Dear Fabulous Agent,
The city of Durn is haunted by the Mists, a fog that rises from the cobblestones and robs people of their sanity—or so Kaede was raised to believe.
Capable of trapping noise in bells, Kaede earned herself the name Whispermage as a thief in Durn’s slums. But everything changes the night she helps a fellow crook sneak beyond Durn’s protective wall. Before he escapes, the man reveals a secret that unravels the fabric of Kaede’s world: the Mists are a lie, a myth from ages past. They’re no more likely to drive a man insane than the jungle's daily rain.
Durn’s ruler hoards the city’s wealth, sent Kaede’s father to die in the jungle, and stole Kaede’s mother away with the lure of riches, but this final injustice is too much—this lie keeping the lowborn trapped like rats in the warren of the slums cannot be forgiven. If the Mists aren’t real, maybe nothing is—maybe not even the reason her mother left her.
To free Durn and avenge her parents, Kaede teams up with Durn’s most powerful criminals, a band of killers and thieves that run the slums. Together, they vow to spread the truth about the Mists and put an end to the ruler’s reign.
He’ll never hear the Whispermage coming.
Complete at 95,000 words, WHISPERMAGE is a fantasy novel that blends magic like that in Tamora Pierce’s Circle of Magic series with the criminal intrigue and twisting secrets of Sarah J. Maas’s Throne of Glass. Though the novel has been written as the first in a series, it can stand alone.
I’m a graduate from Rice University where I double-majored in English and Ecology & Evolutionary Biology. Now, I work for Pearson in their custom textbook department, while writing my next young adult novels.
The full manuscript is available, in part or full, upon request. Thank you for your time.
The Mists eddy about my boots, curling fingers around the laces and twining up my legs. Pale moonlight paints the cobblestones in tones of gray. I tug the hood of my cloak more firmly over my head and quicken my pace.
Two Watchmen, clad in their signature indigo cloaks, patrol Monger’s Way, clutching magefire torches. The purple fire burns away the Mists. I duck into an alley to avoid them.
The passage is little more than a gap between two sagging buildings. My boots squelch in muck I dare not identify, and I retch at the stench. A beggar hunched atop a heap of refuse, just above the Mists, grabs at my ankles, but I dart past him onto Broad Street.
I pause in the shadows, scanning for watchful eyes. Across the street, the Wall rises so high I must crane my neck to see the top. Purple torches flicker along the Wall’s base, keeping the Mists back from the stone, but on the walkway above, the torches burn with true fire, the orange light mere pinpricks from the street.
Tucked into the Wall’s shadow is a one-story gatehouse ensconcing stairs to the Wall’s walkway. The staircase sprouts from its roof. Within lies an iron portcullis.
I suck in a breath through my teeth and back into an alley. It’s wider than the last. Cleaner, too. I glance at the moon, but clouds obscure the sky.
How early am I?
The others should be here.