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Amazon
Category:
Literary Fiction
Publisher: Monroe Media
Type: Fiction
Pages: 714
Copyright: Jan 24, 2020
Price: $5.99 (eBook)
Book 6 in the Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time series. Book 6 continues the story of Bethana Tourney (Adria Gittel), her daughter Jonquil, Rojah Fayerfield's discovery of Bethana's true identity, and Jonquil's return to El Nath to claim her mother's legacy and property.
Drama and intrigue abound…
Passions ignite…
Threats whisper in the shadows…
Someone from Jonquil’s past arrives in Fayerton…
Skeins of dreams and unraveling schemes…
In a new country, surrounded by strangers and odd customs, Jonquil Deering desperately wants to belong as her mother Bethana Tourney once belonged. But, when Jonquil knows nothing about her mother’s home, the Cloisters, or her mother’s past and the people her mother knew and perhaps loved, the challenge becomes a difficult, if not impossible task.
Jonquil’s determination to reclaim her mother’s legacy meets immovable object in Chaeran Fayerfield-Drake, the current Master of the Cloisters and heir to the Cloisters. Chaeran remembers the night that changed Bethana Tourney’s destiny and drove Jonquil’s mother to flee, leaving behind loved ones who believed Bethana had perished in the fire that destroyed Rosenhall and ended Martin Fayerfield’s life. When Jonquil asks Chaeran about that night and her mother, he does not answer and avoids her.
Jonquil reopens the Cloisters’ manor house to its former grandeur. She plans to avenge her mother and confront the man she believes is her father, Jantz Fayerfield. But, Jantz denies she is his daughter. If not Jantz, then who is her father?
Mysterious events being occurring and Jonquil loses pieces of time she cannot remember. Noah Winterringer takes advantage of Jonquil’s memory loss to further his own ambitions for Jonquil, for the Cloisters’ future, and for the downfall of his life-long nemesis Jantz Fayerfield, Jantz’s son Rojah, and Chaeran.
Among all the new people Jonquil meets, who can she trust? On whom can she depend?
The cast of characters is long: Chaeran Fayerfield-Drake, Jantz Fayerfield, his wife Zaire, and their son Rojah who is conducting his own investigation; Mead Worthington and Mead’s adopted daughter Belladonna; Noah Winterringer, his daughter Noelani and her husband, Darcy Oldroyd; and Maybelle Flower. An entourage of assorted servants, townspeople, winery workers, miscreants and villains, and a troupe of thespians make a riveting free-for-all in Shadows and Substance, Book 6 in the Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time series.
The reader never knows what will happen next!
Excerpt
Rojah Fayerfield studied the rapid, jerky movements beneath his cousin Chaeran’s closed eyelids. Chae’s eyeballs darted back and forth, up and down, and Rojah wondered of what his cousin dreamed, if anything.
The dark fringe of Chae’s eyelashes cast smudged, crescent shadows beneath his eyes. The harsh contrast between the surrounding darkness and the yellow firelight hollowed Chaeran’s face, denoting his Objishanda ancestry that appeared somewhat vague during Chaeran’s waking hours. Chaeran favored his mother, Jarutia Fayerfield-Tourney, but the impression was a deceptive resemblance.
His cousin was a quiet man, given to profound silences, yet at times surprisingly gregarious to those who knew him well, and when he chose to speak aloud, his voice possessed a low, husky quality. Physically, he crackled, a vibrant energy, yet could be as still as the trees looming deep in the heart of the Abeytu. Rojah never knew anyone who could stay so still, other than Chae’s father Doriano Drake and he stood so still he could blend and disappear into the background, an Objishanda camouflage trick Rojah thought.
His cousin’s hands resting upon his chest, often served as Chaeran’s voice. Animated in their slender gracefulness, his hands spoke a fluent language and no one possessed a greater power to coax music from the strings of any instrument ― a magical, vision conjuring music. His cousin could do anything with his hands — from carving delicate, intricate sculptures, to soothing and taming a savage horse.
For a man, Chaeran was uncommonly beautiful but his attraction lay in his intriguing unawareness of himself as being any other than ordinary or perhaps even less ordinary than most men. A purplish blue iridescence shone in the thick locks of his raven hair and above Chae’s right temple a speckled woodcock’s feather dangled from a crimson thread woven into a braid of hair. His black lashed eyes held a penetrating blueness that peered out at his world.
He wore homespun, silvery gray trousers tucked into the high tops of his black leather boots; narrow, geometric bands of red, yellow and black cloth appliquéd the shoulders and bordered his white tunic. A large man, Chaeran possessed a slender build for his six foot four inch height ― a solid wall of muscle few would expect.
Rojah smiled. For as long as he could remember he had loved, adored and worshipped his older cousin. As he sat studying his sleeping cousin, he could not help but wonder how different Chaeran’s life might have been were it not for Anton Tourney’s will and a legal technicality in Fayerton’s law that had made Chaeran the sole surviving heir to the Cloisters.
Through the years, Mead Worthington, serving as Anton Tourney’s executor, continued to manage the Cloisters estate and the laborious, time consuming accounts of the winery, its cellars, and storehouse of vintages. When his cousin became legal age to inherit, Worthington had carefully groomed Chaeran to assume the responsibility as the Cloisters’ heir, as named according to Anton Tourney’s will.
Various Tourney relatives spent years repudiating Anton’s will ― whatever the cost. The ironic chink in Fayerton’s law was based on unfounded proof that Bethana Tourney had perished the night a fire destroyed Rosenhall, but the true battle began the day Jarutia Fayerfield married Anton Tourney and became Mistress of the Cloisters.
The marriage contract Martin Fayerfield conceived and Anton Tourney signed on the day of Anton’s marriage to Jarutia, named her children as the Cloisters’ legal heirs. The contract was witnessed, signed and sealed. Few realized the legal ramifications to come ― few but Martin Fayerfield.
Rojah wondered if Martin had somehow had an epiphany of the future. Anton Tourney lost his life in a fall from the high ridge above Kilmere during a winter blizzard, and although ruled an accident, only one man knew the truth of what happened on that fatal night — Jantz Fayerfield, Rojah’s father.
Shortly after Anton’s death, Jarutia Fayerfield-Tourney married Doriano Drake in a secret ceremony performed by Brother Justin at Hawley Glade. Shrewd and cunning, Martin Fayerfield made sure Fayerton law never legalized the marriage, and Doriano Drake was exiled for his accused treachery in Anton Tourney’s death, even though his part was never proven. The child born to Jarutia at Riverstone was, as far as Fayerton law was concerned, Anton Tourney’s son and legal heir to the Cloisters.
Bethana Tourney fought Martin for her rightful claim to the Cloisters, naming Chaeran an imposter and the bastard son of Doriano Drake. After Martin thwarted Bethana’s plans and ambitions, she destroyed him, Rosenhall, and herself.
Bethana claimed both victory and defeat the night Rosenhall burned. The fiery blaze that lit the night sky was seen for miles around by the living and the presumed dead. On the same night the title deed to the Cloisters vanished, along with many of the Cloisters and Anton Tourney’s valuable and important legal documents.
As Rojah contemplated how various factions of the Tourney relatives continued to battle each other for their legal portion of the Cloisters, he could not help wondering what role Jonquil would now play.
A bad feeling churned in his gut.
***
Chaeran bolted awake. A cold sweat beaded his brow and clung to his skin. Heart pounding, he sat up, his lungs sucking for air, and a child’s voice screaming in his ears.
“Martin—Martin—Martin!”
“Steady, old man.”
Rojah’s familiar voice grounded him. The brace of Rojah’s hand firm against his shoulder kept him from toppling into the floor.
Chaeran dreamed — dreams of the past, nothing more. His racing heart calmed at the thought and his cousin’s presence.
“You were dreaming, cousin,” Rojah said, a note of amusement in his voice.
The pain, aching dully in his right arm, had breached Chaeran’s mind in the guise of his dream. Chaeran rubbed his fingers over his eyes and swiped the moisture from his brow. He had fallen asleep on the sofa, stretching out his long frame, his head braced upon a sofa pillow.
He swung his stocking feet to the floor. Rojah removed his hand from Chaeran’s shoulder. The sling Edan Drum had placed around Chaeran’s right arm prevented too much movement of the limb but the effects of the Dreamweaver’s tea had worn off. The drink had not been brewed that strong.
“What time is it?”
The hearth fire and a lamp provided the only sources of light.
“Near midnight,” Rojah replied.
“How long have I slept?” A fog of confusion gripped Chaeran’s mind, from his dream’s strange travel in time to the past and the lingering dregs of the Dreamweaver’s tea.
***
“An hour or so.” Rojah did not tell Chaeran that as he sat watching him sleep, he had pondered his cousin’s dreaming and wondered if he should shake him awake.
Now that Chaeran was awake, Rojah peered closer, studied his cousin. Loose stands of raven hair tumbled forward hiding Chaeran’s grim countenance. Chaeran’s thoughts were anyone’s guess.
“Do you want another cup of Dreamweaver tea?”
At Rojah’s mention of the tea, Chaeran shook his head. “No.” The negative head shake and the lifting motion shook the curtain of hair back. Chaeran’s face emerged, a pale moon on a cloud ridden night.
As close as they were, certain aspects about his cousin Rojah did not understand ― especially the time in Chaeran’s life before his cousin found his voice. At the time of Rojah’s birth, Chaeran had been a youth of ten winters. Ten years difference in age stood between them. Ten years of Chaeran’s life Rojah had never considered ― until now.
“Whatever gifts―” Chaeran attempted to gesture but his silent speech faltered without full use of his injured arm. The movement cost him a grimace of pain. He continued, speaking aloud in his rusty voice, “―of the Objishanda I may possess, I cannot read your mind, Rojah. What is on your mind?”
“Jonquil,” Rojah replied. “You,” he added.
Chaeran sighed, rose to his feet. Rojah’s gaze followed Chaeran to the hearth where his cousin tossed a small log from the wood box onto the fire and banked the glowing embers. Chaeran used both right and left hands with equal ease, except when it came to speaking. The injury to his right arm and hand forced Chaeran to use his voice ― a sound with which Chaeran was not entirely comfortable.
“That one,” Chaeran grumbled. “I do not wish to speak about her.”
Rojah smiled, said, “You cannot ignore Jonquil as if she does not exist.”
Chaeran’s dark lashed eyes swept Rojah. Rojah did not bother hiding his amusement.
“I can and will,” Chaeran replied.
“I doubt Jonquil will allow anyone to ignore her, especially anyone who calls himself Master of the Cloisters. She is here and she will not be dispossessed. The Cloisters belongs to her as surely as she belongs to the Cloisters.”
“That is your opinion.”
“That is a fact, cousin,” Rojah said, meeting the inscrutable cobalt of his cousin’s eyes.
Chaeran did not reply. Curiosity goaded Rojah. Now was not the time for Chaeran to lapse into one of his moody silences. Rojah wanted to know ― needed ― to know more about the past.
“You knew Bethana Tourney.” Rojah caught the sharp glance from the corner of Chaeran’s eye. Still, Chaeran did not respond. “Do you know how much Jonquil favors her mother?”
A frown marred Chaeran’s brow. “I was a child ― my memory of Bethana Tourney is vague.”
“I think otherwise, Cousin.”
Chaeran’s dark head jerked around. Blue eyes flashed. “Think whatever you please, Rojah.”
“Touchy, are you?”
“My arm pains me.” Chaeran sank back onto the sofa, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I think it is your memory of Bethana Tourney that pains you, Cousin,” Rojah said.
“My memory of Bethana Tourney is not pleasant and not one I want to remember. She was not the woman everyone claims. She was not kind and she held no affection toward me.”
“You cannot judge Jonquil from your biased memory of her mother.”
“Why not? She has every reason that her mother had for despising me.”
“There, you are mistaken, Chae.”
“Am I? I think not. She has no more desire to see me here than her mother. She damn near killed me today.”
Rojah’s laughter did little to assuage his cousin’s mood. Chaeran lowered his hand, his eyes flashed open. He scowled.
“That is your opinion, Chae,” Rojah said, voicing Chaeran’s words.
“I doubt it will change.”
Chuckling, Rojah said, “Unless Jonquil changes it. Just because she is Bethana Tourney’s daughter, do not make the mistake of judging her from your memories of Bethana. Jonquil is not what you may think.”
“I think?” Chaeran scoffed. “What do you know about what I think, Rojah? You were not even born yet.”
“No, but I met Bethana Tourney in San Bargel. I had the opportunity to get to know mother and daughter, fleeting as the time was. I was there the night Bethana Tourney died. I know Jonquil.”
Chaeran stared at him as if looking straight through him to his caged soul. “Be careful, Rojah.”
Rojah arched an eyebrow at his cousin. “I am not the one with my arm in a sling. I think the advice you offer goes both ways. Jonquil is an unexpected force. She will surprise you.”
Chaeran grunted, replied, “Next time, I will be prepared.”
“I dare say you better be prepared, Chae. I am not worried about you ― it is Jonquil who concerns me.”
“And here I thought your concern was for me.”
“It is, but then you know the sort of man Noah Winterringer is. Jonquil does not. That man bears close watching.”
Brow knitting, Chaeran nodded. “Winterringer? What are you saying?”
“I am saying that Winterringer is here now ingratiating himself ― and Darcy Oldroyd, too. Neither has wasted any time winning Jonquil’s trust. The man is capable of anything. There is no need to guess what Noah is up to. You should know better than anyone Winterringer’s lifelong obsession to possess the Cloisters.”
Chaeran’s scowl deepened. “No, no need to guess.”
“The man bears watching, Chaeran,” Rojah said.
“You need not tell me.”
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