The Rise of Ersyla

By J.M. Sullivan

From the author of the award winning 'Alice: The Wanderland Chronicles' comes another journey into a darker fairytale.

Before she was the sea witch, Ersyla was a simple girl with an unfortunate secret.

It wasn’t her fault magick was a part of her, or that the King’s heartache turned the world against her. Struggling to understand how she could be put to death just for living, Ersyla must learn who to trust before her dark secret turns her heart even darker.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.M. Sullivan
• Release date: Oct 18, 2017

J.M. Sullivan

Teacher by day, award-winning author by night, J.M. Sullivan is a fairy tale fanatic who loves taking classic stories and turning them on their head When she is not writing, J.M. prefers to cat, choosing instead to stay at home and spend time with her husband and their four amazing kids. Although known to dabble in adulting, J.M. is a big kid at heart who still believes in true love, magic, and most of all, the power of coffee.

Book preview

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The Rise of Ersyla

By J.M. Sullivan

Bryony doesn’t know I’m cheating. She can’t know, or we’ll all be dead. At least, that’s what Mama tells me. She says I must guard my magick with my life, because my magick is my life. Or it will be. Right now, it’s mostly only good for chores and teasing Fen. And for beating Bryony when we play Witchhunt.

I shuffle under the leaves I’ve magicked into a covering. They were there before I hid; I just helped them grow a little. Now, they’ve formed a thick underbrush that Bryony will be too afraid to come near. Bryony is my best friend, but she’s like a scared rabbit. Jumpy. I’ve always been the brave one, the wild one. It’s probably how I look now; wild, with my black hair tumbling around my shoulders and its gnarled tangles kissing my dark skin. My normally muted green eyes are bright, sparkling with magick. This is the way I like them best. Too bad nobody can ever see them that way.

I look like a witch.

I smile, secretly pleased I’ve used the forbidden word to describe myself. My family is so afraid of that word. Mother, and Fen. Even my father, so brave and strong, gets shifty at the mention of witchery. But I like it. It makes me feel brave.

Ersyl, come out, Bryony’s whine draws me from my thoughts. You’ve been out there for hours.

I stifle a snicker as she brushes past my hiding place, so close to finding me, but still so far. The leaves rustle, and my breath hitches. She’ll find me for sure. But the sudden noise only frightens Bryony, and she freezes, her fists clenched, knuckles white as the marble statue of King Klorien outside the village.

Slowly, Bryony turns toward my shrub and now I resemble Klorien’s relic, still as stone behind my magicked ferns. Her face is pale, which makes her duskflower blue eyes seem dark in comparison. Her lips tremble as they form my name, but no sound comes out, save a frightened wheeze. She’s a rabbit. A beautiful, scared rabbit.

I hesitate as I watch her, thinking how terrible she must feel, living always afraid; then I remember Bryony doesn’t have anything to actually be afraid of, and I burn. Bryony’s nightmares are shadows in the dark, swampsnakes, hoptoads, and witches. Nothing that could actually hurt her. Unlike me. If I’m not afraid, she shouldn’t be either.

I crouch low and gather my skirt so it doesn’t catch when I move. A twig snaps under my feet, but I’m moving so quickly Bryony doesn’t have time to react before I burst out of the leaves and grab her.

Boo!

Bryony doesn’t hear me. She’s already screaming. Her high, pitched keening wail pierces my ears. Although the sound is jarring, it’s no proper self-defense. I look at Bryony, tears staining her perfect face as they course her cheeks, squeezed from sealed shut eyelids.

My shoulders sag as I exhale. She’ll never learn.

Bryony, I hiss, trying to pull her from her fear. The only response I get is a continued shriek at a higher note than any pitchflute player could ever hope to reach. I tighten my grip and give her a shake.

Bryony!

Bryony’s neck bobs on her head, jarring her eyes open. Her screech dies when she recognizes me and her cheeks flush with embarrassment before they darken in rage.

Ersyl! What in the twelve seas is wrong with you? You nearly gave me a heartstroke!

I was bored. I yawn, pretending my trick was her fault. You took forever trying to find me.

You know I hate playing Witchhunt with you, Bryony whines. I’m no good at hunting, and I hate hiding all alone. Besides, we’re not even supposed to play this game. We could get in trouble.

I roll my eyes. "From who? King Klorien? You really think he cares about two plainsgirls playing a stupid game?