It's been four months since my first book Rafen released. Rafen is a young adult epic fantasy with a ridiculous amount of action in it and a ridiculous amount of soul. I pretty much gave my teen years to my series The Fledgling Account, and now at twenty-two, I can look on the published copies of the first four novels, thanks to Simon and Schuster's imprint Permuted Press.

Now that a bit of time has passed, I'd like to share some reviews that have been written about the book. When people review my book, I know they've taken the time to think about it. I don't make any comments on reviews, because they are other people's opinions, and I respect that. However, if you're considering reading my book, the reviews might interest you.

When Rafen was four, the Tarhians branded him with three little numbers: 237. King Talmon of Tarhia forced Rafen to work in the coal mine with his other slaves. Yet at twelve, Rafen is desperate to escape and find the phoenix feather he has dreamed about for so long. However, even if he does leave Tarhia, will he ever know true freedom? For Rafen’s name links him to a legendary figure in ancient prophecies, and the sorcerer Lashki Mirah means to kill him for it.

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Amazon:

Let me tell you what I like about Y. K. Willemse’s book Rafen. First up, she breaks the rules of epic fantasy, and in a good way. There are no elves, dwarfs or goblins here (at least not yet, it is the first book of a series). Here we have fantasy characters named Robert and Thomas and Fritz rubbing shoulders with others with more “conventional” fantasy names like Rafen and Etana and Talmon. Here we have fights (well-written ones, too) where the fantasy characters draw pistols as well as swords, and where warships pound each other with cannons. I like the fact that Willemse has gone against the current of expected fantasy tropes and produced a work that, above all else, tells a darn good story. I felt genuine concern for the protagonists. The Lashki Mirah (the head bad guy) is suitably nasty and repulsive. Willemse has a keen eye for detail, but doesn’t weigh her story down with excessive amounts of it. Instead, she lets us know just what we need to know at the right time. I look forward to the rest of the series - rjpaus, five stars.

A gentle, pre-teen to young adult fantasy story that is a nice, easy read. Some small errors, such as using French fencing terms and using a rifle crack as an example of a sound in a world that has no guns do not greatly detract from the story line. Names like Bambi and Annette do not flow so well with the mythical names and language of the story, but don't spoil the richness of the world too much. All in all a pleasant escape and one I'm sure any young teenager would enjoy - ucat42, four stars.

Great character development, plenty of concepts to ponder and anticipate the further development of, and interesting theological parallels to consider. I dropped one star because I felt some aspects were a little overemphasised and "unrealistic", such as Rafen's terrible conditions prior to freedom - though that is a matter of personal taste only. This is definitely well worth your time and money to read - Samuel Hight, four stars.

I really enjoyed this book. Rafen has a nicely unpredictable plot and interesting characters, and the author has created a fascinating fantasy world to set the story in. My only complaint would be that I wanted to know more about the details of Rafen's world, the countries and cultures etc. Hopefully the coming books will flesh out this delightful story in that regard - Amazon Customer, five stars.

Blogs:

There is a lot to like in the series. I like the fact that fights take place using guns. I like that fact that there are no elves or dwarfs or hobbits or any of those other “required” races in high fantasy. I even like the fact there is no world map of the Mio Pilamúr* in the books: Willemse does have one she drew up and I have seen a copy of it in an email. But it’s not in the books and that’s a good thing. It means I can imagine what her world is like, I am involved in the creation process.
I also like the fact that so far Willemse has managed to avoid the two major plot lines of high fantasy: the War and the Quest (or both). The Quest is a major theme of high fantasy: the plucky hero goes off to save the world either by finding some desperately powerful McGuffin or getting rid of it. The War theme is exactly what it says. Often there is a War going on while a Quest is being fulfilled.
I don’t know whether there is a War planned for the series – there’s definitely an excuse for one, and it wouldn’t surprise me if it does come in due course. But what Willemse had produced in the first two books is a Bildungsroman. And if you don’t know what that is, it’s a literary genre (by no means restricted to high fantasy but sometimes forming part of  it) that focuses on the protagonist’s  psychological and moral growth from youth to adulthood.
Willemse’s protagonist, Rafen, starts out as a boy at the beginning of the series, a slave in a coal mine, and over the course of the series develops as a character, makes mistakes, rebels, loves, hates, triumphs, falls again, and ultimately (we hope) wins out over the bad guy. In other words, this series is about the main character growing up. The fact that he is fighting elemental forces of evil is a nice addition on which to hang the story of Rafen’s life. But ultimately the series is about Rafen’s clash with evil rather than the clash of good and evil in the first place.

And this is what makes Willemse’s saga such a refreshing thing. The main focus of the series is a character. Not a magic ring or a map or an invented world or some fantasy creature like an elf (be honest,  how many actual elves do you know in real life?), but a raw, vulnerable, fallible human being. So far, Willemse hasn’t let the Mio Pilamúr and all that it contains overshadow the main point of the story: Rafen himself - excerpt from Russell Proctor's Human Focused High Fantasy.



Rafen is the first of a multi-book series, and I have to say that after this first one, I’m intrigued about where YK Willemse will take her story next. In some ways, the book runs along familiar lines: scruffy down-and-outer rescues kidnapped princess, and they fight (fantastic) baddies. In other ways, the story surprises and startles. Rafen starts out as a slave, maltreated in various horrible and age-inappropriate ways (the main characters are aged 12 and 11, but don't let that fool you--Rafen is intended for an older audience), so that reading the first half of this novel was a bit like reading Unbroken—you understand and appreciate the realism, you just wish it would let up for a bit.

I found plenty to like. Willemse's best characters are wonderful. They don't stand on their dignity; even the noblest ones have flaws, while even the some of the worst  earn our sympathy. There are also some interesting philosophical quirks inherent in the story. I can't recall the last time a novel reminded me so forcefully of Plato's Cave. And as the plot develops, a thread of allegory weaves into the story, suggesting some very interesting future developments.

I had a few criticisms. Though most of the time it flowed nicely, I can see some room for improvement in the writing style. While most of the characters were sympathetic and well-developed, I found a couple of the supporting characters, towards the end, rather flat. Names like Arlene and Bambi were a little distracting next to names like Rafen and Talmon. I found the drama leaning over into melodrama for the first half—and I have never appreciated protagonists who yell at people who are trying to help them in italicised capslock.

(Which are all complaints I had about the Harry Potter books. So Yvette's in good company). 

So I wasn’t swept away by this novel. But I did find it a solid effort, and I am intrigued about watching YK Willemse as she continues to mature as an author. Most of all, I was delighted by Yvette's writerly boldness. She pulls no punches, whether it's the often very realistic abuse and trauma suffered by her main character, or the joy and gusto she shows in constructing her larger-than-life characters. True, not all her punches connect, but every so often, she hits home, and one is able to stop and bask in a wonderful bit of nobility, hope, or pathos. YK Willemse has thrown herself into this book unreservedly...and perhaps the best description of it is the one she gives on her own website: in Rafen, "outrageously busy fantasy fiction wallops you in the eye." And the result, though somewhat scattershot, is nothing if not engaging and lovable - excerpt from Suzannah Rowntree's article Rafen by Y K Willemse.

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Rafen: available on Amazon or Book Depository.

​Want to leave a review? Head over to Amazon or Goodreads.

One of the most common questions I get as a writer is: "How often do you write? How much time does it take?" Once I've answered that question, I'm told: "Wow, you must be, like, inspired all the time."
Nope.
Nope, that's not it at all.
I'm not sure where people get the impression that authors have endless amounts of inspiration, but it's a myth I intend to bust in this short article. I think I can remember maybe five moments in my life when I've felt decently inspired and one when I was hugely inspired. Other than that, I labour under the heavy disadvantage of a blank mind.
Let me tell you how I write books. I open a document. I grab a coffee. I check social media. Now that I have four books published, I check my current sales ranks too (which vary from being tolerable to mildly depressing). Then I sit there with my eyes screwed shut and wait to hear something in my head - anything that doesn't sound unforgivably trashy. Once something comes to me, I write it down. Normally I start right in the middle of an action scene, because if I start with a description or a slow winding up of narrative tension, I get too bored to finish the scene. As a result, the book won't get written. So I need something that wallops me in the eye right away, before my eyelids drop shut from sheer disinterest.
Then I write. Some days I write wildly, because I've some partially decent ideas that I'm terrified I'll forget. Often I do. Other days, I push myself to finish a scene. Everything I've just written feels like junk. Sometimes I consider deleting the entire document in disgust or highlighting the last two days' work and pressing the backspace button. I don't because I trust that there's something good in there, somewhere. I just can't feel it at the time.
Writing a book is a bit like trying to pick up manure in a manure-dominated field. You might have done well in your small corner, but you feel no closer to making the place look remotely acceptable. Everywhere you look, there's refuse. That's what writing a book feels like.
Editing a book feels like walking into that same field after working in it the previous day and discovering that there's ten times the manure than before. However, there is one thing that I like about editing, and that's discovering the odd really good bit, which I read in utter disbelief.
"I wrote this? This is actually interesting. And exciting. Ah, cool. Ah, crud. That sentence looks like a twelve-year-old's work."
And on it goes. Many writers work in the knowledge that they will never get to appreciate their improvements, because they're too worried about the ones ahead. I certainly do. I keep writing because I need to. Spiritually, therapeutically, I need to. It helps me clean the muck out of my internal life. My passion in writing is the story. A good story, a beautifully crafted sentence - these two things are beyond price. A serious author will give anything to get to them, even their sanity.
I didn't write all this just to depress any prospective writers (although sometimes this can be fun for the cynical in the profession). I wrote this because my point is there is no better time to start writing than now. If you wait for a golden moment of inspiration, you'll be waiting a long time. Stories favour the thick-skinned and hard-headed. Pursue yours.
Stop waiting. There was never a better time than now.

“I am a writer. I wrote this book.”
These were the words of a little Sesame Street storybook about different people’s vocations. My Dad used to read it to me when I was younger. At the very end of the book – on the back page – the above sentence was printed.
I remember being really aggravated by that muppet. Because I knew I was supposed to be in her shoes. And I wasn’t there yet.
People underestimate the minds of children. I really think they do. I remember so vividly what it was like to be a child, and I wasn’t nearly as stupid or innocent or simple as most adults – whether they admit it or not – take children to be. For one, I thought almost the same way I do now. My consciousness, character, and personality were the same. The difference is that now I have more memories. I can look back over a few more years. And those years – and events during them – have informed me and taught me things, sometimes lessons I would rather not have learned.
One thing I knew at a very young age was that I needed to write. I think “needed” is the best word, as I have struggled with life at times when I am not making up stories. Storying is my way of dealing with reality. It’s not an escape. It’s a solution.
I knew when adults would stoop down to talk to me (like they do when they speak to children) and when they would use that tone of voice and say “What do you want to be when you grow up, young lady?” that they weren’t going to take me remotely seriously. I could have said I wanted to be a contortionist, and I would have gotten exactly the same result that I got when I said the word “author”. They didn’t believe me. They thought it was cute.
It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t a fad or a hobby. To this day, when people refer to my writing as a hobby, I grind my teeth. Writing is a serious business.
On Thursday night, I held my first four books in my hands. I leafed through their pages. I felt their satisfying weight in my palm. I keep saying it feels surreal. I say that because while other people look and say “That’s fantastic!” they don’t have the background I have. They don’t know how many times I just about gave up or did give up. They don’t know how many rejections I received. They don’t know how many times people treated my work like it didn’t matter… how many times I was treated like I was delusional. Belief is everything. I can honestly say that while I am currently surrounded with very supportive friends and family, there was a point when literally no one believed in me except my younger brother (and he was of an age that no one took him seriously). There was a point when I was alone, except for my God.
Alone is a hard concept. It’s even harder when you’re still a kid and there’s something that you desperately desire to do for reasons inexplicable to yourself… and no one else knows how to do it or will help you do it. After you have exhausted all the willing help around you and people have gotten tired of your persistence, you are there, alone. The only words left for you are these ones:
“Wait till you’re older.”
“Try something else.”
“You’re banging your head against a brick wall.”
“Maybe this isn’t your thing.”
“You’re really not that good.”
I came to a point when I realised, at approximately sixteen years of age, that there were no more mentors for me. I had tired out my previous ones, and no one else was going to help. I didn’t go to school, so my English teacher wasn’t an option. The people who had always helped me make decisions or who had made decisions for me were advising me to try something new now… After all, a fad that lasts for years can get a bit painful to live with.
I couldn’t let it go. I came to the horrible cold realisation that I had to do it by myself. I had to research literary agents and publishers myself. I had to save up five hundred dollars to get my book manuscript assessed myself. I had to query them myself. I knew no authors who were willing to help me. Everyone I contacted never emailed back. I had to choose who to contact, how to contact them, and when to contact them. No help. 99% chance of failure. A complete nightmare.
That did me in. I didn’t think, at that age, that I could write a book and edit it and query agents and publishers with regards to publication by myself. I gave up.
Three months later, when I was in a tailspin, I knew I’d made a mistake. I went back and tried it all again, this time not alone, but knowing that God was watching and He would do what was right.
Without telling anyone, I rewrote the book and paid a manuscript assessor five hundred dollars to assess it. I began querying literary agents. In February of 2012, the miracle happened. An international literary agency signed me up.
Things got a lot better after that. People began to take my writing much more seriously. But it was still two long years of rejections before I got my multi-book publishing contract.
There are several things I wish people had told me about getting a book published.

1. You will panic a few months before publication. You will probably hyperventilate and die. This is because you’re terrified of reaching your goal. Terror is what stops most people from reaching theirs.
2. The editing will kill you.
3. The editing will kill you.
4. The editing will kill you.
5. Book sales are mythical.
6. But seeing your book out there is a feeling so cool that you will revisit your Amazon page approximately 67 times a day.
7. Signing a book feels like tagging someone’s new fence. You will expect a librarian to leap out of nowhere and throttle you.
8. Holding your book for the first time is like holding a baby that doesn’t puke or cry.
9. You will realise you are a windbag when you see how many pages the physical copy of your book actually is.
10. You will look at your work and think: “Ha. It looks like a real book.” That’s because it is, idiot. You just… don’t think of it as that real because you did it.
11. Illustrators will rain from the sky, asking you for artistic opportunities.
12. Aspiring writers will appear everywhere and send you their work. You must be nice, because you remember how hard it was to be in their shoes.
13. You will look at your book heaps. You just probably won’t read it.
14. Vindication is very sweet. Answered prayer is still sweeter.

 
Of course, when you get four books published in one year, you have all of this multiplied by four. Seasoned authors warned me at the start of this year that I would be busy. I said: “I have the books written. Hopefully I’ll be okay.”
There were times when I was definitely not okay, largely because of points two to four above. I died many times this year. Every death produces new life, however. My forty music students have seen me more scatter-brained than ever. They laugh and look at my books and sometimes even pester their school librarians about them.
One year. Four books. 2015 has been an epoch in my life.
Thank You, God.

It's been a while since I've done one of these. The below example shows work on conciseness and fluency in the text. Hopefully it is of some use! Excerpt from Sovereign of the West (my Work In Progress), sixth book in The Fledgling Account.

Unedited

“And what is this?” someone barked in a Tarhian accent behind them both.
Fritz whirled around, still grasping Talmon with an iron hand.
“Father, please!” Talmon cried. He broke off into desperate Tarhian: “This man is crazy. He does much sorcery and asks me of things I do not know -”   
The man before Fritz was clothed in immense bear furs that made his extravagantly tall figure seem much broader than it really was. His chin bristled with a dark brown beard, and his murky eyes were narrowed to slits. He wore a round fur hat on his head, even though it was now early spring in Siana.
The stranger gripped a long, black staff, and he pointed it at Fritz now.
“I am Harcwin Tiran,” he said sharply. “And that is my son. Who might you be?”
Fritz straightened, his muscles tensing.
“I am the king of Siana.”
The unspoken text was that this was the first man who had crossed the Jarnian Mountain Range in Sarient, and survived. This was the man who had conquered Tarhia and divided its territory in half, so that everything west of the Jarnian River now belonged to the Sartians. This was the man that had pillaged, crushed, and killed in the name of his country, in the belief that he could never be wrong.
The merchant considered. He drew his staff back.
“Your grace,” he said, bowing his head and making to kiss the hem of Fritz’s coat. Fritz snatched it away, giving him a filthy look. “I am the man you look for. Do not punish my son; I am his father, and I will take any penalty -”
“I’m not looking for anyone,” Fritz lied, dragging Talmon closer to himself. The young boy was trying to break away. “I am looking for information.”
Harcwin’s face darkened as he watched his son’s agitations.
“I say nothing until my son is released,” he hissed.
Fritz stared into his eyes.
“You are a bold man,” he said. “It may earn you much trouble one day.”
He released Talmon, who shot behind his father and buried his face in the furs. Fritz tore his sword from its sheath and thrust it to Harcwin’s exposed neck. Harcwin flinched.
“You will tell me everything you know of the yerra herb,” Fritz said.
“Ah, but this is a little known herb, your grace,” Harcwin said softly.
“I am aware,” Fritz said, his teeth grinding. He had asked Adelphia about it, and normally this tactic was like consulting the world’s best botanical library. It was the first time she had not been able to tell him something about a particular herb.
“This is a secret that has been guarded by my forefathers and I,” Harcwin whispered.
“Tell me,” Fritz said quietly. “I do not intend to spread it.”
“Why does my grace wish to – ach.”
Fritz had pressed his sword against the flesh and given it a twist that was enough to draw a single drop of blood.
“Father!” Talmon screamed from behind him, gripping his furs. He lifted eyes full of fear to Fritz’s.
“The yerra herb is a small plant that only grows in the valley of Odor in the Jarnian Mountain Range,” Harcwin muttered. “Only one man has ever tried its effects for himself, and he is not awake to tell us of it. It has been used on many animals, and so my forefathers discovered that it can prevent death. If it is inhaled or applied in the moment of death, it puts the user into a deep slumber and heals the body. The body sinks into a very deep coma, and there is no heartbeat or breathing.”
“And how does one wake from the coma?” Fritz breathed.
“This I do not know,” Harcwin said. “I and my forefathers have used it on hares many times. We have broken the hares’ necks or slit their throats. Then we have applied the yerra herb. The rabbit appears dead, and may continue bleeding for hours. But the next day, it looks very different, and does not feel as cold as a corpse. Months later, it does not decay. Then we take the animal and dip its paws into the fire, and it wakes.”
A mental image of someone dipping Fritz’s feet into a fire appeared in his mind. His eyes widened in alarm.
“Has this never been tried on a man?” he said. “Your forefathers have had the secret to immortality at their fingertips – and they have never tried -”
“Ach, it only works once,” Harcwin snapped. “We have tried again on the same hares, and their bodies no longer absorbed the yerra. They died and decayed. But my father has tried the yerra herb, yes. A man attacked him and stabbed him, and so he applied the yerra herb quickly. But he is still asleep. We have tried dipping his feet in the fire, but it only burnt -”
“Yes, thank you,” Fritz said.
His mind worked frantically. What if he used this herb, but could not be woken later? He would be as good as dead.
But Rafen was the Fourth Runi. He had united the times, and Fritz was sure Zion must have equipped him with some ability to wake those in a profound stupor.
“You will find me some of this herb,” he said.
“I have none.”
His eyes darkening, Fritz tightened his grip on his sword hilt. Harcwin’s black-haired hands shot into his furs. Talmon held onto his father very tightly, as if afraid he would vanish.
In another moment, the merchant had removed a single, flannel-textured leaf with four fingers and a purple stem.
“Do not deceive me,” Fritz said sharply. “I want all.”
Harcwin muttered something in Tarhian under his breath, before bringing out a cloth, in which three more leaves were folded. Fritz lowered his sword fractionally and accepted the leaves with his free hand. He fingered them, his heart racing.
“How is this prepared?” he murmured.
“You must crush the stems and grind them. A man can use the juice, and let it soak into his wounds. Or he can grind the palm of the leaf into powder and breathe it.”
“Thank you,” Fritz whispered. “You have done more good than you can know.”
The merchant stared resentfully at Fritz’s sword point. Fritz lowered it slowly.
“Talmon,” he said to the boy glaring at him with dark eyes from behind his father’s back, “you have a better heart than you know. Never listen to an Ashurite.”
Talmon raised an eyebrow, uncomprehending.

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​Edited

​“And what is this?” someone barked in a Tarhian accent from behind them both.
Fritz whirled around, still grasping Talmon with an iron hand.
“Father, please!” Talmon broke off into desperate Tarhian: “This man is crazy. He does much sorcery and asks me of things I do not know—”  
The man before Fritz was clothed in immense bear furs that made his extravagantly tall figure seem much broader than it really was. His chin bristled with a dark brown beard, and his murky eyes were narrowed to slits. He wore a round fur hat on his head, even though it was now early spring in Siana.
“I am Harcwin Tiran.” He pointed the long, black staff in his hand at Fritz. “And that is my son. Who might you be?”
Fritz straightened, his muscles tensing. “I am the king of Siana.”
The unspoken text was that this was the first man who had crossed the Jarnian Mountain Range in Sarient and survived. This was the man who had conquered Tarhia and divided its territory in half, so that everything west of the Jarnian River now belonged to the Sartians. This was the man who had pillaged, crushed, and killed in the name of his country, in the belief that he could never be wrong.
The merchant considered. He drew his staff back.
“Your Grace.” He bowed his head and made to kiss the hem of Fritz’s coat. Fritz snatched it away, giving him a filthy look. “I am the man you look for. Do not punish my son; I am his father, and I will take any penalty—”
“I’m not looking for anyone.” Fritz dragged the struggling Talmon closer to himself. “I am looking for information.”
Harcwin’s face darkened while he watched his son’s agitations. “I say nothing until my son is released,” he hissed.
Fritz stared into his eyes. “You are a bold man. It may earn you much trouble one day.”
He released Talmon, who shot behind his father and buried his face in the furs. Fritz tore his sword from its sheath and thrust it to Harcwin’s exposed neck, making the man flinch.
“You will tell me everything you know of the yerra herb,” Fritz said.
“Ah, but this is a little known herb, Your Grace,” Harcwin said softly.
“I am aware,” Fritz said, teeth grinding. He had asked Adelphia about it, which was normally as effective as consulting the world’s best botanical library. It was the first time she had been unable to tell him something about a particular herb.
“This is a secret guarded by my forefathers and I,” Harcwin whispered.
“Tell me,” Fritz said quietly. “I do not intend to spread it.”
“Why does My Grace wish to – ach.”
Fritz had twisted his sword against the flesh, forcing a single drop of blood.
“Father!” Talmon screamed from behind him, gripping his furs. He lifted eyes full of fear to Fritz’s.
“The yerra herb is a small plant that only grows in the valley of Odor in the Jarnian Mountain Range,” Harcwin muttered. “Only one man has ever tried its effects for himself, and he is not awake to tell us of it. It has been used on many animals, and so my forefathers discovered that it can prevent death. If it is inhaled or applied in the moment of death, it puts the user into a deep slumber and heals the body. The body sinks into a coma, and there is no heartbeat or breathing.”
“How does one wake from the coma?” Fritz breathed.
“This I do not know,” Harcwin said. “I and my forefathers have used it on hares many times. We have broken the hares’ necks or slit their throats. Then we have applied the yerra herb. The rabbit appears dead and may continue bleeding for hours. But the next day, it looks very different and does not feel as cold as a corpse. Months later, it does not decay. Then we take the animal and dip its paws into the fire, and it wakes.”
A mental image of someone dipping Fritz’s feet into a fire appeared in his mind. His eyes widened in alarm.
“Has this ever been tried on a man?” he said. “Your forefathers have had the secret to immortality at their fingertips – and they have never tried—”
“Ach, it only works once,” Harcwin snapped. “We have tried again on the same hares, and their bodies no longer absorbed the yerra. They died and decayed. But my father has tried the yerra herb, yes. A man attacked him and stabbed him, and so he applied the yerra herb quickly. He is still asleep. We have tried dipping his feet in the fire, yet it only burned—”
“Yes, thank you,” Fritz said.
His mind worked frantically. What if he used this herb and could not be woken later? He would be as good as dead.
Rafen was the Fourth Runi. He had united the times, and Fritz was sure Zion must have equipped him with some ability to wake others from a profound stupor.
“You will find me some of this herb,” he said.
“I have none.”
His eyes darkening, Fritz tightened his grip on his sword hilt. Harcwin’s black-haired hands shot into his furs. Talmon held onto his father very tightly, as if afraid he would vanish.
In another moment, the merchant had removed a single, flannel-textured leaf with four fingers and a purple stem.
“Do not deceive me,” Fritz said sharply. “I want all.”
Harcwin muttered something in Tarhian under his breath, before bringing out a cloth, in which three more leaves were folded. Fritz lowered his sword fractionally and accepted the leaves with his free hand. He fingered them, his heart racing.
“How is this prepared?”
“You crush the stems and grind them. A man can use the juice and let it soak into his wounds. Or he can grind the palm of the leaf into powder and breathe it.”
“Thank you,” Fritz whispered. “You have done more good than you know.”
The merchant stared resentfully at Fritz’s sword point. Fritz lowered it slowly.
“Talmon,” he said to the boy glaring at him with dark eyes from behind his father’s back, “you have a better heart than you know. Never listen to an Ashurite.”
Talmon raised an eyebrow, uncomprehending.