Rachel Rossano lives with her husband and three children in the northeastern part of the United States. Homeschooled through high school, she began writing her early teens. She didn’t become serious about pursuing a career as an author until after she had graduated from college and happily married. Then the children came.
Now she spends her days being a wife, mother, teacher, and household manager. Her evenings and free moments are devoted to her other loves, writing and book cover design. Drawing on a lifelong fascination with reading and history, she spends hours creating historical feeling fantasy worlds and populating them with characters who live and breathe on the page.
In a world where seventh born sons are valued for their strength and power, she is born a daughter.
Zezilia Ilar is the disappointment. Born after six brothers, she was supposed to be the son to restore her family’s prestige. She intends to remedy her shortcomings by being a dutiful daughter, marrying well and producing children, preferably a set of seven sons. But when someone offers her an alternative, she begins to dream of more.
In a society that worships a goddess, he follows the Almighty.
Hadrian Aleron, as a seventh son of a seventh son, stands to take up the second highest position in government, Sept Son. His main qualification for office is his birth. Despite preparing for this role from childhood, he does not desire what is to come. As a follower of the Almighty, he knows he will be the target of many, and his faith might eventually lead to death.
I frowned. Master Silas’ touch and the word in my mind had been vastly different than the sending from Master Aleron. “Does it always feel like that?”
He looked over at me and quirked an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“You know, a taste in the mouth and the pressure of something touching inside your head.” I struggled to find the words for the feeling, but those were all that came and they seemed inadequate.
“The taste, yes,” he agreed. “Each sender has a different taste and some have sensations that come with the words.”
“So, every time Master Silas sends a thought to you, your mouth tastes plums.” I looked up at him.
He smiled and nodded. “Yes.”
“What do I taste like?” I asked.
He laughed and stopped. “You are the first person to ask me that.”
“You mean you don’t know what you taste like?”
He smiled at that. “I have been told my taste defies description. I am not saying it to be prideful. There just isn’t a substance that anyone knows of that matches mine.”
I nodded. That I believed. His taste was different than anything I had ever tasted. “When you interrupted my thoughts, did you…” I looked up to find him watching my face with a thoughtful look. “Am I wrong to ask?”
“No,” he replied slowly. “I just…” Then suddenly turning away, he began striding down the path toward the water gardens. I had to trot at a very unladylike pace to keep up with him.
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