The Subtle Beauty by Ann Hunter (the lemonade war series txt) 📖

Reading sample

Contents

Copyright

Author’s Note

1 Sam, 16:7

Part I:
BLADE OF WOE

BLADE OF WOE

Part II:
THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS MONSTERS

THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS MONSTERS

I: MORNING GLORY

II: LUCULLIA'S WEDDING

III: THE MIDNIGHT RUN OF PRINCESS GLORY

Part III:
THE MAN AND THE MONSTER

IV: BEAUTY IS A BEAST

V: TOO LATE FOR CURSES

VI: THE CURSED PRINCE

VII: THE MAN AND THE MONSTER

Part IV
 THE SUBTLE BEAUTY

VIII: THE WISDOM AND THE GLORY

IX: THE GREAT STAG HUNT

X: RISE OF THE PHOENIX

IN THE END

Fan Ann

MOONLIGHT EXCERPT

About The Author

Pronunciation Guide

Translation

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

Text copyright © 2014 Ann Hunter

Stock cover photograph copyright © 2007-2014 Cathleen Tarawhiti (http://cathleentarawhiti.deviantart.com)

Editor: A.J. Sterkel

Graphic Designer: Andrew A. Gerschler

Published in 2014 by Afterglow Productions/P. Gerschler. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission of the publisher.

The Subtle Beauty / By Ann Hunter

 

ISBN-10: 0989203425

ISBN-13: 978-0-9892034-2-5

Author’s Note

Thank you for purchasing The Subtle Beauty!

Within these pages are creatures inspired by Celtic mythology, along with a dash of Celtic language.

For your convenience and reading enjoyment, I have included a pronunciation and translation guide at the back of the book.

Enjoy the story, and remember….

There’s no such thing as monsters.

~

Be sure to stay tuned after the conclusion of The Subtle Beauty for an exciting preview of Moonlight!

 

 

“….for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.”

-- 1 Sam, 16:7

 

Part I
BLADE OF WOE

This is the story of a man and a monster, but really it is the tale of a blade…

 

In a black castle on the cliff tops by the sea, near the high moors of Sigil’s Gate, the Celtic Princess, Aowyn, snuggled close to her dark-haired husband. He slung his arm over her wide belly. She smiled as he bowed his head and buried his face in her copper hair, breathing deeply. The child in her womb squirmed. Aowyn grasped her husband’s hand and placed it over the baby’s kicking.

“Do you feel that?”

“Mmm.” He freckled her neck with kisses.

Aowyn giggled as the baby became more active. “He likes you.”

“How do you know it is a he?”

Aowyn chewed her lower lip. She didn’t know. What if she let her royal family across the sea down by failing to produce a male? Worse, what if she let her husband down? “The baby is so strong, like you, Xander. I always assumed it was a boy.”

“Let us hope.”

Aowyn stared into the darkness for a long time. Tables and chairs were rough shadows, save for where moonlight bounced off the edges. The peace in the room lulled her. Her vision blurred in a sleepy half-consciousness, until a voice, none which she had heard before, took her attention.

“Aowyn, daughter of Aodhagáin, hear me.”

Aowyn’s eyes widened, and she propped herself up on one elbow. “Did you hear that, Xander? Someone is in the room...” she looked over her shoulder, but Xander was frozen in time. Aowyn began to tremble. “Who’s there?”

“Be not afraid, young one, for we bear glad tidings.”

Aowyn slowly pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Who are you?”

“Step into the light and know us better.”

Aowyn was filled with doubt. Slowly she moved to the stretch of moonlight that reached through the room.

“Aowyn…” as her name was spoken, the pale light became blinding. She had never seen such glory, for it was brighter than the noon-day sun. Gradually her vision returned, and the warmth of spring grass, dotted with little yellow flowers, tickled her senses. The light remained around her, as pure as an artist’s canvas, save for this little haven of green and yellow.

The voice became many now, in a rush of hushed murmurs, like the caress of a soft breeze. “The child you bear will one day be great. See him now.”

The canvas of light swirled in to many colors, taking on depth and definition. Aowyn’s heart swelled as a broad-shouldered man, clad in royal purple, descended a gilded staircase toward her. His amber eyes were startling and held a knowing twinkle. His hair was like the setting autumn sun.

“Behold Eoghan, prince of the future Crown Realm.”

Aowyn reached out to the image, wanting so desperately to touch this young man with Xander’s stature and her nature. He smiled at her boyishly, then vanished.

The light faded. Aowyn’s heart raced, her breathing increased. “Wait.”

The grass and the flowers shriveled into empty space. She shook her head. “No. Wait. I want to see him again. Gods, why taunt me so?”

But the voices were gone, and Aowyn was in her bed.

Xander’s hand rested over her belly. The baby squirmed.

“Do you feel that?” she asked.

“Mmm.” He freckled her nape with kisses. The baby became more active. Aowyn giggled. “He likes you.”

“He.” Xander breathed in his wife’s lovely scent. “How do you know?”

Aowyn was startled when the words flowed from her without her consent. “The gods have made it known to me.” She chewed her lower lip. Was it true?

Xander propped himself up on an elbow. “The gods.” He sounded incredulous.

Aowyn’s shoulders rose to her ears. It was a wild statement, to be sure. Her voice was timid. “I have seen him.” She rolled on to her back, glowing with excitement. “Oh, Xander, he is beautiful!”

Xander flopped over and rubbed his face. Aowyn slipped her arm over his brawny chest. “He has your brow and shoulders. He was so big and strong. You will be proud, my love.” She snuggled into his shoulder with a dreamy sigh.

Xander stared at the ceiling. A son. He wanted nothing more. But his wife was a princess, bearing a prince. A prince needed provinces to govern and kingdoms to rule. All Xander had was Blackthorn Keep. He clenched his jaw. One decrepit fortress was not enough. He had fought all of his life to retain his birthright over what very little land his family had left, but he would have to fight harder with a son on the way.

Xander’s breath came in a shudder. He glanced down at Aowyn, who had nodded off. It was going to be a long, sleepless night.

 

Xander stood before the window the following morning, gazing at Aowyn in the black rose garden below. A blue butterfly landed on her hand, and a smile lit her face. Xander sighed, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips as he leaned against the windowsill. The sunshine warmed his bare chest and shoulders.

A son.

His forefathers would have given their kingdoms for sons. Perhaps that is how Blackthorn’s hold had dwindled. Such a small land for a great prince to enter. It simply would not do. Yet Xander saw no peaceable way to expand. Was there no one with whom he could form an alliance? He had fought for so long to retain what little he had, yet now he would willingly swear fealty to anyone for more.

Could he perhaps arrange a marriage? High King Balthazaar at Winterholme, far away to the northwest, had recently announced the birth of a daughter, Alexa. Xander had a feeling such a proposal would be frowned upon. Aowyn’s people were newcomers to the land. Winterholme’s hold was full of ancient, royal blood. Balthazaar would likely see the proposal as a taint upon his lines. Xander, alone, did not feel that way, though his bloodline ran through the land just as deeply. He had been fighting in Aowyn’s country under his father’s command when he, serendipitously, met and fell in love with the princess. Her father saw an opportunity to forge his own way on to a new continent and offered Aowyn to Xander as a truce between the kingdoms. Now here she was, bearing a son, and Xander had no provinces to deign to him, save for the tiny hold of Blackthorn. No doubt, once word reached Aowyn’s homeland of the coming prince, great expectations would arise.

Xander shifted his weight. Perhaps Aodhagáin would send assistance. Then he remembered that his father’s battle had drained the coffers of both kingdoms, and what little Aodhagáin had remaining was given with Aowyn as a meager dowry.

Xander thumped his forehead against the windowpane, closed his eyes, and clenched his jaw. He did not hear the bedroom door open or register that he was no longer alone until a startled voice chimed in the background.

He looked over his shoulder. “It is alright, Maeb, you can come in.”

Maeb shielded her eyes so blue that they were nearly gray. “Ní hea1,” she shook her head, then continued in Xander’s tongue, slowly and broken, “you are only half-dressed.”

Xander chuckled. “Maeb, how many children have you nursed? I do not have much you have not seen.”

“It is not proper.”

Xander rolled his brown eyes and crossed to his wardrobe. He pulled on a loose tunic and offered Maeb a rueful smile. “Better?”

Maeb looked away and fanned herself with her hand. Xander’s own mother would not have been half as sweet as Aowyn’s old nursemaid. Xander took a seat at a small table that overlooked the garden. Maeb set about changing bed linens and arranging fresh garments in Aowyn’s wardrobe.

Xander slid down in the chair and folded his hands over his stomach, lost in his thoughts. It was not until Maeb raised her voice to him that he realized how much time had passed.

“I ask you three times now what you want for first meal.”

Xander raised his hand carelessly to wave her off.

Maeb crossed to him and picked at a few black curls, as if fawning over her own son. “What troubles you?”

Xander leaned forward and hung his head, slowly rubbing his hands together. Should he tell her? What help could a nursemaid be? He exhaled a long breath. “Wyn says the gods have revealed that she carries a son.”

Maeb let out a noise not unlike a chicken who has