By Diane Duane
A goddess within the making, or a demon reborn?
In the distant mountain village the place she used to be born, Mariarta dil Alicg lives the untroubled lifetime of a peasant girl...until, quickly after a mysterious stranger's arrival, she begins to listen to voices within the wind. The voices whisper unusual secrets and techniques in Mariarta’s ears -- promising her the facility to command the stormwind, hinting at an unknown magical background, and prophesying a destiny great earlier all Mariarta’s imaginings.
Then a curse falls on Mariarta's village, shattering the lives of her friends and family. Mariarta needs to set out around the mountain realm of Raetia looking for the way to holiday the curse -- whereas additionally attempting to find the reality in regards to the attractive and poor being who's attempting to own her soul.
Mariarta’s seek will lead her into hidden domain names of sorcery either dreadful and wondrous, and should eventually embroil the younger lady within the turning out to be uprising opposed to her land's merciless Austriac oppressors -- yet no longer ahead of Mariarta comes nose to nose finally with the immortal woman of the Storms, and demanding situations her to at least one ultimate conflict for keep an eye on of her existence, her soul, and her destiny...
Reader advisory: This novel rated PG-15 for mature topics, language (Romansch), and the reinvention of democracy
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Additional info for A Wind from the South (Raetian Tales, Book 1)
Mrs. Cohen put the Ones down on the floor and wrapped her smothering arms around the sad mother. "All right, Bessie. We'll keep the babies a couple of weeks until you're well. My husband will stop by your house on his morning rounds. " Kitty clutched the bundle to her chest. One little hand reached up to squeeze Kitty's nose, as if to protect her from their sour-milk smell. Mrs. Cohen gently bathed the babies and tied a red ribbon on the wrist of one, a yellow ribbon on the other, then sent for her husband to bless them with names.
Black oil bursts right into the air! They call it Spindletop. Even at night it gushes out, eighteen thousand barrels every day. You know how much is a barrel? Forty-two gallons. " He tried to multiply it in his head. The only barrels Jake knew about were pickle barrels, with pimply cucumbers as big as his fist floating in salty dill brine. He tried to imagine barrels filled with oil. A half a yartzeit glass of chicken fat he could see in his mind, for mashing with potatoes, or a pool of melted fat running from a juicy hunk of brisket.
Mr. " He wasn't. Papa was pale as ash and his hair had thinned to give him a wrinkled forehead as if he were always thinking through a tough mathematics problem. Leybe said, "It'll be a bit crowded here with all of us, until Mr. Johannsen finishes your cottage. You remember Mr. Johannsen from the ship? He builds such lovely little Page 13 homes from salvaged wood. There's no furniture, yet, but we'll borrow a few essential pieces, and you'll make do until everyone's working. But that's for another day.
A Wind from the South (Raetian Tales, Book 1) by Diane Duane