Blog Tour: The Unwilling by Kelly Braffet

A penetrating tale of magic, faith and pride...

THE UNWILLING by KELLY BRAFFET

Series: Standalone

Publication date: February 11, 2020

Published by: Harlequin/Mira

Genre: fantasy, YA

 

SYNOPSIS

The Unwilling is the story of Judah, a foundling born with a special gift and raised inside Highfall castle along with Gavin, the son and heir to Lord Elban's vast empire. Judah and Gavin share an unnatural bond that is both the key to her survival... and possibly her undoing.

As Gavin is groomed for his future role, Judah comes to realize that she has no real position within the kingdom, in fact, no hope at all of ever traveling beyond its castle walls. Elban - a lord as mighty as he is cruel - has his own plans for her, for all of them. She is a mere pawn to him, and he will stop at nothing to get what he wants.

But outside the walls, in the starving, desperate city, a magus, a healer with his own secret power unlike anything Highfall has seen in years, is newly arrived from the provinces. He, too, has plans for the empire, and at the heart of those plans lies Judah... The girl who started life with no name and no history will soon uncover more to her story than she ever imagined.

An epic tale of greed and ambition, cruelty and love, this deeply immersive novel is about bowing to traditions and burning them down.

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EXCERPT

Prologue

On the third day of the convocation, two of the Slonimi scouts killed a calf, and the herbalist’s boy wept because he’d watched the calf being born and grown to love it. His
mother stroked his hair and promised he would forget by the time the feast came, the following night. He told her he would never forget. She said, “Just wait.”

He spent all of the next day playing with the children from the other caravan; three days before, they’d all been strangers, but Slonimi children were used to making friends quickly. The group the boy and his mother traveled with had come across the desert to the south, and they found the cool air of the rocky plain a relief from the heat. The others had come from the grassy plains farther west, and were used to milder weather. While the adults traded news and maps and equipment, the children ran wild. Only one boy, from the other caravan, didn’t run or play: a pale boy, with fine features, who followed by habit a few feet behind one of the older women from the other caravan. “Derie’s apprentice,” the other children told him, and shrugged, as if there was nothing more to say. The older woman was the other group’s best Worker, with dark hair going to grizzle and gimlet eyes. Every time she appeared the herbalist suddenly remembered an herb her son needed to help her prepare, or something in their wagon that needed cleaning. The boy was observant, and clever, and it didn’t take him long to figure out that his mother was trying to keep him away from the older woman: she, who had always demanded he face everything head-on, who had no patience for what she called squeamishness and megrims.

After a hard day of play over the rocks and dry, grayish grass, the boy was starving. A cold wind blew down over the rocky plain from the never-melting snow that topped the high peaks of the Barriers to the east; the bonfire was warm. The meat smelled good. The boy had not forgotten the calf but when his mother brought him meat and roasted potatoes and soft pan bread on a plate, he did not think of him. Gerta—the head driver of the boy’s caravan—had spent the last three days with the other head driver, poring over bloodline records to figure out who between their two groups might be well matched for breeding, and as soon as everybody had a plate of food in front of them they announced the results. The adults and older teenagers seemed to find this all fascinating. The herbalist’s boy was nine years old and he didn’t understand the fuss. He knew how it went: the matched pairs would travel together until a child was on the way, and then most likely never see each other again. Sometimes they liked each other, sometimes they didn’t. That, his mother had told him, was what brandy was for.

The Slonimi caravans kept to well-defined territories, and any time two caravans met there was feasting and trading and music and matching, but this was no ordinary meeting, and both sides knew it. After everyone had eaten their fill, a few bottles were passed. Someone had a set of pipes and someone else had a sitar, but after a song or two, nobody wanted any more music. Gerta—who was older than the other driver—stood up. She was tall and strong, with ropy, muscular limbs. “Well,” she said, “let’s see them.”

In the back, the herbalist slid an arm around her son. He squirmed under the attention but bore it.

From opposite sides of the fire, a young man and a young woman were produced. The young man, Tobin, had been traveling with Gerta’s people for years. He was smart but not unkind, but the herbalist’s son thought him aloof. With good reason, maybe; Tobin’s power was so strong that being near him made the hair on the back of the boy’s neck stand up. Unlike all the other Workers—who were always champing at the bit to get a chance to show off—Tobin was secretive about his skills. He shared a wagon with Tash, Gerta’s best Worker, even though the two men didn’t seem particularly friendly with each other. More than once the boy had glimpsed their lantern burning late into the night, long after the main fire was embers.

The young woman had come across the plains with the others. The boy had seen her a few times; she was small, round, and pleasant-enough looking. She didn’t strike the boy as particularly remarkable. But when she came forward, the other caravan’s best Worker—the woman named Derie—came with her. Tash stood up when Tobin did, and when they all stood in front of Gerta, the caravan driver looked from one of them to the other. “Tash and Derie,” she said, “you’re sure?”

“Already decided, and by smarter heads than yours,” the gimlet-eyed woman snapped.

Tash, who wasn’t much of a talker, merely said, “Sure.”

Gerta looked back at the couple. For couple they were; the boy could see the strings tied round each wrist, to show they’d already been matched. “Hard to believe,” she said. “But I know it’s true. I can feel it down my spine. Quite a legacy you two carry; five generations’ worth, ever since mad old Martin bound up the power in the world. Five generations of working and planning and plotting and hoping; that’s the legacy you two carry.” The corner of her mouth twitched slightly. “No pressure.”

A faint ripple of mirth ran through the listeners around the fire. “Nothing to joke about, Gerta,” Derie said, lofty and hard, and Gerta nodded.

“I know it. They just seem so damn young, that’s all.” The driver sighed and shook her head. “Well, it’s a momentous occasion. We’ve come here to see the two of you off, and we send with you the hopes of all the Slonimi, all the Workers of all of our lines, back to the great John Slonim himself, whose plan this was. His blood runs in both of you. It’s strong and good and when we put it up against what’s left of Martin’s, we’re bound to prevail, and the world will be free.”

“What’ll we do with ourselves then, Gert?” someone called out from the darkness, and this time the laughter was a full burst, loud and relieved.

Gerta smiled. “Teach the rest of humanity how to use the power, that’s what we’ll do. Except you, Fausto. You can clean up after the horses.”

More laughter. Gerta let it run out, and then turned to the girl.

“Maia,” she said, serious once more. “I know Derie’s been drilling this into you since you were knee-high, but once you’re carrying, the clock is ticking. Got to be inside, at the end.”

“I know,” Maia said.

Gerta scanned the crowd. “Caterina? Cat, where are you?”

Next to the boy, the herbalist cleared her throat. “Here, Gerta.”

Gerta found her, nodded, and turned back to Maia. “Our Cat’s the best healer the Slonimi have. Go see her before you set out. If you’ve caught already, she’ll know. If you haven’t, she’ll know how to help.”

“It’s only been three days,” Tobin said, sounding slighted.

“Nothing against you, Tobe,” Gerta said. “Nature does what it will. Sometimes it takes a while.”

“Not this time,” Maia said calmly.

A murmur ran through the crowd. Derie sat up bolt-straight, her lips pressed together. “You think so?” Gerta said, matching Maia’s tone—although nobody was calm, even the boy could feel the sudden excited tension around the bonfire.

“I know so,” Maia said, laying a hand on her stomach. “I can feel her.”

The tension exploded in a mighty cheer. Instantly, Tobin wiped the sulk off his face and replaced it with pride. The boy leaned into his mother and whispered, under the roar, “Isn’t it too soon to tell?”

“For most women, far too soon, by a good ten days. For Maia?” Caterina sounded as if she were talking to herself, as much as to her son. The boy felt her arm tighten around him. “If she says there’s a baby, there’s a baby.”

After that the adults got drunk. Maia and Tobin slipped away early. Caterina knew a scout from the other group, a man named Sadao, and watching the two of them dancing together, the boy decided to make himself scarce. Tash would have an empty bunk, now that Tobin was gone, and he never brought women home. He’d probably share. If not, there would be a bed somewhere. There always was.

In the morning, the boy found Caterina by the fire, only slightly bleary, and brewing a kettle of strong-smelling tea. Her best hangover cure, she told her son. He took out his notebook and asked what was in it. Ginger, she told him, and willowbark, and a few other things; he wrote them all down carefully. Labeled the page. Caterina’s Hangover Cure.

Then he looked up to find the old woman from the bonfire, Derie, listening with shrewd, narrow eyes. Behind her hovered her apprentice, the pale boy, who this morning had a bruised cheek. “Charles, go fetch my satchel,” she said to him, and he scurried away. To Caterina, Derie said, “Your boy’s conscientious.”

“He learns quickly,” Caterina said, and maybe she just hadn’t had enough hangover tea yet, but the boy thought she sounded wary.

“And fair skinned,” Derie said. “Who’s his father?”

“Jasper Arasgain.”

Derie nodded. “Travels with Afia’s caravan, doesn’t he? Solid man.”

Caterina shrugged. The boy had only met his father a few times. He knew Caterina found Jasper boring.

“Healer’s a good trade. Everywhere needs healers.” Derie paused. “A healer could find his way in anywhere, I’d say. And with that skin—”

The boy noticed Gerta nearby, listening. Her own skin was black as obsidian. “Say what you’re thinking, Derie,” the driver said.

“Highfall,” the old woman said, and immediately, Caterina said, “No.”

“It’d be a great honor for him, Cat,” Gerta said. The boy thought he detected a hint of reluctance in Gerta’s voice.

“Has he done his first Work yet?” Derie said.

Caterina’s lips pressed together. “Not yet.”

Charles, the bruised boy, reappeared with Derie’s satchel.

“We’ll soon change that,” the old woman said, taking the satchel without a word and rooting through until she found a small leather case. Inside was a small knife, silver-colored but without the sheen of real silver.

The boy noticed his own heartbeat, hard hollow thuds in his chest. He glanced at his mother. She looked unhappy, her brow furrowed. But she said nothing.

“Come here, boy,” Derie said.

He sneaked another look at his mother, who still said nothing, and went to stand next to the woman. “Give me your arm,” she said, and he did. She held his wrist with a hand that was both soft and hard at the same time. Her eyes were the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen.

“It’s polite to ask permission before you do this,” she told him. “Not always possible, but polite. I need to see what’s in you, so if you say no, I’ll probably still cut you, but—do I have your permission?”

Behind Derie, Gerta nodded. The bruised boy watched curiously.

“Yes,” the boy said.

“Good,” Derie said. She made a quick, confident cut in the ball of her thumb, made an identical cut in his small hand, quickly drew their two sigils on her skin in the blood, and pressed the cuts together.

The world unfolded. But unfolded was too neat a word, too tidy. This was like when he’d gone wading in the western sea and been knocked off his feet, snatched underwater, tossed in a maelstrom of sand and sun and green water and foam—but this time it wasn’t merely sand and sun and water and foam that swirled around him, it was everything. All of existence, all that had ever been, all that would ever be. His mother was there, bright and hot as the bonfire the night before—not her face or her voice but the Caterina of her, her very essence rendered into flame and warmth.

But most of what he felt was Derie. Derie, immense and powerful and fierce: Derie, reaching into him, unfolding him as surely as she’d unfolded the world. And this was neat and tidy, methodical, almost cold. She unpacked him like a trunk, explored him like a new village. She sought out his secret corners and dark places. When he felt her approval, he thrilled. When he felt her contempt, he trembled. And everywhere she went she left a trace of herself behind like a scent, like the chalk marks the Slonimi sometimes left for each other. Her sigil was hard-edged, multi-cornered. It was everywhere. There was no part of him where it wasn’t.

Then it was over, and he was kneeling by the campfire, throwing up. Caterina was next to him, making soothing noises as she wrapped a cloth around his hand. He leaned against her, weak and grateful.

“It’s all right, my love,” she whispered in his ear, and the nervousness was gone. Now she sounded proud, and sad, and as if she might be crying. “You did well.”

He closed his eyes and saw, on the inside of his eyelids, the woman’s hard, angular sigil, burning like a horse brand.

“Don’t coddle him,” Derie said, and her voice reached through him, back into the places inside him where she’d left her mark. Caterina’s arm dropped away. He forced himself to open his eyes and stand up. His entire body hurt. Derie was watching him, calculating but—yes—pleased. “Well, boy,” she said. “You’ll never be anyone’s best Worker, but you’re malleable, and you’ve got the right look. There’s enough power in you to be of use, once you’re taught to use it. You want to learn?”

“Yes,” he said, without hesitating.

“Good,” she said. “Then you’re my apprentice now, as much as your mother’s. You’ll still learn herbs from your mother, so we’ll join our wagon to your group. But don’t expect the kisses and cuddles from me you get from her. For me, you’ll work hard and you’ll learn hard and maybe someday you’ll be worthy of the knowledge I’ll pass on to you. Say, Yes, Derie.”

“Yes, Derie,” he said.

“You’ve got a lot to learn,” she said. “Go with Charles. He’ll show you where you sleep.”

He hesitated, looked at his mother, because it hadn’t occurred to him that he would be leaving her. Suddenly, swiftly, Derie kicked hard at his leg. He yelped and jumped out of the way. Behind her he saw Charles—he of the bruised face—wince, unsurprised but not unsympathetic.

“Don’t ever make me ask you anything twice,” she said.

“Yes, Derie,” he said, and ran.


Excerpted from The Unwilling by Kelly Braffet. Copyright © 2020 by Kelly Braffet. Published by MIRA Books.

Q&A WITH KELLY BRAFFET

Q: The Unwilling is your fourth published book. How are you feeling? Is the excitement from the first book still running high with your fourth?

A: It’s my fourth published book, but it’s my first fantasy novel, so it feels a little like my first novel! Obviously some of the mechanics of having a book out are more familiar (like blog tours!), but it’s hard to not be anxious about a book release. This is a huge project; I’ve been working on it for twenty years, and will hopefully be working on it for several more. Right now I’m really just trying to immerse myself in writing the sequel so I don’t spend too much time obsessing about the first one.

Q: The Unwilling is different from anything you’ve ever written. Why the change in genre, and what was the inspiration? Were there any challenges that came about from writing in a new genre?

A: I’ve always been a fantasy reader, and I do mean always. I remember bringing my parents’ copy of Lord of the Rings to school in second grade - mostly because it had a cool spooky cover, but still. The first ideas I ever had for stories were for fantasy, and in fact The Unwilling was the first novel I ever seriously tried to write. After my last novel, Save Yourself, came out, I spent about a year and a half working on another crime novel that just never took off, and when I finally gave up on it my agent suggested I try to write a draft of the fantasy novel I’d been talking about forever. I’ll always be grateful to her for that, because one of the things holding me back had been the concern that she wouldn’t be interested.

As far as challenges go, I think there’s a tendency in fantasy novels to go a bit lofty with language, and I didn’t escape that. This sounds silly, but in the early chapters, I had to remind myself to use contractions, which is a problem I never had when writing about a guy who works in a convenience store. And so much of our language comes from technology that doesn’t exist in Highfall - light switches, computers, telephones - that I had to really think about the words and images I used to make sure that they weren’t anachronistic, although I’m sure a few anachronisms slipped in. I also did a lot of thinking about the mechanics of everyday life; do they have plumbing? Where does their coffee come from? What happens when they get sick? We don’t think much about those things in contemporary life, but we probably should.

Q: What is your favorite under-appreciated novel and why?

A: I’m not sure exactly what’s considered under-appreciated, so here are some books that I’m baffled don’t have more Goodreads reviews. There’s a wonderful series by Nathan Larson called The Dewey Decimal System, which is about a man who lives in post-apocalyptic New York City and has taken it as his duty to protect the NYPL. Things don’t go as planned. All three of the books are incredibly fun. Adam Christopher’s Ray Electromatic Mysteries are just a joy, particularly for somebody who loves a good genre-bender as much as I do. Science fiction and classic-style noir? Sign me up.

Beth Lewis wrote a great novel a few years ago called The Wolf Road, which is an amazing (also post-apocalyptic!) road novel with a twist that I still think about on a pretty regular basis. More people should definitely read that. And Jenni Fagan’s books are both amazing - The Pantopticon was just adapted for the stage by the National Theatre of Scotland, but I loved The Sunlight Pilgrims just as much. Also, why don’t more people read Louis Bayard? That baffles me. His YA novel, Lucky Strikes, made me weep with joy.

Q: What does literary success look like to you and with that definition in mind, are you successful?

A: The problem with success - and I’m sure this is true for every field, not just the literary - is that the goalposts are constantly moving. If you’d asked me this question when I was 22, literary success would have been signing with an agent. At 25, it would have been getting a book published. My personal goal with every book has been, first, to publish the best book I could possibly write, and second, to sell enough copies of said book that somebody will be willing to publish the next one. I mean, look: who doesn’t want to sell a gajillion copies and win all the prizes? But at this point in my career, I feel like the next goalpost is to feel confident that I’ll be able to sell the next book, whatever it is.

Q: Out of all your writings, published and unpublished, which is your favorite?

A: My favorite book is always the one I haven’t written yet. Which is kind of a joke, but also kind of serious: the ones that only exist in my head are still all shiny and full of potential. It’s hard to look at the ones that I’ve already written and not see the things I didn’t manage to do. I am still pretty proud of Save Yourself, although there are aspects of it that I wish I’d written differently. Honestly, I think The Unwilling is the most fully realized. I would say that I love the sequel I’m working on right now even more, but it’s still at that awkward stage where it all feels rough and terrible. (I think most writers will agree that it’s incredibly difficult to go from a very polished piece of work to a rough draft!)

Q: What has been the most difficult thing about writing not just this book, but a book with cross over potential geared towards young adults?

A: Honestly, this is going to sound like one of those canned answers, but I don’t really think about that when I’m writing. (Maybe I should!) I just write the story in the way that feels true, and trust that we’ll all be able to figure out the marketing afterward. I will say that there was a moment early on when I was talking to my agent about crossover potential, and I said that I was fine with it as long as I didn’t have to cut anything, content-wise. Fortunately YA today is a pretty broad and forgiving umbrella, so that wasn’t a concern.

Lots of writers will rail against labels like YA - or thrillers, or literary fiction. Honestly, I want my books to go on the shelves where my readers are most likely to find them, and the more shelves, the merrier! When I was an actual young adult, I read adult fiction. My mother, whose adult bonafides are without question, reads young adult fiction. Everything is for everyone.

Q: What advice would you give to new and even experienced authors?

A: Actually, I was just talking with an author friend yesterday about this very thing. The only advice I have - and experienced authors know this, but most of us have to be reminded occasionally - is that the only way to write a book is to write it. I meet so many people who, when they hear I’m a writer, will tell me with enormous enthusiasm about their awesome book idea; and that’s great! Awesome book ideas are awesome! But you actually have to write the book - the entire book - and then you have to write it over again four or five times. That’s the hardest part.

(Also, have a trusted love one screen your internet reviews, and only read you the ones that are laudatory or hilarious. But if a negative review should cross your path and break your heart, I suggest looking up a book you loved on one of the book sites, and reading that book’s bad reviews. It will be baffling, and it might make you feel better.)

(Also, don’t let bad reviews break your heart. It’s an opinion. Life goes on.)

Praise for The Unwilling:

"Kelly Braffet is extraordinary... Familiar yet entirely unique, The Unwilling is the sort of story that seeps under your skin and pulses there, intimate and vibrant and alive. Fantasy at its most sublime."--Erin Morgenstern, NYT bestselling author of The Starless Sea and The Night Circus

"A juggernaut of an epic fantasy novel with ingenious, thrilling twists and turns. Put this on the shelf beside Naomi Novik and George R. R. Martin. Kelly Braffet is a marvel and I'll read anything she writes." --Kelly Link, MacArthur Genius Recipient and author of Get in Trouble

"Kelly Braffet's The Unwilling is a viscerally powerful book. Full of complex and compelling characters, this is the story of the corruptions of power and the strength it takes to resist. This is an incredible, brilliant story." --Kat Howard, author of Roses and Rot

"Gorgeously told, The Unwilling is at once a sweeping epic and an intimate portrait of being trapped in an oppressive regime. Meet your new favorite fantasy writer." --Gwenda Bond, NYT bestselling author of Stranger Things: Suspicious Minds

"Suspenseful, magical, wonderfully written, and never predictable, Braffet's first foray into speculative fiction is an essential addition to all epic-fantasy collections." –Booklist, STARRED Review

"Wow...The characters, the world, the magic and greed and politics and pain--all of it adds up to something wonderful. I love it."–Ellen Datlow, award-winning editor and anthologist


“Braffet has a real gift for dialogue, and Judah’s quick cleverness is a constant joy… Readers will fall in love with the contemplative pace, brisk dialogue and rebellious heroine of The Unwilling.” –BookPage

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kelly Braffet writes stories about unhappy people making bad decisions, occasionally with magic. She is the author of The Unwilling (available 2/20 from Mira Books), Save Yourself, and Last Seen Leaving; her first novel, Josie and Jack, has been made into a feature film starring Olivia DeJonge, Alex Neustaedter, and William Fitchner, and directed by Sarah Lancaster. Her writing has been published in the Fairy Tale Review, Post Road, and in several anthologies, as well as on Salon.com. She is a graduate of Columbia University and Sarah Lawrence College.

She is married to the tall and immensely talented writer Owen King. He's dreamy. For more, see www.kellybraffet.com.

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