"Janneke’s epic
journey to overcome past horrors and seize her rightful place in the world is
packed with equally gripping action and emotion. Readers will flock to this
compelling debut." —Booklist, STARRED Review
"A promising debut
from a gifted young writer!"
—Anna Todd, New York Times bestselling author of the After series
WHITE STAG by Kara Barbieri; On-sale:
January 8, 2019
White Stag, the first book
in a brutally stunning series by Kara Barbieri,
involves a young girl who finds herself becoming more monster than human and must uncover dangerous
truths about who she is and the place
that has become her home.
As the last child in a family of daughters, seventeen-year-old Janneke was raised to be the male heir. While her sisters were becoming wives and mothers, she was taught to hunt, track, and fight. On the day her village was burned to the ground, Janneke—as the only survivor—was taken captive by the malicious Lydian and eventually sent to work for his nephew Soren.
Janneke’s survival in the court of merciless monsters has come at the cost of her connection to the human world. And when the Goblin King’s death ignites an ancient hunt for the next king, Soren senses an opportunity for her to finally fully accept the ways of the brutal Permafrost. But every action he takes to bring her deeper into his world only shows him that a little humanity isn’t bad—especially when it comes to those you care about.
Through every battle they survive, Janneke’s loyalty to Soren deepens. After dangerous truths are revealed, Janneke must choose between holding on or letting go of her last connections to a world she no longer belongs to. She must make the right choice to save the only thing keeping both worlds from crumbling.
Buy the book at: http://wednesdaybooks.com/galaxies-and-kingdom/white-stag/
WHITE STAG EXCERPT
1
MASQUERADE
THE FIRST THING I learned as a hunter was how to hide. There was a skill in disappearing in the trees like the wind and merging into the river like stones; masquerading yourself as something you weren’t was what kept you alive in the end. Most humans didn’t think the masquerade was as important as the kill, and most humans ended up paying for it with their lifeblood.
Here, as the only mortal in a hall of monsters, I was very
glad that I was not most humans.
I kept my steps silent and my back straight as I passed
beneath the white marble pillars. My eyes flickered around me every so often,
counting hallways, retracing my steps, so I could escape at a moment’s notice.
The Erlking’s palace was treacherous, full of twists and turns, stairways that
led into nowhere, and places where the hallways dropped to gaping chasms.
According to Soren, there were also hollow spaces in the walls where you could
slink around unnoticed to the mundane and the monstrous eye, but you could hear
and see all that went on in the open world. The lair of a king, I
thought bitterly. I dared not say it out loud in case someone was near. But
beside me, Soren sensed my disgust and made a sound deep in his throat. It
could’ve been agreement.
Soren examined his king’s palace with the usual contempt;
his cold, calculating eyes took in everything and betrayed nothing. His lips
turned down in a frown that was almost etched permanently into his face.
Sometimes I forgot he was capable of other expressions. He didn’t even smile
when he was killing things; as far as goblins went, that was a symptom of
chronic depression. He lifted his bored gaze at the gurgling, choking sound
coming from his right, and it took all my willpower not to follow his line of
sight. When I felt the subtle whoosh of power transfer from
one body to the next, my fingers twitched to where I’d slung my bow, only to
remember too late that it had been left at the entrance of the keep in
accordance with ancient tradition.
A scream echoed off the cavernous passageways as we made our
way to the great hall where everyone gathered. It sent chills down my spine
with its shrillness before it was abruptly cut off. Somehow, that made me
shiver even more. Ancient tradition and custom aside, nothing could stop a
goblin from killing you if that was what they desired. My hand reached for my
nonexistent bow again, only to be captured by cold, pale fingers.
Soren’s upper lip curled, but his voice was low and steady.
“The next time you reach for a weapon that isn’t there might be the last time
you have hands to reach with,” he warned. “A move like that will invite
conflict.”
I yanked myself away from his grip and suppressed the urge
to wipe my hand on my tunic like a child wiping away cooties. “Force of habit.”
Soren shook his head slightly before continuing on, his
frown deepening with each step he took.
“Don’t look so excited. Someone might get the wrong idea.”
He raised a fine white eyebrow at me. “I don’t look excited.
I’m scowling.”
I bit back a sigh. “It’s sarcasm.”
“I’ve told you before, I don’t understand it,” he said.
“None of goblinkind understands sarcasm,” I said. “In
another hundred years I’m going to lose my understanding completely.”
Another hundred years. It hadn’t hit me yet, not
until I said it out loud. Another hundred years. It had been a
hundred years since my village was slaughtered, a hundred years as a thrall in
Soren’s service. Well, ninety-nine years and eight months, anyway, but
who’s counting? Despite the century passing by, I still looked the
same as I had when I was forcefully brought into this cursed land. Or, at
least, mostly; the scars on my chest hadn’t been there a hundred years ago, and
the now-hollow spot where my right breast should have been burned. The four
months when I’d belonged to another were not something I liked to think about.
I still woke up screaming from nightmares about it. My throat went dry and I
swallowed. Soren isn’t Lydian.
“You look tense,” Soren said, breaking me out of my
thoughts. I’d crossed my arms over my chest. Not good. A movement like that was
a sign of weakness. It was obvious to everyone that I was the weakest being
here, but showing it would do me no good.
“I’m fine,” I said. “I just don’t like this place.”
“Hmm,” Soren said, eyes flickering around the hall. “It does
lack a certain touch.”
“What does that even mean?” I asked.
“The entire design of the palace is trite and overdone.”
I blinked. “Okay, then.”
By now we’d entered the great hall where the reception was
held. Every hundred years, the goblins were required to visit the Erlking and
swear their fealty. Of course, their loyalty only extended to him as long as he
was the most powerful—goblins weren’t the type of creature to follow someone
weaker than themselves.
The palace, for what it was worth, was much grander than
most other parts of the goblin domain. Soren’s manor was all wood, stone, and
ice, permanently freezing. Nothing grew—I knew because I had tried multiple
times to start a garden—but the roots never took to the Permafrost. Here, it was
warm, though not warm enough that I couldn’t feel the aching chill deep in my
bones. The walls were made of pure white marble with intricate designs far
above what a goblin was capable of creating, and streaked with yellow and red
gold like open veins. It was obviously made by humans. Goblinkind were
incredible predators and hunters, gifted by the Permafrost itself, but like all
creatures, they had their flaws. The inability to create anything that wasn’t
used for destruction was one of the main reasons humankind were often stolen
from their lands on raids and put to work in the Permafrost.
Soren’s scowl deepened as we passed under a canopy of ice
wrought to look like vines and flowers. “I feel like I need to vomit,” he said.
I stopped in my tracks. “Really?” I swore, if I ended up
having to clean up Soren’s vomit …
He glanced at me, a playful light in his lilac eyes.
“Sarcasm? Did I do it right?”
“No.” I forced myself not to roll my eyes. “Sarcasm would be
when you use irony to show your contempt.”
“Irony?” He shook his head, his long white hair falling into
his face.
“Saying one thing when you mean the other, dramatically.”
“This is beneath me,” he muttered. Then, even quieter, he
said, “This place is in dire need of a redecoration.”
“I’m not even entirely sure what to say to that.” With those
words, he flashed me a wicked grin that said little and suggested much. I
turned away, actually rolling my eyes this time. For a powerful goblin lord,
Soren definitely had the ability to act utterly childish. It could be almost
endearing at times. This, however, was not one of those times.
In the hall, the gazes on the back of my neck were sharp as
knives. I kept my head straight, trying my hardest not to pay attention to the
wolfish faces of the other attendees.
From a distance they could almost be mistaken for human.
They varied in size and shape and the color of their skin, hair, and eyes much
like humans did. But even so, there was a sharpness to their features, a
wildness, that could never be mistaken for human. The figures dressed in
hunting leathers, long and lean, would only seek to torment me if I paid them
any attention. As the only human in the hall, I was a curiosity. After all,
what self-respecting goblin would bring a thrall to an event as important as
this? That could very easily get me killed, and I wasn’t planning on dying
anytime soon. My hand almost twitched again, but I stopped it just in time,
heeding Soren’s warning.
We finally crossed the floor to where the Erlking sat. Like
Soren’s, the Goblin King’s hair was long. But unlike Soren, whose hair was
whiter than the snow, the Erlking’s hair was brown. Not my brown, the color of
fallen leaves, underbrush, and dark cherry wood, but murky, muddy brown. It was
the color of bog mud that sucks down both humans and animals alike and it
somehow managed to make his yellow-toned skin even sallower. He was the
strongest of all goblins, and I hated him for it. I also feared him—I was smart
enough for that—but the fear was drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears as
I locked eyes with Soren’s king.
Soren turned to me. “Stay here.” His eyes turned hard, the
glimmer of light leaving them. Whatever softness he had before drained away
until what was left was the hard, cold killer he was known to be, and with it
went the last shreds of warmth in his voice. “Until I tell you otherwise.”
Subtly, he jerked his pointer finger at the ground in a wordless warning.
I bowed my head. “Don’t take too long.”
“I don’t plan to,” he said, more to himself than to me,
before approaching the Erlking’s throne. He went to one knee. “My king.”
I eyed Soren from underneath the curtain of my hair. His
hands were clenched in fists at his sides. He must’ve sensed something from the
Erlking, from the other goblins, something. Whatever it was,
it wasn’t good. Cautiously, I directed my gaze to the Goblin King himself,
aware that if I looked at him the wrong way, I might be inviting my own death.
While the behavior and treatment of thralls varied widely among goblins, I had
a feeling submissiveness was required for any human in the Erlking’s path.
This close, the Erlking’s eyes were dark in his shriveled
husk of skin and there was a tinge of sickness in the air as he breathed his
raspy breaths. His eyes flickered up to meet mine and I bowed my head
again. Don’t attract attention.
Soren spat out the vows required of him in the old tongue of
his kind, the words gravelly and thick. He paused every so often, like he was
waiting for when he would be free to drive his hand through his king’s chest,
continuing on with disappointment every time.
The tension around the room grew heavier, pressing down on
those gathered. Somehow, like dogs sniffing out blood, they all knew the king
was weak. Beautiful she-goblins and terrifying goblin brutes were all standing
there waiting until it was legal to kill him.
Beside the weakened king’s throne, a white stag rested on a
pile of rushes. Its eyes were closed, its breath slow. Its skin and antlers
shone with youth, but the ancient power it leaked pressed heavy against my
shoulders. That power was older than anything else in the world—maybe older
than the world itself.
Goblins were, before all things, hunters. Born to reap and
not to sow. Cursed with pain upon doing any action that did not in some way fit
into the power the Permafrost gave them, the goblins fittingly had the
submission of the stag as the symbol of their king’s ultimate power. Until
it runs.
I didn’t want to think about what happened after that.
Soren continued to say his vows. The guttural language was
like ice shards to my ears, and I shuddered. Catching myself about to fidget, I
dug my fingers into my thigh. Control yourself, Janneke, I
thought. If they can do it, you can.
A soft voice whispered in my ear, “Is that you, Janneka?”
His breath tickled the back of my neck, and every muscle in my body immediately
locked. Icy dread trickled down my spine, rooting me in place.
Don’t pay attention to him. He’ll go away.
“I know you can hear me, sweetling.”
Yes, I could hear him, and the sound of his voice made me
want to vomit. My mouth went dry.
CREDIT: WHITE
STAG by KARA BARBIERI Copyright © 2018 by the author and reprinted by
permission of Wednesday
Books.
@PandeanPanic
No comments:
Post a Comment