I’m so excited to have Diana here today to share in her latest release, Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver! Here’s my five-star review 🙂 LINK
Thanks so much for kindly hosting me on Day 6 of my tour, Denise. It’s a delight to head south into northern California’s wintery weather today and visit with you and your followers.
Thus far, on my tour, I’ve been sharing the folklore origins of my magical beings, creatures, and monsters on which the characters of the Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver are based. Today, I’m going in a different direction and talking about my thoughts behind autumn and the personification of the season in the Autumn Prince.
He’s a main character, full of romantic possibility, and I couldn’t leave him on the tour’s sidelines.
To me, autumn is a season of contradictions. The days are getting shorter, the light fading. Gardens are going to seed. Worms and bugs are chomping on what’s left of the kale and squash. Rain and cooler weather are harbingers of the coming frost and snow and all the hardships winter brings. Autumn is in many respects a time of drawing back and dying.
And yet, autumn is also welcome, a reprieve from the heat of summer and a time of harvest and plenty. Most of all, it’s astonishingly beautiful. How clever of Mother Nature (or the Autumn Prince) to link such beauty with the process of letting go and dying—to the point that we almost don’t notice the approaching winter until it arrives on our doorsteps.
On the magical isle of Innishold, where glamour holds sway and life is always perfect and everlasting, the charmed courtiers lack emotional complexity. They’re immortal; they’re bored, and they fill their time with dancing and feasting and courtly drama. Suffering, especially human suffering, is alien to them. But not so with the Autumn Prince who lives eternally on the brink of loss.
And perhaps that’s why Erith, half mortal and half charmed, finds him so compelling.
Excerpt: Erith and Brynlan Firesage, the Autumn Prince
I graciously accepted the prince’s invitation, and he whirled me into a dreamlike waltz, his elegance effortless, his every movement a study in grace. Without pause, we transitioned into a brisk twirling sprint that left me warm to my toes. I begged off a third spin around the bonfire, needing a moment to catch my breath, and he accompanied me to the tables where mulled wines and buttery spirits spilled into silver-banded goblets.
“Water please,” I said when he reached for the wine.
“It’s all water.” He filled a goblet. “You will taste wine, smell its flavors, and feel its warmth, but only if you give yourself over to its glamour.” He angled a look at me, awaiting my opinion.
I swirled the ruby liquid rippling in my cup. Perhaps my human half prevented me from seeing the water for what it was. When I braved a sip, I tasted wine, smooth and sweet, infused with hints of winterberry and woodsmoke.
“Wine,” I said with a laugh, my guardedness surrendering at his feet. “You’re not an illusion, are you?”
He studied me through his dark lashes, his amused smile shaded with a melancholy he covered with a quiet chuckle. “Of course. To a degree. Aren’t we all, in some way, illusions?”
“No.”
“Is that so?” His eyebrows rose in challenge. “Tell me, are there times when you hide your feelings? Hold back your words? Pretend you are braver than you feel? Is it truly your nature to dress in black? I suspect those are all illusions.”
“In a sense. But I’m incapable of glamour. I’m half human, part of the mundane world.”
“A coveted mix.” He sipped his wine. “I envy your connection to the human imagination.”
I blinked at the odd confession and turned to the merriment unfolding within the fire’s ring of light. “For most villagers here, it’s the other way around. They envy the magic. They’re dazzled.”
“And those who fear us? Where are they?”
“At home, waiting for spring. They need the change in seasons more than the charmed do. Their lives depend on it.”
“And the charmed depend on them.”
“On humans?” I faced him, smirking at the strange perspective. “I’ve listened to village storytellers who spin tales about the charmed, and it’s usually the other way around. Some accounts are as gentle as a hare, others as fearsome as the wylyali. All wondrously fanciful, and not always true.”
“The difference is imagination.” He tapped his forehead. “Human beings are excellent storytellers. Better than the Mori Duglum. Leagues better than us. You shall see it for yourself.” I gave him a sideways glance, and he chuckled. “You’re skeptical, but I assure you, immortality leads to a numbing level of monotony. Day in and day out, little changes. Thus, it all becomes stale.”
“Unless one accounts for glamour. You can turn anything and everything beautiful.”
“Beauty without substance.” He raised his goblet to the bonfire. “Unlike in the mortal world where stories create history, shape the present, and write the future. What are we but the sum of our joys and tragedies? Where humans use stories to make meaning of their lives, the charmed rely on the human imagination to exist.”
“Already the animals starve. Soon the bonemen will follow, the Moss Folk and woodlings, the watermaids and humans. Then the charmed will fade. And all who will roam a dead world are dead things. Until they too vanish for lack of remembering. Still, Weaver, it is not too late.”
In the frost-kissed cottage where the changing seasons are spun, Erith wears the Weaver’s mantle, a title that tests her mortal, halfling magic. As the equinox looms, her first tapestry nears completion—a breathtaking ode to spring. She journeys to the charmed isle of Innishold to release the beauty of nature’s awakening across the land.
But human hunters have defiled the enchanted forest and slaughtered winter’s white wolves. Enraged by the trespass, the Winter King seizes Erith’s tapestry and locks her within his ice-bound palace. Here, where comfort and warmth are mere glamours, she may weave only winter until every mortal village succumbs to starvation, ice, and the gray wraiths haunting the snow.
 With humanity’s fate on a perilous edge, Erith must break free of the king’s grasp and unravel a legacy of secrets. In a charmed court where illusions hold sway, allies matter, foremost among them, the Autumn Prince. Immortal and beguiling, he offers a tantalizing future she has only imagined, one she will never possess—unless she claims her extraordinary power to weave life from the brink of death.
Bio
Best-selling author D. Wallace Peach grew up surrounded by her father’s well-loved paperback books. Fantasy was a staple, but it was Tolkien’s The Hobbit that planted the seeds which would grow into a passion for writing.
Peach started writing later in life when years of working in business surrendered to a full-time indulgence in the imaginative world of books. She was instantly hooked.
In addition to fantasy books, Peach’s publishing career includes participation in various anthologies featuring short stories, flash fiction, and poetry. She’s an avid supporter of the arts in her local community, organizing and publishing annual anthologies of Oregon prose, poetry, and photography.
Peach lives in a log cabin amongst the tall evergreens and emerald moss of Oregon’s rainforest with her husband, two owls, a horde of bats, and the occasional family of coyotes.
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