War of Whispers

Areall crept toward the parchment as if an evil spirit possessed it. "Its beauty is its deception," she whispered. "Burn it, child. Destroy it or you will curse us. The Cauldron will know. The Cauldron will see. They will come."Elabea calmly lifted the parchment from the coals, where it had refused to burn. "How can something so beautiful be evil?"The Dark War is over. Betrayal, defeat and death forever accompany any mention of the battlefield known as Min Brock. The shining kingdom of Claire is no more. Any hint of rebellion is supressed by the constant drone that echoes throughout the land. The Oracles of the Council of Ebon, the dark lords who feed the perpetual flames of the Cauldron, forbid even mentioning the name of the Only, the King of Claire, on pain of death.Yet in the night... a whisper comes to Elabea, a girl of 14 summers, who hears and dares to believe there might be more to life than the drone. Accompanied by her lifelong friend, Galadin, Elabea embarks on a dangerous journey to become one of the most powerful creatures in the land - a storyteller. Along the way she must learn to discern the true whisper of Claire from the counterfeit whisper of Ebon. One might lead her to restore light and life to a world ruled by darkness. The other leads to certain death.The War of Whispers has begun.

The Council of Ebon encircle the Cauldron, their grotesque features shrouded in shadows. With voices like ice shards scraping against stone, they disclosed their dark prophesy. Mothers, guard babes; Fathers, draw steel, Thunder approaches, soon blood on the fields. Tempest of war, so black and so vile, Spreads o'er Allsbruth; lament suckling child. War between the dark nation of Ebon and rebel forces is imminent. The armies of Ebon are vast, well trained and accustomed to victory. The hopes of Allsbruth rests on the untried skills of a young storyteller, Elabea, the courage of a warrior named Romlin and an alliance with nations whose existence is little better than myth. The Martyr's Moon rises. The blood of a storyteller is spilled. Hope vanishes. Yet in night, the King of Claire whispers.