Shadow in Starlight by Shannah Biondine

Shadow in Starlight is much more than a well-written fantasy with all of its breathtaking scenery, a rich storyline, unique new races and creatures, plus in-depth characterization. It is a story of a passionate love affair between two races of people with vastly different cultures. Frequently, the love scenes become extremely erotic, which is unusual for the standard fantasy genre, but Biondine does a fantastic job of blending it with the rest of the story's elements. I would highly recommend this sensuous tale for all fans of fantasy that ache for the romance that many novels only hint at and who love a good adventure at the same time.

-- Eva Almeida, http://www.ebook-reviews.net

Hidden wonders abound in Ms. Biondine's story of love, politics, and magic. As I read this book for the first time, I gloried in the romance between Moreya and Preece. I reveled in the sensuality of it and followed the story breathlessly. Then, I read the book a second time and noted the details of the landscape and the depth of the secondary characters. The secrets and intrigue kept me eagerly reading, and the smooth writing kept me involved in the story.

If you've ever dreamed of exploring fantasy realms, I suggest you read SHADOW IN STARLIGHT. It will carry you to its faraway realm and hold you there until the end of the story. Then you may just have to read it again and return for more - I did, and this book will be on my shelf for a long time to come!

-- Sally G. Laturi, Ivy Quill Reviews

A captivating tale of forbidden love, SHADOW IN STARLIGHT displays author Shannah Biondine's remarkable creativity. Fraught with peril, intrigue, drama, and the unexpected, readers willexperience a gamut of emotions moving from laughter to tears at the turn of a page... Primary and secondary plot lines blend together flawlessly which assists the pace, adds depth to the story, and allows opportunities for several surprises... SHADOW IN STARLIGHT is my first introduction to Ms. Biondine's writing, but it won't be my last as this unforgettable fantasy romance already has me impatient for more from this highly talented, imaginative author.

-- Sondrea Cash, Romance Reviews Today

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"Forsooth, a wry misadventure," King Cronel declared with a heavy sigh. "Your father will be sorely missed. He was one of my most valued advisors."

Wry misadventure?

Moreya Fa Yune tore her gaze from the beringed hand her sovereign waved as he droned on about how Anthaal Fa had averted war more than once with his polished speeches and calm demeanor. How well Lord Fa had acquitted himself in the peace negotiations following the great battle in Tuleskeff, how well liked the royal emissary had been here at court.

Well liked, it seemed, by everyone but the royal cook, whose body sagged on a pikestaff at the castle gates. The king decreed swift and lethal punishment for the man who'd prepared the sumptuous meal Moreya's father had fatally choked upon. The cook was executed even before Moreya arrived under guard at Cronel's castle, mere days after her father's unexpected demise.

A wry misadventure, indeed, she reflected darkly. Her father had spent years traveling at the king's behest, visiting both near and distant realms. Anthaal had eaten roasted yak and caribou, boiled serpent, pickled vermin; he'd boasted of dauntless digestion and unwavering good fortune. Other reeves had been struck by lances or arrows upon occasion. Anthaal suffered not so much as a scratch. He convinced warriors to lay aside their weapons, arranged vital trade pacts and defense alliances. He boldly strode unarmed into many a war camp and lived to stride out again.

Only to return to his native Glacia, and strangle on a chunk of roast boar in the palace hall. Leaving Moreya bereft and confused.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," she mumbled, when Cronelfinally stopped praising his dead ambassador and reached for a cup of wine. A serving girl rushed forward to mop at the king's sweaty brow with a silken cloth. Moreya focused upon his damp forehead and kept her eyes averted from the king's flashing rings and pudgy fingers.

"Your sire had just returned from Greensward," Cronel announced, pinning Moreya with his sharp gaze. "He sought my permission to arrange a betrothal for you, Lady Fa."

A betrothal? Her father had said nothing of this, not one word about marriage or setting up a contract. Moreya's stomach tightened into a knot. Here was the true reason she'd been summoned by guards storming Anthaal Fa's home. She'd known, of course, that she and her father occupied the ambassador's sprawling manor as part of the king's largesse. Upon learning of her father's demise, she assumed the king would expect her to find lodgings elsewhere.

A sense of impending dread warned she was about to discover precisely where now.

"You shall wed the prince regent of Greensward," King Cronel proclaimed.

A collective gasp echoed off the marble walls.

Moreya stood at the base of a flight of steps leading to a broad dais and Cronel's throne. The throne room was a massive chamber of polished marble. High-backed wooden chairs aligned against the outer walls. Massive entry doors were perpetually flanked by guards and castle pages. She'd been granted a personal audience, but she was far from alone in the room.

The king's bold announcement had wrought a stiff silence fraught with expectation. She must respond, yet how?

She had absolutely no idea what to say in the face of such absurdity. Her father had been a high privy council member, a trusted royal advisor-but still and all, merely lackey to the Glacian king. The Fa line boasted no royal blood. Anthaal had been a petty noble, considered by most to have been more than fortunate in his own match with a Yune woman of gentle birth. Moreya's mother had been a distant cousin to a sovereign of the far realms. Moreya couldn't imagine that any royal family would have agreed to a match between a future king and herself-a woman of little consequence.

"Surely there is some misunderstanding, Your Highness," she said softly. She did not want to antagonize him. Her gaze swept up from the steps to where Cronel sat, to the heavy crown resting on rumpled white locks framing a florid, piggish face.

She had been to court before, of course, to be formally presented to the monarch. She had been a child the first time, and foolishly spoke her mind.

"Why does the king have so many fingers, Father? I count six on each hand!"

Courtiers and ladies in waiting had coughed and tittered, locking their eyes on Cronel to see how he'd react to being so baldly insulted. Cronel had laughed and pronounced Anthaal Fa's daughter a most clever girl. Then he'd explained that was why he was king. He was born with excess digits. He was, he told her with pride, a polydact. A person with more than the usual number of fingers and toes. The excess proved he was superior, meant to rule. Everyone accepted the fact.

She had been tempted to reply that it seemed to her everyone had made a silly mistake, then. She had once owned a kitten with too many toes its front paws. It had been a troublesome animal, and no better hunter than its littermates. But her father squeezed her shoulder in warning, so she'd kept silent. As she grew in years and understanding, she learned the politics of the throne . . . that Cronel was a bastard who'd risen to rule after viciously slaughtering anyone who stood between him and power.

Allowing this fat bastard to order everyone about merely because he was a polydact seemed preposterous still, but Moreya would hold her tongue on that point. He did, after all, hold her very life in the twelve fingers of his fat hands. But she would not remain silent about the Prince of Greensward.

This gallows humor was too cruel to ignore. "There is a mistake, surely."

"No mistake, my dear. Nay. Indeed, the betrothal pact was the cause for our celebration-er, that is, I regarded it as quite an accomplishment, even for your renowned father. He spent nearly a fortnight with Queen Vela. All is in readiness. You will leave on the morrow for Greensward, where you shall be wed within the month."

"But Your Majesty, I-"

The chamber doors flew open. Moreya glanced back over her shoulder and quickly ducked to one side. A knot of grappling men whooshed past her to the foot of the dais steps. She realized they were castle guards wrestling with a prisoner. His arms were pinioned behind him. Moreya could see little but black and grey disheveled waves on the back of his head.

A trio of royal guardsmen came forward. Each guard tensed at the knife or sword pressed against his throat, held at the ready by common soldiers. The men who'd overtaken the guards wore no colored surcoats or distinctive blazons. Who were they then, motley outlaws and vagrants?

She debated whether to remain where she stood or dash to safety behind a sturdy chair. Would anyplace be safe, or was the castle itself under siege? These knaves dared mock royal guards at bladepoint! Yet surely, had the royal palace been overrun, there would be more troops swarming about, she reasoned. A great many, bound for this very chamber.

A deep voice spoke up. "Damn it, Cronel, do you have naught better to do than keep signing those fool warrants? What's the sot accused of this time? Wiping his ass with royal bed linens? Tupping a prize ewe? Mistaking your belly for an ale keg?"

Something black loomed at the edge of Moreya's vision. Big and black and somehow producing the words they'd all heard quite audibly. Dangerous, sarcastic, treacherous words.

Which had been spoken, she now saw, by a tall, imposing figure who stood just a few feet from her. His head and face were completely obscured by an oversized dark cowl. He offered a mocking bow toward the dais. Moreya swallowed and inched back slightly, but felt her skirt hitch.

Copyright © 2006 Shannah Biondine.