Yrfen, Tamaruf, and Lairen, fledgling warriors on their first quest, entered a dark forest. Like most forests, it was the abode of creatures of the elder races. Always shifting in their regard to humans, they were to be feared; caution had to be exercised when crossing their domain. Alert, Lairen was first to notice that the birds had ceased their song. Above the breeze a new song stirred. Delicate as swirling mist and sweeter than a mother’s lullaby it enveloped them. Gwynnan’s son had heard tales of enchantment from his youth, and he understood that the music was otherworldly. He cautioned his companions to shut their ears to it. Tamaruf tried but the desire to hear it overpowered his efforts. Soon he heard a woman’s voice lilting above the dulcet notes. Enraptured, he sighed and listened. Its sweet source seemed to be beyond the trees ahead of him. Tamaruf rode towards it. Myrgena’s sons rode after him. In the clearing a beautiful young woman sat upon a splendid white palfrey. Her gown was colored like the shifting hues of dawn and was as delicately spun as snowflakes. Long, golden hair veiled a face of heartbreaking beauty. Smiling at Tamaruf she continued her song. The son of Khrytrec’s heir rode forward, his hand outstretched. Yrfen tried to hold him back.
“Be not deceived, cousin. She is a Lady of the Sincor. She will take your love and leave you withered and pining.”
Tamaruf and the Lady paid Yrfen no heed. Clasping hands, they cantered away into the darkness of the forest.
Bent in sorrow for their cousin, Yrfen and Lairen continued their journey to the Spear Castle. They came to a stream and stopped to refresh their horses and themselves. The bank was strewn with branches and brittle leaves. Yrfen thought it was odd that so many fallen leaves had collected in one spot; though, odd things were the rule in dark forests. A warning for cautious steps had barely passed his lips when Yrfen vanished into a concealed hole. Lairen rushed forward only to find himself caught in a similar trap. The brothers tumbled into a cavelike chamber. A tiny, round-faced troll with sparse white hair stood before them and laughed through lips pinched from age. The deformed little creature demanded treasure in exchange for their release. Yrfen refused. With a bare sword Gwynnan’s son demanded freedom.
“Look ‘round ya, lord, an’ ye see only solid rock. Strike me down and y’ll die here in days, unfound an’ forgotten.”
Lairen advised his brother to meet the troll’s terms. With reluctance Yrfen removed his golden medallion. The troll eagerly rubbed its shiny surface. It was now Lairen’s turn to surrender treasure. But Lairen had none. Glowering, the troll pushed Waelhlem’s son against the dusty wall. Iron cuffs emerged from the rock like open hands and clamped around Lairen’s wrists and ankles. He looked to Yrfen for aid when the troll informed him that there he would live out his days. Yrfen sent him a sly wink and then followed the troll to the opposite wall. With a piece of chalky stone the little troll drew a door and knob on the surface. When he knocked, the door sprang to life and opened. The troll and the warrior disappeared through it. Stopping to drop the medallion through a slot in a wall, the little creature then led Yrfen to a secret door. Yrfen exited and then waited nearby until dark, at which time he forced open the secret door and hunted down the troll. Yrfen pounded the creature with his fist until he confessed how to release the cuffs. Nonetheless, driven by spite, Yrfen continued to beat the diminutive creature until he lay in a witless heap. With strokes of similar force Yrfen broke down the wall with the slot. The treasure trove was filled with golden amulets, flagons, and coins. Yrfen not only replaced his medallion around his neck but he filled his pockets with the golden items. Indeed, no jewel in the room, including a pendant set with rare fairy stones, escaped Yrfen’s hungry fingers. All that was left in the small crevice was an empty, tattered haversack and a rusty, iron flagon filled with black wax. He dragged the troll back to the oubliette where Lairen languished. The creature stirred. Again Yrfen beat him. Horrified, Lairen urged him to stop; the moaning creature was near an undeserved death.
Yrfen released Lairen, and the brothers quit the lair. Once out of the secret door, Yrfen destroyed the site, making certain that the troll never escape to follow them. The brothers hurried up the hillside to the stream by which their horses waited. In the darkness Lairen’s foot twisted in a hole. His weight snapped the thin branches, and he plunged back into the cave-like chamber.
He tried to force open the exit but it was impossibly sealed. Fighting despair, he returned to where the troll lay. Lairen administered gently to the troll’s bruises. In time the creature revived and whispered for Lairen to get the iron flagon in the treasure trove. This, Lairen did and, according to the directions given him, he warmed it over a flame until the black substance ran liquid. It was not wax but, rather, a potion with great healing powers. The troll drank half and before Lairen’s eyes he regained vigor. His bruises faded and by morning he was completely restored. He offered the warrior a gnarled hand of thanks. Lairen flushed and hung his head.
“My mercy was tainted with selfishness. I humbly beg forgiveness of thee, creature, for restoring your life not because of its value but because without it I would be an eternal prisoner in your house.”
Lairen’s confession impressed the troll. He handed the warrior the iron flagon, advising him to save the potion for the direst emergency, for there was only enough left for one healing. The creature disappeared only to return with the old haversack. It was not empty, he demonstrated, but contained a cloak of invisibility. Were Lairen to wear the cloak, he would be unseen by mortal eyes. Graciously the son of Waelhlem accepted the gifts. The troll drew another door on the wall of the oubliette and led Lairen down different paths to a different secret exit. Walking carefully, Lairen returned to his horse. Yrfen had not waited for him.
Alone, Lairen trekked through barren forests and across withered fields. His nights were spent by lonely campfires. Weeks passed in changeless repetition. One night under the winking stars Lairen was drawn from repose by the whinny of a horse. Instantly alert, he poised his sword at ready, for the woodlands in those days were often the abode of marauders. He considered donning the magic cloak for his investigation but decided against it; he would face manfully whatever danger presented itself. In the pale moonlight shafting through whitened boughs, Lairen saw a horse restlessly stamp the ground. The horse was riderless. Lairen neared and stopped in surprise. The horse belonged to Tamaruf. He turned when a moan rose from amid the tangled brush. There lay his cousin, at the threshold of death. Eyes staring from dark sockets could not see Lairen. Parched lips could only moan. Bones marked their patterns beneath withered skin. So wasted was his flesh that Lairen easily carried him to the fireside.
Immediately the son of Waelhlem set about warming the iron flagon. Tamaruf sputtered as the magic liquid was poured down his throat. Lairen waited, breathlessly watching the sunken eyes regain a spark of animation and the pale skin pinken. By dawn Tamaruf was strong enough to sit up. For two days Lairen administered to him, telling him the tale of the troll’s lair. Tamaruf listened in silence, regretting that his foolishness had squandered Lairen’s precious gift. At the end of a week the cousins, full of vigor, resumed their quest.
Their journey took them through a rank bog and up a plateau to a wasteland recessed by a dry lake bed. Black trunks with brittle, snake-like limbs, lined the dusty shoreline. A moan led them to a certain tree from whose lifeless limb a frog dangled from a cord tied around one foot. Its skin was wan and wrinkled. Lairen took pity on the creature and emptied his drinking horn in a puddle. The frog was laid in the water. Soon he revived and spoke in a human voice.
“A curse for a kindness was set on me! Great Gwynnan’s son beseeched me for directions to the Spear Castle, which of course I most humbly gave and for which he thanked me with the most eloquent courtesies. No sooner had he departed than an evil enchantress stood before me. I struggled for a full day to slay her, and she nearly lost her head to my sword. Seeing herself near defeat, the cowardly woman
spat a curse, transforming me into this wretched shape. But proud was she of her infernal trickery and sure no living creature would pass this way that she revealed how to loose her spell. Kind savior, make a small fire with the bark of this tree and lay on it a coin of gold.”
Lairen built the fire but, since he lacked treasure, Tamaruf supplied the coin. To their amazement, the frog leaped out of the puddle and onto the flame. As the droplets hissed, a man replaced the frog’s shape. He leaped up with a yelp as the flames singed his breeches. He thanked the cousins and introduced himself as Lord Grayne. Tamaruf, wary to announce that they were Yrfen’s kin or that Lairen was the son of the man responsible for the twenty years of famine, simply replied that they were wandering cousins, unable to reveal their names. Lord Grayne accepted the tale and offered his saviors the hospitality of his castle.
They crossed his lands, passing through many a village where the ragged folk gathered around their lord, begging for bread. Lairen discreetly pressed what food he had into the groping hands and sadly averted his glance away from the hungry eyes whom he left empty.
The court gathered eagerly around Lord Grayne. He greeted his Lady, who reclined on a divan with an open jewel box, and told of how he had rescued the cousins from the torture of a wicked spell. Tamaruf’s face darkened at the boastful misinterpretation of the tale. The Lady saw the warrior’s flashing eyes and, exchanging one necklace for another, smiled a secret smile at him as if to confide that she knew who had saved whom. Tamaruf proudly raised his chin and returned the secret smile as if to concur that she had guessed the truth.
Lord Grayne called for a feast to honor the young men he had loosed from the spell. Heaping platters, overflowing with fresh game and foul, covered the table. Plates of breads and pots of jams were carried about by servants. Fruits and sweets lined tables against the wall. The steward rushed among the guests, never allowing a cup to run low. Thinking of the wretched villagers, Lairen ate little.
“Eat, boy,” Lord Grayne encouraged, “you are not saving me expense by taking small portions. Why, my table is set with food from my cook’s magic cauldron. There is always as much as we want!”
Lairen ate what he could and watched in awe as Lord Grayne feasted until, almost single-handedly, he had cleaned the platters. Again and again Lord Grayne’s deep cup was filled and raised in toasts.
For two weeks Lairen and Tamaruf lodged at Lord Grayne’s castle and each day Lord Grayne hosted a tourney. Tamaruf, feigning a sprained arm, sat beside the Lady reclining languidly on her divan and conversed with her as servants passed food and drink to her lips. Each night after Lord Grayne had feasted enough for twelve and had drunk enough for twenty, Tamaruf, concealed in Lairen’s magic cloak, slipped into the Lady’s chamber. Lairen said nothing of the guilty secret to which he was privy, ever cognizant of Tamaruf’s warning about his parentage. Lairen urged his cousin that they should leave the castle and try to catch up to Yrfen. Not willing to part with the Lady, Tamaruf insisted that there was no hurry. In time Tamaruf’s passion increased, consuming him with the desire to possess the Lady always, bound to himself by wedded vows. If Lord Grayne were dead, he could fulfill his desire.
In honor of his “healed” arm, Tamaruf called for a special tournament. To ensure his victory, Tamaruf filled Lord Grayne’s goblet with a wine tainted with a soporific. They raised their goblets in toast and commenced the tourney. The warriors circled and exchanged sword blows. It was not long before Lord Grayne grew weary. Sluggish were the arms that raised the broadsword. Tamaruf mimicked him to give the impression that it was the sun’s heat which weakened them both. Indeed, the sun beat strongly down. Believing he would find refreshment, Lairen drank from Lord Grayne’s goblet. In minutes he, too, felt the flagging effects of the drug. With a seemingly haphazard stroke, Tamaruf thrust his sword into Lord Grayne and feigned a collapse. Lord Grayne fell to the ground mortally wounded.
Lord Grayne’s death appeared to be accidental and none in the court questioned Tamaruf’s innocence. Yet, Lairen remembered his cousin’s trysts and the strange sensation which had overcome him when he drank from the tainted goblet. Lairen confronted Tamaruf with the accusation of murder. Tamaruf dismissed it with a laugh, averring that the Lady would never agree to marry her husband’s murderer, and that that very evening she and he were to announce their betrothal.
Lairen could endure his silent secrets no longer and at the betrothal feast he accused his cousin of murder.
“He has deceived you from the onset,” Lairen proclaimed. “I have deceived you as well. My name has not been withheld from you because of an oath; we feared that you would turn inhospitably against us if it were known that I am the son of Waelhlem. My cousin Tamaruf betrayed the hospitality of Lord Grayne by taking his Lady as his lover. I have spoken the truth, and I charge you to demand the truth from the lips of Tamaruf.”
Lairen felt no joy as he watched Lord Grayne’s warriors seize Tamaruf. He confessed his deeds. The court clamored to behead him. The Lady rose. Her heart pitying the man she loved, she besought that his life be spared. Sentence was passed on Tamaruf: he was to be dressed only in a ragged tunic and sent out into the wasteland with neither bread nor water. As for Lairen, they had long resented the man responsible for turning their rich land into a wasteland, and their enmity carried on to the son. Given only a week’s sustenance, he, too, was driven out of the castle.
Lairen gazed ever on the cracked mud of withered plains as he searched for Tamaruf. But the passing days revealed neither sign nor trail of him. The meager water was soon drunk, and with dust in his throat Lairen scanned the endless sea of nothingness. Tantalizing mirages played along the horizon only to vanish. Desperate, he again trekked toward the sight of green trees waving in the distance. It was no mirage. A brook splashing with life-giving water divided the wasteland from lush meadows and teeming woodlands. Lairen staggered to the brook, intent upon thrusting in his entire head.
“Stop!” ordered a woman’s voice. Surprised, Lairen looked up at a maiden standing next to him. “This brook belongs to the Queen of the Spear Castle, and none may drink from it without paying.”
She held open a coffer and awaited payment. Lairen presented her the haversack.
“It is empty. The queen demands treasure.”
“Maiden, the cloak which it contains is invisible and when worn it will make the wearer thus, too. Shall I demonstrate it?”
Wary of falling prey to a trick, she had Lairen cast it over a rock. The rock became invisible. Satisfied, she handed him a cup. The water was sweet upon his tongue and he felt himself revive. But when Lairen requested water for his horse, she demanded more treasure as payment. He had no more. The animal’s obvious need for refreshment stirred her to pity. She offered Lairen an alternative.
“The queen desires valuables. But if you have no money, then pay with something men hold dearer to their hearts than gold: surrender a secret.”
Lairen gazed at her in distress. “I have no secrets.”
“You must. All men carry secrets.”
“My name is a secret to you.”
“Your name is known to other living persons and is therefore not a true secret. You must reveal something that is known only to you.”
Lairen averted his glance in a moment of embarrassment. “I confess that I alone know how your lovely face pleases my heart.”
Blushing slightly, the maiden nodded to him to lead the animal to the brook. Nonetheless, she wittingly warned, “The queen’s water will be acid upon its tongue if your secret is false.”
With confidence he led the horse to the brook. The animal drank deeply. He smiled at the maiden and patted the horse. To pay for another drink for himself, he confessed that she stirred feelings in his heart that he had never before felt. Lairen lingered by the brook conversing with the maiden until the sun sank low. Saddened that they must part, the maiden dipped her cup into the brook and filled
his drinking horn. Lairen kissed her hand but she would not let him kiss her lips.
“You are aflame but the Flame is not in you.” She paused. “I know the Flame; it has revealed its secrets to me.” She turned away. “It cannot be until it is.”
Lairen held her back.
“Tell me its secrets as I have told you mine.”
“I must go.”
“We must meet again. Are you here each day?”
She glanced at him, unable to conceal the anguish in her eyes.
“If I could order events to my own choosing, we would not part; but the quest that has brought you to this brook must continue without delay. I dread the hour when I shall look again upon your dear face.”
Returning the haversack to his hands, the maiden crossed the stepping stones and hastened into the dusky woodland. In pursuit, Lairen placed a foot upon the first stepping stone. It trembled as if it were alive. And indeed it was! A beastly head rose from the water and tried to sink its teeth into Lairen’s boot. The young warrior sprang back to the bank in time. The beast snorted water at him and settled its head back into the brook. With a sad glance back at where the maiden had disappeared, Lairen mounted his steed.
When at last he reached the gate, Lairen was surprised to find neither man nor beast nor maiden guarding the castle’s entrance. It appeared to embrace in welcome all who crossed its threshold. Lairen dismounted and, donning his magic cloak, set forth to investigate what manner of place the Spear Castle was.
Winding paths led him to a cottage. Near it, voices were raised as if in battle. In the light of an open fire, two men wrestled. Lairen recognized Tamaruf. His cousin staggered under a vicious attack. Lairen threw off his cloak.
“Release your opponent, lord.”
Surprised, the man ceased. He faced Lairen; Gwynnan’s pendant hung around his neck.
“Who dares command me in my home?”
“The grandson of the High King demands mercy for his cousin. He is weak, lord. What is his crime that you should beat him so?”
“He is a vagrant stealing from my pantry.”
“He is the son of Timand, son of Khrytrec, a prince of the realm, and he is starved from traveling the wasteland that surrounds this castle.”
“And I am Hreowig, prince protector of the Spear Castle. I will release him if the son of Waelhlem will take my challenge of swords. Your foul lips, boy, will not defile my Fairest. You will not live long enough for her kiss to take your life. I shall slay you here as I have longed to slay your father.”
Lairen raised his sword and they battled in the dim light. Hreowig abused him with curses against Waelhlem. Now that the son of Gwynnan had failed to loose the curse upon the land, Hreowig foresaw no chance of his beloved being returned to him, and he unleashed his anger on Lairen. Amid their clashing swords, the warriors often stumbled in the darkness. Lairen forced Hreowig backwards. Tripping over an unseen root, Hreowig fell head first into the fire. Horrified, Lairen sprang forward to help him but was rebuffed as the prince thrashed about in pain. In agony, now disfigured, Hreowig crawled into his cottage. Lairen watched helplessly, regretting that the troll’s potion had been used up.
“Again you save my life when I do not deserve it,” Tamaruf said to his cousin. “I am indebted to you. Go now into the castle. Our quest must be completed.”
“I cannot try to wake the princess after what I have done to Hreowig.”
“His burns were an accident; your honor is not stained. My murder of Lord Grayne prohibits me. You must go in.”
Wrapped in invisibility, Lairen crept along serpentine corridors. Not knowing in which direction to proceed, he followed the distant hymn of dulcet voices to a circular courtyard. The sight before him made him pause. On a high pyre at the courtyard’s center lay the lifeless body of Yrfen. Maidens circled the pyre, chanting their unearthly dirge. Lairen understood that their dance was a type of procession. Following them around the pyre was a maiden carrying a dish at whose center danced a tongue of fire, fueled by no visible material. As Lairen neared, he recognized her as the maiden by the brook. Intrigued, he watched, marveling at the profound reverence with which she held the fiery dish.
The procession again circled the pyre and led the Flame Maiden to the throne of the Queen of the Spear Castle. The old woman rose. Taking the dish, she carried it to the pyre. Suddenly she stopped. She thrust the dish back into the hands of the Flame Maiden and seemed to go into a trance. The queen turned and pointed directly to where Lairen stood.
“Intruder, defiling this sacred gathering, show thyself.”
Great was the surprise of the maidens when Lairen removed the magic cloak. Immediately the grandson of Khrytrec paid homage to the queen and begged her pardon. The display did not melt the heart of the queen. She knew why he had come.
“Bring the Flame. The son of Waelhlem shall take his turn and then we shall lay his body at the side of his brother.”
The Flame Maiden glanced disconsolately at Lairen as she lifted the dish and led the way up twisting stairs to a room flooded with golden torchlight and decorated with silken tapestries. Upon a bier of gold lay Wlitige the Fairest. The splendid trappings of the room paled next to her exquisite beauty, still as death but blooming as in sleep. All things in the room seemed to disappear to Lairen as he stood staring at her, his heart swelling with each beat. What unspeakable joy there would be in breaking the spell and presenting her to Khrytrec as his bride. He imagined the pleasure of those ruby lips kissing him, the ecstasy of that face beaming with love for him.
A little harshly, the Flame Maiden placed the dish on the writing table at the foot of the bier and, lingering a last dolorous glance on Lairen, she left with the other maidens. The queen claimed Lairen’s attention.
“I trust that you know what you are to do.”
Lairen nodded; he had learned the rules by heart as a child. Left alone, he continued to stare at the princess. Again his mind was befogged with desires. He imagined the caress of her hands and the sweet music of her laugh. Hreowig, he remembered, had experienced these joys which his own heart could only imagine. Remorse smote Lairen. In great sorrow, he whispered words of contrition to the entranced maiden.
As the young warrior gazed at her he realized he must complete the ritual. He stood before the writing table. The quill was poised in his hand but all thoughts left his head, all but the desire to have Wlitige the Fairest as his wife. Yet, he could not bring himself to write it. He tried desperately to summon wishes which would profit the land but his heart wished for Wlitige. Above all things, to possess her radiant beauty would bring him supreme happiness; he wondered for a moment what would make her happy. Then he knew his wish. His heart trembled but his hand boldly wrote:
“The desire of Lairen, son of Waelhlem, is that Prince Hreowig be restored to the scarless vigor of health.”
The Flame consumed the folded paper with a violent flash.
At the bier Lairen stood and, extinguishing his fantasies, prepared for the reality of death. Summoning his courage, he touched his lips to hers. He knelt and bowed his head, tensely awaiting the pains and asphyxiation of death. The silken gown by his hands stirred and he heard a sigh.
The soft gaze of Wlitige the Fairest met Lairen’s as she sat up and tried to recall her circumstances. The face her eyes beheld resembled Waelhlem’s, and she remembered all. She questioned him and was dismayed to hear that twenty years had passed; Hreowig would be grey now, his life having proceeded without her. She looked again at Lairen, and the glow in her eyes turned to ice.
“The cruelty of my fate is now complete, son of Waelhlem. The father gave me death when I most wanted to live. Now the son restores me to a life more bitter than death.” She gazed at the writing table at the foot of the bed. “A wish was the means to break this spell, was it not? Very well, sir, I am bound by your desire.” She presented her hand to him. “My lord, we shall be wed with the f
irmest fidelity...but without love.”
More than the coldness of her words, somehow her beauty had also ceased to stir his passion. When he dutifully touched his lips to her hand his heart was aching with the memory of when he had placed his kiss upon the hand of the Flame Maiden.
“The wish of Your Highness shall be fulfilled as you command. If goodness can bind two hearts, the bitterness you predict will be transformed into comfort.”
“My wish?” Wlitige exclaimed. “My lord, I desire nothing of the kind. You wished for my hand, did you not?”
Lairen assured her that he had wished for the health of Hreowig, and he quickly told of all that had transpired. The joyful expression which lit Wlitige’s face took his breath away. But he did not delight in it; peacefully aware was he that her heart had never belonged to him, nor his to her. Offering her his arm, Lairen escorted her downstairs.
At the cottage Tamaruf, tending Hreowig’s bandaged head, looked up in awe at Wlitige and Lairen. Hreowig demanded to know what was happening. He called in confusion to Tamaruf as delicate hands unraveled his bandages. What a sight awaited him! He wept for joy when his vision focused on her breathtaking smile. As his beloved princess caressed his face, smooth and young and handsome as the day they first met, she told the tale. Hreowig begged Lairen’s forgiveness.
The couple returned with Lairen to the circular courtyard.
The son of Waelhlem looked about for the Flame Maiden, and pangs lanced his heart when she was not to be seen. All paid homage to the queen. She held her scepter over Lairen’s head.
“Your descendants will be many and great. Like the bursting glory of a dying star, their deeds will do honor to your name and to this land. And they shall be remembered unto the end of days.”
Maidens led the High King’s grandson to a splendid chamber to pass the night. Lairen rested but he could not sleep; his thoughts dwelt on the Flame Maiden. Following the stroke of midnight, festive music floated outside his door. He rose, certain it must be from a wedding feast and daring to hope that the Flame Maiden would be present. The thought of seeing her once more made his blood surge warmly.
Lairen searched the corridors for the source of the music. At each turn the singing and laughter grew louder, yet Lairen could find no door offering entrance to the celebration. After hours of fruitless searching, Lairen returned to his chamber with a heavy heart.
Lairen was wakened by Tamaruf. Tamaruf’s bruises were gone and he wore the garb of a princely warrior. The son of Waelhlem, too, lay fully dressed but not upon a luxurious bed. Cold fields stretched around him. The Spear Castle was gone. Lairen rose sadly; the Flame Maiden had disappeared as well.
Tamaruf led the way to their horses. He halted with surprise. A young woman stood between the stallions. Tamaruf hailed her and bowed elegantly. Lairen stood frozen in disbelief. The Flame Maiden smiled at him. Tamaruf watched in surprise as Lairen kissed her tenderly and lifted her onto his horse.
They rode in triumph to Khrytrec’s castle, passing fields sprouting with delicate new grasses and orchards fragrant with abundant blossoms. Lairen’s fame went ahead of him, and crowds cried out his name, offering him their finest hospitality. He was no less grandly received by the High King. Amid great pomp Lairen wed his beloved Flame Maiden. The royal court feasted for weeks, tirelessly hearing the tale retold. It was a time of joy, yet the vanishing of the Spear Castle signaled the twilight of Khrytrec’s golden age, forecasting an age of night when heroism and magic would cease to drink from the same bejeweled flagon.
* ◊ * ◊ *
About the Author
Elizabeth D’Onofrio has long had an interest in enchanted tales, especially those that involve themes of politics or faith. Her love of the written word dates back to earliest childhood. Her first word as a baby was not mama, it was book. The power of fantasy and make-believe did not abate as she grew up, and it led her to pursue theatrical costume design in high school and college. She studied drama, literature, film, music, poetry, and art at the University of Arizona where she received a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. In fiction, the whole palette of the imagination is open to her: story, acting, sets, costumes, lighting, even sound design, brought to life through words.
Ms. D’Onofrio is also the author of Distant Eyes, Sword Striker, Star and Sun, and The Crystals of Yukitake.
To find out more about her novels, connect with her online!
Website – www.stanincelarts.com
Twitter – @EJD_Author
Other books from Little Pebble Press:
Distant Eyes, Book 1 of the Khryterdon Saga
Sword Striker, Book 2 of the Khryterdon Saga
Star and Sun, Book 3 of the Khryterdon Saga
Casey the Crocodoodle
Casey the Crocodoodle’s Summer Friends
My Doodle Notebook
Fishin’ Mission
Soccer Blocker
The Not-So-Little Grey Bird
Princess Maizy the Amazing
Crazy Creatures Coloring Book
12 Days of Christmas Coloring Book
3 Cousins Cookbook
Living Happy: Insights from a Blind Kitty
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