The Books of Maveryn
The Books of Maveryn are a quartet of interrelated stories that take place in the world of Maveryn before the events of The Dark Between series. Learn more about each book in the quartet below.
Life is full of falls.
Men spill from their horses. Children trip. Women catch their babies as they tumble from their wombs. On occasion, the troubled pitch themselves from rooftops or rock faces in the hopes of ending a more visceral fall. But it’s not the fall that matters. It’s the landing. Or rather, what results of the landing.
Broken bones. Bruises. Tiny scratches that blossom with pinpricks of shiny crimson or cuts so wide-mouthed and frightening they leave even the strongest queasy as a maiden on her wedding night.
This was my domain. The wounded, the fallen. All my years I spent single-mindedly devoted to their cause, and make no mistake, I excelled in my devotion. Each suture was my offering, each set bone my song of praise. For my devotion I was rewarded with a skill of hand and a sharpness of mind that spoke of hallowed greatness—a double-edged sword, for it is said that greatness oft breeds blindness.
Maybe that was why I didn’t saw my own fall coming.
They say I killed my mother as I made my way out her womb, but that wasn’t uncommon.
It was my lips, black as night, and my silent, unbroken cries, trapped inside long-still lungs. The way those lungs flared to life the moment my mother breathed her last, as if she had sacrificed her very spirit for the child that had grown so long within her.
The elders said it was a bad omen. That any child born dead should stay dead. “It is’na natural for a spirit to leave a body and fill up another,” they told me when my father was not near. It was a careful sentence, restrained, but I knew the truth they kept behind locked lips: You are an unnatural child, a child of the black.
I recall those words each day, wondering when the blackness will rear its fearsome head, when I will shed my natural skin and become the unnatural thing that lies within. And today, standing ankle deep in chill autumn mud, fingers slick with blood the color of rust, I wonder if that day has finally come.