooden posts was a wardrobe. Here stood a proud mountain, shadowing farms, forts, and daring brave sailors to risk its port. Years before it had been brought from Germany by his grandparents, but the craftsman that made it knew it was meant for a boy to be. Soft fields, muddy pools, and waiting ponds were sprinkled merrily across its wooden facade, framed against dragons, elves, and unicorns. Yet there was something else as well. And it was not to be seen by boy or wisp of air. It was to be felt. Somewhere deep within that hollow wooden mountain lurked a nightmare.
An unseen shadow arose. It came from within and fell over the land. Long fingers inked around dusty corners, over toy and tower, through cover and hill. There was something here, cold and hard. This was hate, smoke arisen from the dieing embers of unloved dreams. Tendrils crept through the remaining covers and curled around the boys feet. Even through his socks he could feel the bitterness, and his body subconsciously shrank from it. But the shadow grew, and at last when the boy was cowered near to the headrest, cold hate touched warm flesh.
Dark shades of furniture swung into dizzying clarity, rising, and shuddering, as the boy coughed and rubbed his neck. There was the little fort, the soldiers there poised. Nearby sprawled the play farm, ready for the coming morning. And far, far across the room the great wardrobe hulked. Clutching at his neck he hesitantly ran his fingers down a shoe string he had made into a rope. With one tug it came free of his shirt. Into his hand fell a key.
Small fingers traced the outline, running from point to loop, and over time the memory of the nightmare began to dull and blend into darkness of the room. Then the key became a toy, to be poked into, chewed on, or looked through like a …something flashed from across the room. The air thickened to become a lump in his throat, whistling out in short hisses. Slowly he pulled the little key from his face and inched towards the edge of his bed. Clinging to a wooden post he looked down and to his left. There his topmost blanket lay a top a small wooden boat.
But ahead the wardrobe loomed, and when feet sank into the shaggy carpet he realized just how small he really was. The formerly hazy etchings stood now in sharp focus on the towering behemoth, which commanded the room at twice his own height. Unicorns, dragons, elves; he could remember when these things filled his dreams. That time seemed so long ago, lost in between the pages of a fairy tale.
His timid breath came before him in the chill. He grasped at the two handles, dwarfing his own hands and leaned into the wood as if deciding whether he should open it and run out the door, or just jump back. Gravity chose for him, and when he yanked back the doors there was a loud pop as the wood sprang free and he stumbled into the bed. Before him and in the darkness the wardrobe was open wide.
Clothes, shoes, his school book bag with it’s cheery yellow colors were all there just as he left them. But the boys eyes looked elsewhere to a cubbyhole on the second shelf. There lay a queer chest. It was carved out of ebony wood, fashioned into the shape of a deer in flight. Moonlight mirrored weakly off of the silver cloven hooves and two eyes set in jade cast a pall upon the rest of the dark body. The light and the fixtures gave the chest a strange green, yet sickly glow, something that the boy knew daylight could not endure to change. With eyes locked on the carving he crept closer. The blankets that remained began to bunch up around his legs like a makeshift wall. These he took, pulling them around himself and hiding the key under.
And the world was dark deep beneath the sheltering blankets. Wrapped up like a cocoon, not even the floor below was allowed to touch him. For somewhere in this house a monster lurked. He could imagine a voice groaning and crying out in a cold tongue. Schlept, schelp, shring, creeeeak! The moan of a door being cautiously open filled the little room. Schlept, shring, schelpt shring.
“Christian?”
At the frame of the door stood a lady, young, though older than the count of her fingers and toes. The room and the boy sat still, devoid of the magic and dreams that existed in the lone twilight hours.
She sighed heavily, “What are you doing? Look, you’ve gotta get up early tomorrow. Try to get some sleep, alright?”
The blankets wrapped around him shrank and fell around the fold as he breathed, but he made no other sound. The slow creak of his door being closed echoed in the lonely room.
Christian huddled before the great wardrobe, and curled up beneath the blankets, to lay there until morning.
About S.D. Reeves:
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Stephen Reeves was born in 1980 in Huntsville,
Alabama. He currently resides in Switzerland with an undetermined number of
cats greater than zero, and a propensity for nonsense. On those cold nights
where the wind steams off snowbanks, he is known to write award-winning fantasy
novels. And curse his wife’s cold feet.
Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon
GIVEAWAY
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1 winner will win a $25 Amazon Gift Card and an eBook of CURSES OF SCALE,
International.
2 winners will win an eBook of CURSES OF SCALE, International.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
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