The Unwilling : A Novel
Kelly Braffet
On Sale Date: February 11, 2020
9780778309406, 0778309401
Hardcover
$27.99 USD, $33.50 CAD
Fiction / Fantasy / Epic
576 pages
About the Book:
For fans of S.A. Chakraborty's City of Brass, Patrick Rothfuss' The Kingkiller Chronicles, and George RR Martin’s The Game of Thrones, this high concept medieval/high fantasy by Kelly Braffet is a deeply immersive and penetrating tale of magic, faith and pride.
The Unwilling is the story of a young woman, born an orphan with a secret gift, who grows up trapped, thinking of herself as an afterthought, but who discovers that she does not have to be given power: she can take it. An epic tale of greed and ambition, cruelty and love, the novel is about bowing to traditions and burning them down.
For reasons that nobody knows or seems willing to discuss, Judah the Foundling was raised as siblings along with Gavin, the heir of Highfall, in the great house beyond the wall, the seat of power at the center of Lord Elban’s great empire. There is a mysterious--one might say unnatural connection--between the two, and it is both the key to Judah’s survival until this point, and now her possible undoing.
As Gavin prepares for his long-arranged marriage to Eleanor of Tiernan, and his brilliant but sickly younger brother Theron tries to avoid becoming commander of the army, Judah is left to realize that she has no actual power or position within the castle, in fact, no hope at all of ever traveling beyond the wall. Lord Elban--a man as powerful as he is cruel- has other plans for her, for all of them. She is a pawn to him and he will stop at nothing to get what he wants.
Meanwhile, outside the wall, in the starving, desperate city, a Magus, a healer with a secret power unlike anything Highfall has seen in years is newly arrived from the provinces. He, too, has plans for the empire, and at the heart of those plans lies Judah. The girl who started off with no name and no history will be forced to discover there’s more to her story than she ever imagined.
Prologue
On the third day of the
convocation, two of the Slonimi scouts killed a calf, and the herbalist’s boy
wept because he’d watched the calf being born and grown to love it. His
mother stroked his hair and promised he would forget by the time the feast came, the following night. He told her he would never forget. She said, “Just wait.”
mother stroked his hair and promised he would forget by the time the feast came, the following night. He told her he would never forget. She said, “Just wait.”
He spent all of the next
day playing with the children from the other caravan; three days before, they’d
all been strangers, but Slonimi children were used to making friends quickly.
The group the boy and his mother traveled with had come across the desert to
the south, and they found the cool air of the rocky plain a relief from the
heat. The others had come from the grassy plains farther west, and were used to
milder weather. While the adults traded news and maps and equipment, the
children ran wild. Only one boy, from the other caravan, didn’t run or play: a
pale boy, with fine features, who followed by habit a few feet behind one of
the older women from the other caravan. “Derie’s apprentice,” the other
children told him, and shrugged, as if there was nothing more to say. The older
woman was the other group’s best Worker, with dark hair going to grizzle and
gimlet eyes. Every time she appeared the herbalist suddenly remembered an herb
her son needed to help her prepare, or something in their wagon that needed
cleaning. The boy was observant, and clever, and it didn’t take him long to
figure out that his mother was trying to keep him away from the older woman:
she, who had always demanded he face everything head-on, who had no patience
for what she called squeamishness and megrims.
After a hard day of play
over the rocks and dry, grayish grass, the boy was starving. A cold wind blew
down over the rocky plain from the never-melting snow that topped the high
peaks of the Barriers to the east; the bonfire was warm. The meat smelled good.
The boy had not forgotten the calf but when his mother brought him meat and
roasted potatoes and soft pan bread on a plate, he did not think of him.
Gerta—the head driver of the boy’s caravan—had spent the last three days with
the other head driver, poring over bloodline records to figure out who between
their two groups might be well matched for breeding, and as soon as everybody
had a plate of food in front of them they announced the results. The adults and
older teenagers seemed to find this all fascinating. The herbalist’s boy was
nine years old and he didn’t understand the fuss. He knew how it went: the
matched pairs would travel together until a child was on the way, and then most
likely never see each other again. Sometimes they liked each other, sometimes
they didn’t. That, his mother had told him, was what brandy was for.
The Slonimi caravans kept
to well-defined territories, and any time two caravans met there was feasting
and trading and music and matching, but this was no ordinary meeting, and both
sides knew it. After everyone had eaten their fill, a few bottles were passed.
Someone had a set of pipes and someone else had a sitar, but after a song or
two, nobody wanted any more music. Gerta—who was older than the other
driver—stood up. She was tall and strong, with ropy, muscular limbs. “Well,”
she said, “let’s see them.”
In the back, the herbalist slid an arm around
her son. He squirmed under the attention but bore it.
From opposite sides of the fire, a young man
and a young woman were produced. The young man, Tobin, had been traveling with
Gerta’s people for years. He was smart but not unkind, but the herbalist’s son
thought him aloof. With good reason, maybe; Tobin’s power was so strong that
being near him made the hair on the back of the boy’s neck stand up. Unlike all
the other Workers—who were always champing at the bit to get a chance to show
off—Tobin was secretive about his skills. He shared a wagon with Tash, Gerta’s
best Worker, even though the two men didn’t seem particularly friendly with
each other. More than once the boy had glimpsed their lantern burning late into
the night, long after the main fire was embers.
The young woman had come across
the plains with the others. The boy had seen her a few times; she was small,
round, and pleasant-enough looking. She didn’t strike the boy as particularly
remarkable. But when she came forward, the other caravan’s best Worker—the
woman named Derie—came with her. Tash stood up when Tobin did, and when they
all stood in front of Gerta, the caravan driver looked from one of them to the
other. “Tash and Derie,” she said, “you’re sure?”
“Already decided, and by smarter
heads than yours,” the gimlet-eyed woman snapped.
Tash, who wasn’t much of a talker,
merely said, “Sure.”
Gerta looked back at the couple.
For couple they were; the boy could see the strings tied round each wrist, to
show they’d already been matched. “Hard to believe,” she said. “But I know it’s
true. I can feel it down my spine. Quite a legacy you two carry; five
generations’ worth, ever since mad old Martin bound up the power in the world.
Five generations of working and planning and plotting and hoping; that’s the
legacy you two carry.” The corner of her mouth twitched slightly. “No
pressure.”
A faint ripple of mirth ran
through the listeners around the fire. “Nothing to joke about, Gerta,” Derie
said, lofty and hard, and Gerta nodded.
“I know it. They just seem so damn
young, that’s all.” The driver sighed and shook her head. “Well, it’s a
momentous occasion. We’ve come here to see the two of you off, and we send with
you the hopes of all the Slonimi, all the Workers of all of our lines, back to
the great John Slonim himself, whose plan this was. His blood runs in both of
you. It’s strong and good and when we put it up against what’s left of
Martin’s, we’re bound to prevail, and the world will be free.
“What’ll we do with ourselves
then, Gert?” someone called out from the darkness, and this time the laughter
was a full burst, loud and relieved.
Gerta smiled. “Teach the rest of
humanity how to use the power, that’s what we’ll do. Except you, Fausto. You
can clean up after the horses.”
More laughter. Gerta let it run
out, and then turned to the girl.
“Maia,” she said, serious once
more. “I know Derie’s been drilling this into you since you were knee-high, but
once you’re carrying, the clock is ticking. Got to be inside, at the end.”
“I know,” Maia said.
Gerta scanned the crowd.
“Caterina? Cat, where are you?”
Next to the boy, the herbalist
cleared her throat. “Here, Gerta.”
Gerta found her, nodded, and
turned back to Maia. “Our Cat’s the best healer the Slonimi have. Go see her
before you set out. If you’ve caught already, she’ll know. If you haven’t,
she’ll know how to help.”
“It’s only been three days,” Tobin
said, sounding slighted.
“Nothing against you, Tobe,” Gerta
said. “Nature does what it will. Sometimes it takes a while.”
“Not this time,” Maia said calmly.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
Derie sat up bolt-straight, her lips pressed together. “You think so?” Gerta
said, matching Maia’s tone—although nobody was calm, even the boy could feel
the sudden excited tension around the bonfire.
“I know so,” Maia said, laying a
hand on her stomach. “I can feel her.”
The tension exploded in a mighty
cheer. Instantly, Tobin wiped the sulk off his face and replaced it with pride.
The boy leaned into his mother and whispered, under the roar, “Isn’t it too
soon to tell?”
“For most women, far too soon, by
a good ten days. For Maia?” Caterina sounded as if she were talking to herself,
as much as to her son. The boy felt her arm tighten around him. “If she says
there’s a baby, there’s a baby.”
After that the adults got drunk.
Maia and Tobin slipped away early. Caterina knew a scout from the other group,
a man named Sadao, and watching the two of them dancing together, the boy
decided to make himself scarce. Tash would have an empty bunk, now that Tobin
was gone, and he never brought women home. He’d probably share. If not, there
would be a bed somewhere. There always was.
In the morning, the boy found
Caterina by the fire, only slightly bleary, and brewing a kettle of strong-smelling
tea. Her best hangover cure, she told her son. He took out his notebook and
asked what was in it. Ginger, she told him, and willowbark, and a few other
things; he wrote them all down carefully. Labeled the page. Caterina’s Hangover
Cure.
Then he looked up to find the old
woman from the bonfire, Derie, listening with shrewd, narrow eyes. Behind her
hovered her apprentice, the pale boy, who this morning had a bruised cheek.
“Charles, go fetch my satchel,” she said to him, and he scurried away. To Caterina,
Derie said, “Your boy’s conscientious.”
“He learns quickly,” Caterina
said, and maybe she just hadn’t had enough hangover tea yet, but the boy
thought she sounded wary.
“And fair skinned,” Derie said.
“Who’s his father?”
“Jasper Arasgain.”
Derie nodded. “Travels with Afia’s
caravan, doesn’t he? Solid man.”
Caterina shrugged. The boy had
only met his father a few times. He knew Caterina found Jasper boring.
“Healer’s a good trade. Everywhere
needs healers.” Derie paused. “A healer could find his way in anywhere, I’d
say. And with that skin—”
The boy noticed Gerta nearby,
listening. Her own skin was black as obsidian. “Say what you’re thinking,
Derie,” the driver said.
“Highfall,” the old woman said,
and immediately, Caterina said, “No.”
“It’d be a great honor for him,
Cat,” Gerta said. The boy thought he detected a hint of reluctance in Gerta’s
voice.
“Has he done his first Work yet?”
Derie said.
Caterina’s lips pressed together.
“Not yet.”
Charles, the bruised boy,
reappeared with Derie’s satchel.
“We’ll soon change that,” the old
woman said, taking the satchel without a word and rooting through until she
found a small leather case. Inside was a small knife, silver-colored but
without the sheen of real silver.
The boy noticed his own heartbeat,
hard hollow thuds in his chest. He glanced at his mother. She looked unhappy,
her brow furrowed. But she said nothing.
“Come here, boy,” Derie said.
He sneaked another look at his
mother, who still said nothing, and went to stand next to the woman. “Give me
your arm,” she said, and he did. She held his wrist with a hand that was both
soft and hard at the same time. Her eyes were the most terrifying thing he’d
ever seen.
“It’s polite to ask permission
before you do this,” she told him. “Not always possible, but polite. I need to
see what’s in you, so if you say no, I’ll probably still cut you, but—do I have
your permission?”
Behind Derie, Gerta nodded. The
bruised boy watched curiously.
“Yes,” the boy said.
“Good,” Derie said. She made a
quick, confident cut in the ball of her thumb, made an identical cut in his
small hand, quickly drew their two sigils on her skin in the blood, and pressed
the cuts together.
The world unfolded. But unfolded
was too neat a word, too tidy. This was like when he’d gone wading in the western
sea and been knocked off his feet, snatched underwater, tossed in a maelstrom
of sand and sun and green water and foam—but this time it wasn’t merely sand
and sun and water and foam that swirled around him, it was everything. All of
existence, all that had ever been, all that would ever be. His mother was
there, bright and hot as the bonfire the night before—not her face or her voice
but the Caterina of her, her very essence rendered into flame and warmth.
But most of what he felt was
Derie. Derie, immense and powerful and fierce: Derie, reaching into him,
unfolding him as surely as she’d unfolded the world. And this was neat and
tidy, methodical, almost cold. She unpacked him like a trunk, explored him like
a new village. She sought out his secret corners and dark places. When he felt
her approval, he thrilled. When he felt her contempt, he trembled. And
everywhere she went she left a trace of herself behind like a scent, like the
chalk marks the Slonimi sometimes left for each other. Her sigil was hard-edged,
multi-cornered. It was everywhere. There was no part of him where it wasn’t.
Then it was over, and he was
kneeling by the campfire, throwing up. Caterina was next to him, making
soothing noises as she wrapped a cloth around his hand. He leaned against her,
weak and grateful.
“It’s all right, my love,” she
whispered in his ear, and the nervousness was gone. Now she sounded proud, and
sad, and as if she might be crying. “You did well.”
He closed his eyes and saw, on the
inside of his eyelids, the woman’s hard, angular sigil, burning like a horse
brand.
“Don’t coddle him,” Derie said,
and her voice reached through him, back into the places inside him where she’d
left her mark. Caterina’s arm dropped away. He forced himself to open his eyes
and stand up. His entire body hurt. Derie was watching him, calculating
but—yes—pleased. “Well, boy,” she said. “You’ll never be anyone’s best Worker,
but you’re malleable, and you’ve got the right look. There’s enough power in
you to be of use, once you’re taught to use it. You want to learn?”
“Yes,” he said, without
hesitating.
“Good,” she said. “Then you’re my
apprentice now, as much as your mother’s. You’ll still learn herbs from your
mother, so we’ll join our wagon to your group. But don’t expect the kisses and
cuddles from me you get from her. For me, you’ll work hard and you’ll learn
hard and maybe someday you’ll be worthy of the knowledge I’ll pass on to you.
Say, Yes, Derie.”
“Yes, Derie,” he said.
“You’ve got a lot to learn,” she
said. “Go with Charles. He’ll show you where you sleep.”
He hesitated, looked at his
mother, because it hadn’t occurred to him that he would be leaving her.
Suddenly, swiftly, Derie kicked hard at his leg. He yelped and jumped out of
the way. Behind her he saw Charles—he of the bruised face—wince, unsurprised
but not unsympathetic.
“Don’t ever make me ask you
anything twice,” she said
“Yes, Derie,” he said, and ran.
Excerpted
from The Unwilling by Kelly Braffet.
Copyright © 2020 by Kelly Braffet. Published by MIRA Books.
About the Author:
Kelly Braffet is the author of the novels Save Yourself, Last Seen Leaving and Josie & Jack. Her writing has been published in The Fairy Tale Review, Post Road, and several anthologies. She attended Sarah Lawrence College and received her MFA in Creative Writing at Columbia University. She currently lives in upstate New York with her husband, the author Owen King. A lifelong reader of speculative fiction, the idea for The Unwilling originally came to her in college; twenty years later, it’s her first fantasy novel. Visit her at kellybraffet.com.
Social Links:
Author website: https://www.kellybraffet.com/
Facebook: @kellybraffetfiction
Twitter: @KellyBraffet
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