Caught on opposite sides of a budding civil war, a rebel leader and a modern day princess fight to save their country from a corrupt Minister General in a fictional Central Europe.
The once prosperous European nation of Arelanda has been plagued with poverty and corruption since the failed rebellion tore it apart. Now, rebels stir again in the capital’s underbelly, vowing to depose the monarchy and overturn the unjust government.
Seventeen-year-old Rogan Elwood, son of a rebel leader executed for treason after the first rebellion, has borne a tainted legacy his entire life. As he is pulled deeper into conflict, Rogan must face his calling in the future of the rebel cause—waging his want for peace against his desire for vengeance. Everything changes when he falls for Elyra—modern, idealistic and determined to bring Arelanda a better future. She also just happens to be next in line to the throne—if the corrupt Minister General doesn’t beat her to it.
Caught in the midst of a budding civil war and surrounded by enemies on every side, Elyra and Rogan must fight to save themselves and their country.
GUEST POST
The Story Behind Rebel Song
One of the questions all writer’s undoubtedly receive is “where do you get your inspiration?” Sometimes there is a great lightbulb moment—a tragedy, a blessing, a unique childhood—that breathes life into an idea. For Rebel Song, I attribute it to a childhood obsession with tragic love stories, with fantasy tales of kings and queens, with gallant heroes sacrificing all.
When I describe the plot of Rebel Song to people, but tell them it’s contemporary, they often say, “Wait, it’s about a princess and a rebellion and star-crossed love? Sounds a little Medieval.” And it does sound like a plot of old. But it’s also a reality of today...Let me explain a bit of history about its inspiration.
So fast forward a couple decades. I’m in Madrid, Spain, reading about the turmoil of Spain’s 20thcentury—from a monarchy to a dictator to back to a monarchy. And I realized that, while it’s strange to the Americans, royalty is alive and well in much of Europe. Additionally, many countries in Europe have undergone rebellions, dictators, civil war and more in the last fifty years alone. Sometimes there’s even a juicy love story thrown in there. I was fascinated by the history there and I suddenly knew I had to bring Rogan and Elyra’s story to life in a fresh new way.
And while the story is set in “modern-day,” I admit, the specific time period for the story is purposefully a little vague because I’m trying to avoid talking about real world events—it’s hard to talk about 20th century Europe and not discuss post WWII Communism, for example. I want the Rogan and Elyra’s story to just exist within itself and for the reader to not have to think about the outside world.
So once you have this great novel that you love more than your own mortal soul, what do you do with it?
After I’d finished and perfected Rebel Song to the best of my ability, I had to learn how to publish it! Writers today are living in the best of times. There are more ways than ever to reach millions of hungry readers. But with more choices, it can be daunting to decide the best way to go. I opted to Independently publish and I couldn’t be happier with my choice. It’s a lot of work—no denying that. As an Indie author, you’re responsible for every aspect of the process—from finding the cover design, getting a professional editor, finding beta readers and then doing the marketing. It was a long process, I stumbled a lot, made some mistakes, learned a TON and was excited to do it all again.
The second installment, Rebel Rising, is due out this September and I’m so excited to continue the saga with my readers.
EXCERPT
CHAPTER 1
Rogan was
struggling to pull the last crab from the trap, its flailing claws scratching
and pinching for survival.
“Sorry bub,” he said to the scaly creature. “A
boy’s gotta eat. You’re just on the wrong end of the food chain today.” He gave
it a yank, finally prying it loose from the trap and stuffed it into his canvas
sack, suffering only a minor pinch in the process. It hadn’t been the most
lucrative day, but five crabs were better than none. Regardless, it was a
much-needed afternoon alone with the ocean to mull around in his own thoughts.
Things with The Cause were escalating
with every passing day and the peace they’d known the past few years was
teetering on a precipice of destruction.
He stood and
stretched his back, stiff from hunching over the traps all afternoon. The seaside
air whipped through his shaggy hair and the salt stung at a newly acquired
scrape on his elbow, courtesy of his new mutt of a puppy. The spring air
mingled with the midday sun
to send a shimmer across the vast ocean. Resisting the urge to swim toward the
horizon and never look back, he packed his things and headed up the beach.
“Something to
spare?” a small voice called up. She knelt on a tattered blanket in the sand
with a small basket beside her. Sad round eyes begged from a sunken face. Rogan
reached into his pocket and retrieved a few pounds.
“Don’t encourage
her,” a husky voiced barked as Rogan moved to hand over the change. He snapped
up to see a portly city ranger fingering his black baton.
“She’s just a
little girl,” Rogan argued.
“Let her beg in
the alleys like the rest of ‘em. We don’t need them cluttering up the beaches
too and bothering the tourists. Now, get on.”
Rogan debated
tossing the coins her way anyway, but wasn’t particularly in the mood for a
baton to the head. He offered the child a sympathetic frown and put the pounds
back. He’d remember that face and find her again.
He moved up the
beach again until the sirens’ call of the water slipped under his skin. He
decided to postpone heading back in favor of a few moments of solitude on his
favorite rock point. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he scuttled up the
rocks like he had a thousand times, settling on a smooth patch with a view that
stretched into the unknown like the vastness of dreams. To the East, the panorama stretched over the
city center with its ancient structures reaching toward the clouds. The city
faded into the lush rolling hills of Pear
Valley Europe , but its scenery mirrored classical
paintings. The bitter wind sliced through the air, nipping his tanned skin, but
he didn’t mind. Its bite was invigorating. The drone of bickering salty
fisherman and scampering port children faded into the deep as he watched the
waves gently lick their way up the shore, and he let himself go to another place—away
from war and death.
A sudden yelp
rippled through the air, breaking his solace. He jerked to attention and
scanned the scenes below him in the sand, seeing nothing but lapping waves and a
haggard old woman peddling hand-knit garments from a canvas tent. Then, as if
the yelp had shattered and now spilled out, faint moans crept up the rocks. His
curiosity pricked, he moved to the other side of the rock plateau, nearly
toppling over the edge when he saw a girl curled up in the sand, her hand
clutching a delicate, bone-white ankle. Thick curls of burning cinnamon fell
long and wavy around her petite shoulders, and the airy fabric of her green
dress danced around her in the wind.
“You all right?”
He called out from his post. Her head jerked up and her eyes—so green they
penetrated the distance between them—widened with alarm. She said nothing,
staring at him like a wood deer caught in a hunter’s sight.
“Need some help?”
She shrank back against
the rocks without responding.
“Can’t you talk?” He
called out again. When she didn’t answer again, Rogan carefully footed the
rocks and lowered himself into the sand.
“Of course I can
speak,” the girl snapped as he approached, her body stiff and defensive. “I’m not
an animal.”
Her annoyance tickled
him and he stifled a snicker. The girl
lowered her head and examined her hands intently. The early spring breeze was
toying with her long sundress, blowing the soft, silky fabric—completely
inappropriate for the beach—firmly against her slight figure. Her ethereal
presence captured him in time before she felt his gaze and shot her emerald
eyes up sharply to meet his.
“Don’t you
know it’s rude to stare?” She asked in a tone so arrogant it suggested she was
accustomed to being the most important person in the room. He hadn’t realized
he was staring and his response caught in his throat.
“I asked you a
question,” she stated firmly. “Or perhaps you don’t hear?”
He expelled an
uncontrollable belly laugh. She looked about his age, but her tone suggested a
great deal more naiveté. And a lot more
spoiled.
“So you ask to
help me, and then just stand there. Are you dumb?” She continued, clearly frustrated.
“Not last I
checked, but I guess it’s up for debate.” He grinned.
She rolled her
eyes and let out a melodramatic sigh.
“Just leave me
alone.” She turned her head away and went back to gripping her ankle. Humid,
silent air surrounded them as he stood quietly a few yards away—not sure of
what to say—their only accompaniment the faint squawking serenade of a sea bird
perched on a light pole.
“I’ve hurt myself;
in case you were too stupid to notice,” she finally snapped, nodding toward her
swollen ankle. Rogan smirked.
“I see that.” He came
and knelt beside her in the sand. Up close, he saw the evidence of tears—her
red-rimmed eyes were a sharp contrast to skin like polished marble. He fought
back every instinct that begged to trace that skin with a fingertip. As if
sensing his hidden urge, she instinctively pulled away. “Hey, don’t worry. I
don’t bite. Let me look,” he insisted.
He pushed her
hands aside and examined the red, swollen lump on her ankle that was quickly
darkening into a fierce shade of angry purple. She winced at his touch.
“Fall off the
rocks?”
She unconsciously
glanced to where the jagged mini cliff climbed into a towering peak above and
blushed.
“I was trying to
look at the distance,” she admitted with a sigh. “The view is…I never get to
see the ocean.”
“That’s sounds a
little destitute,” he laughed. “The view is pretty incredible, but the rocks
are more slippery than you’d think,” he tried to console her as he examined her
injury. “Well, it doesn’t look like you’ve got anything more serious than a bad
twist. It’ll be swollen and sore for a week or so, but you’ll be fine.”
“How do you know
that?”
“You’re not the only one who likes a good view.”
He grinned, coaxing a tiny, shy smile from her. “Can you stand?”
Her brow furrowed
and she twisted her mouth in what looked like an admission of fear. Rogan gave
her a half smile.
“Let me help you. Just
be careful.” He reached his arms under hers and, before she could protest, he
hoisted her up. She let out an exaggerated yelp of pain and scowled.
“Be careful!”
“Aren’t you a
delicate thing?” he teased to her vexation.
She steadied
herself on her good ankle and tried to stand straight.
“So, what’s your
name?”
She shot him a
disbelieving look.
“I beg your
pardon, whoever-you-are, but do not think to address me so comfortably. You
don’t even know me,” she asserted, with one delicate arm now on her hip, nearly
causing her to topple over. Rogan chortled.
“What does
that even mean? You’re going to have to talk normal if you want me to
understand you.”
The girl rolled
her eyes.
“Well, so sorry if
some of us prefer to speak properly.”
“Well, so sorry if
some of us would rather be understood.” He playfully patted her cheek. Her
cheeks filled with blood and her fists clenched. She swatted his hand away.
“Stop that!”
“Oh come on,
don’t be so serious. Never met a girl hanging out by the docks unwilling to
give out her name.”
“I’ll have
you know, I don’t make a habit of hanging around the docks.” She pursed her quivering
lips.
“Sorry, sorry. No
need to get so worked up. Let’s try this all again, okay? I’m Rogan. You?” She glared
at him and her rosy mouth twisted into a tight, stubborn purse. “Maybe you
don’t have a name?”
She rolled her
eyes and unclenched her fists.
“Of course I have
a name. I’m El. El…” she struggled with the words. “Just El.” Rogan extended
his hand in courtesy.
“It is a pleasure
to make your acquaintance, Just El,” he said with exaggerated formality. If her
high dialect didn’t give it away, he would have known she was upper class
simply by the way she stared blankly at his extended hand. You weren’t supposed
to shake hands with high-born girls and they were not accustomed to anyone
breaking that practice. But after a moment, she hesitantly reached out, placed
her small hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. The feel of her warm skin pressed
against his sent a small tremor through his fingertips.
“So, whatcha doing
just falling off rocks all by yourself?” He asked, shaking off the energy in
his fingers.
“I told you, I was looking at the ocean.” She
let her eyes wander back to the water.
“It’s just water.
They keep you locked in a cage or something?” he laughed. She didn’t respond.
“Anyway, it’s not really safe to be wandering this close to the docks by
yourself.”
At that, she
rolled her eyes.
“Oh please,” she
huffed. “I come down here all the time.”
Rogan eyed her
silken dress and shiny beaded sandals skeptically.
“Clearly. Well, I
should get you to where you can wrap your ankle. Is there some place you’re
supposed to be?”
“No!” She let out
an apprehensive sigh. “I mean, I’m supposed to be sitting at the library
listening to a lecture, but I was so bored. I never get to come into
town. I can’t very well just sit indoors when I finally do, right? So I…stepped
out.”
Rogan laughed. Two
rosy spheres formed on her milky white cheeks and he had to snap his eyes away
to keep from staring.
“Well, I guess we
better get you back then.” He then realized they were in a secluded cove with
no way out other than up the rocks, or through the water. “Um…I’m guessing you
can’t climb on that thing, can you?” El’s face flushed and she lowered her eyes
before shaking her head. “Okay, didn’t think so. Well…” he regarded both the
rock wall and her. “I guess I’ll have to piggyback you.”
Her bright eyes
widened with horror.
“Excuse me? You
want me to…to…” she pointed a finger at him. Rogan shrugged.
“I don’t see
another way out unless you want to brave the ocean. But I warn you—that’s still
winter water out there. And the rocks right here are nasty sharp.”
El’s eyes flicked
to the playful waves tickling the shore then back to the steep cliff. She
sighed dramatically.
“I can’t believe this,” she muttered.
“Hey, don’t blame
me. I didn’t push you off the wall.”
“Are you sure you
can carry me?”
“You look pretty
light. Just make sure to hold on.”
She grimaced, then
hobbled closer. Rogan knelt down onto one knee. Gingerly, El slid her wiry arms
around his neck then eased her body up onto his back.
“Holding on?”
“Yes.”
He stood abruptly,
drawing a yelp from El, who now hung like foul in a butcher’s shop from around
his neck. Rogan choked as her arms pressed deeper into his throat.
“You’re going to
need to wrap your legs around me to distribute your weight,” he almost laughed.
“Haven’t you ever had a piggyback ride?” He couldn’t see her face, but he was
pretty sure she scowled at the back of his head. Regardless, she slid her legs
around his middle and locked them into place. The warmth of her slender form
against his back and her breath on his neck tickled at his insides. “Good.
Okay, now hold on.”
She hardly weighed
more than his pack of crabs, so he made it up the rocks without too much
effort, despite her shrieks and excessive grip around his neck. When they
reached the cliff top, he crouched down to let El slide off, who then fell to
the ground in a pile of giggles.
“Well, that was
definitely a first,” she laughed, releasing her breath. Her cinnamon hair, now
wind tousled, fell around her narrow shoulders in a cascade of tangles, and her
fair cheeks were rosy and wind-kissed. Rogan reached down to help her back up.
“C’mon. Let’s get
back to town. Can you make it down the rest of the way?” She nodded. He picked
up his sack of crabs and flung it over his shoulder. “Good, I have to get this
catch up to the fish market. After that I’ll take you back to the Plaza.”
They hobbled down
the slope of the cliff toward Plaza Hiro, the heart of Arelanda City Europe ’s center hadn’t been the same
since the war and the subsequent failed rebellion.
The succulent
scent of fried bread swept past Rogan’s nose and he had the sudden urge to
gnash his teeth into a renowned Arelanda
City
“Damn, that smells
good,” Rogan said more to himself than his companion.
“Indeed. What is
that glorious aroma?” El asked, closing her eyes and absorbing the scent. Rogan
snickered.
“Do you always
talk like that?” Her refined dialect was near theatrical. She answered his
question with a haughty scowl.
“You can be very
rude, you know.”
“That’s fried
bread,” he ignored her insult. “C’mon, let’s get one. I’m starved.”
“Fried what?”
“You’ve never had
fried bread? Where are you from?”
Rogan asked in genuine shock, stopping to face her. Confusion twisted her
expression.
“Fried bread? Fried in what, fat?”
Rogan shook his head.
“No, not fat. Grape
seed oil. You’ve really never had it?” he asked doubtfully. She shook her head.
“It’s not like I’m
lying.”
“Well then you, my
dear Just El, are in for a treat.”
They approached
the rickety bread stand draped in a coarse white canopy with a hand-painted
sign that read: “Viola’s Famous Fried
Bread. Half pound for half loaf.” El tossed a handful of coins onto the
counter.
“I’ll
take…whatever this will get.” Viola, with cropped black hair striped with gray
and a small puckered mouth, eyed the girl with a look of both skepticism and contempt.
Young girls in silk dresses didn’t just throw around handfuls of money at the
port.
“Hey, Viola.
Friend from…out of town,” Rogan nodded toward El.
Viola rolled her
saggy eyes but reached for the bread, gave each piece a thick slab of steaming
butter, and wrapped four half loaves into waxed paper. Slinging bread for thirty
years portside had given Viola very little tolerance for anyone.
Rogan was still
unwrapping his piece when El eagerly sank her teeth into the steaming,
succulent slice of thick, buttery bread.
“Good God,” she
squealed with her mouth full of dough and lips slicked with butter. Oil dripped
down her chin. “It’s superb!”
Rogan tried to stifle a laugh.
“Congratulations.
You’ve officially tasted the most amazing thing in the world.” He helped
himself to a bite of his own. “C’mon,” he motioned her to follow as he took a
seat on the ledge of a large stone fountain carved in the likeness of a lion.
El gobbled up the first large slab as if she didn’t know when she might eat
next, which by the healthy glow of her polished skin was clearly not the case.
Rogan wrapped up the rest of his own bread and placed it in his sack, knowing
his little sister Arianna would be ecstatic over it.
“Thanks for the
snack,” he was a little embarrassed at having some girl buy him food. That
wasn’t the way he did things.
“Thanks for
helping me with my ankle.” She smiled. “Who knows what kind of danger I would
have found otherwise?”
“You wouldn’t have
stood a chance.”
“So, do you live
around here?” She asked, pulling an embroidered handkerchief from her dress
pocket and wiping the grease from her chin.
“No, our vineyard
is a few miles out of the city boundaries. In Pear Valley
“Vineyard? You
grow grapes?” Her expression brightened. Rogan nodded.
“And make wine.
Best in Arelanda.”
“Aren’t you a
little young to run a business?” She asked skeptically, her eyes regarding his
features as if to decide if that were true. Rogan chuckled and shrugged his
shoulders.
“Is that just a
coy way of finding out my age?”
El’s mouth
twitched and she shrugged.
“Maybe.”
“Well I’m sixteen,
so hardly. Seventeen this summer.”
“You actually seem
older than that,” El examined his face curiously.
“Sometimes I feel
older,” Rogan laughed. “But I’m getting pretty good at it. Winemaking, I mean.
Practically been at it since I could walk.”
El bit her
perfectly pink lip and seemed to ponder the idea of working.
“Isn’t it a bit
cruel and uncivilized to put children to work?” She half teased.
“I guess the
civilized part is up for debate, but cruel? Hardly. We don’t tolerate idleness
in the Valley. Too much to be done. What about you? Live in the city?”
Her face shifted
to a look of contemplation like it was a trick question.
“We...we live
outside of the city as well. We have...a bit of land.”
“Do you farm?”
Rogan perked up. Maybe they had something in common. She pursed her lips and slowly
shook her head.
“No.” She didn’t
offer additional explanation. Silence seized the moment and they sat awkwardly,
fumbling with the quiet.
“Well, I still
have work to do,” Rogan finally said, realizing that as much as he didn’t want
to pull himself away from this mysterious girl, he should get going. The last
thing he needed was to be accused of corrupting some heiress. He was well aware
that unnecessary mingling of classes was always considered suspicious.
“Can I take you
anywhere?”
El’s eyes fell
with the weight of disappointment.
“No, that’s okay.
I’ll manage from here,” she sighed.
“How’s your
ankle?”
“It hurts, but not
as badly as I thought it would.”
“Good.” He helped
her steady herself. “It should heal up in a few weeks. Just don’t climb any
more rocks ‘til it does.”
“Thank you for
your help, Rogan.” She tittered, looking down at her swollen ankle. “I must
seem pretty pathetic. Such a damsel in distress, eh?” She looked up at him, her
large cat eyes shimmering in the sunlight.
“Nah. I’ve seen
worse.”
Blush snuck up on
her cheeks again.
“Well, ‘bye then.”
She turned to walk away, but hesitated.
“It was nice, um…meeting
you,” Rogan blurted out.
She stopped in
place and paused for a moment before turning back with a mischievous glance. Something
teetering on dangerous swept over her eyes and she tilted her head.
“Maybe it won’t be the last time.” With that, she turned and
hobbled toward the library.
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About the author
Amanda J. Clay is a writing YA and Adult fiction from Dallas, TX. A Northern California native, she had a fantastic time studying English and Journalism at Chico State University and then a very serious time slaving away for a Master’s degree in Communications from California State University, Fullerton. When she’s not staring at a computer screen, she spends most of her spare time on some new fitness addiction and plotting world adventures.
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