In That Self-Same Metal, her debut fantasy novel, author Brittany N. Williams draws on her own background—she’s a classically trained actor who knows her way around a sword—to help bring her young protagonist to life. io9 has an exclusive excerpt to share from this Shakespearan tale today.
First, here’s a description of the story, which makes mention of its many intriguing elements:
Sixteen-year-old Joan Sands is a gifted craftswoman who creates and upkeeps the stage blades for William Shakespeare’s acting company, The King’s Men. Joan’s skill with her blades comes from a magical ability to control metal—an ability gifted by her Head Orisha, Ogun. Because her whole family is Orisha-blessed, the Sands family have always kept tabs on the Fae presence in London. Usually that doesn’t involve much except noting the faint glow around a Fae’s body as they try to blend in with London society, but lately, there has been an uptick in brutal Fae attacks. After Joan wounds a powerful Fae and saves the son of a cruel Lord, she is drawn into political intrigue in the human and Fae worlds.
Here’s the full cover, designed by Chelsea Hunter, followed by the excerpt from That Self-Same Metal’s first chapter.
Not your average broomThe Flippr makes traditional sweeping obsolete, with its two-in-one brush and roll functions.
CHAPTER ONE: Rotten in the State
“You two need to count before you accidentally take each other’s eyes out.”
Joan Sands watched the two boys practicing in front of her and struggled not to breathe too deeply.
A chill wind blew through the weathered tapestries covering the gaping windows. Shadows floated and shifted as the candles danced with the breeze, their light the only thing keeping the darkness at bay. The draft carried the moldy aroma of damp fabric across the open room.
Joan scowled as the stench filled her nose, so strong she could taste it.
The Banqueting House at Whitehall Palace stank to high heaven and not even the wide-open main entertainment room could save them from the rank smell. Joan would’ve held practice outside in the nearby courtyard but for the day’s heavy rain.
The hall, made of brick and timber and canvas, had been a source of pride for King Henry VIII—rest his soul—back in 1540, but it had barely made it to 1605 intact. Rumor said that King James absolutely hated the building.
Not that Joan blamed him. She swore a hard enough gust would send the whole thing tumbling down. Besides, who wants to entertain royal guests and courtiers in a place that smelled like a soggy alehouse?
She willed herself to get used to it. She couldn’t stop up her nose without blocking her view of Samuel Crosse and Nick Tooley butchering the fight she’d taught them months ago.
Behind them, the other members of the King’s Men set properties in their places—pillows, daggers, a fake vial of poison, and the like—and unpacked costumes. The acting company always eagerly anticipated the summons to perform for their royal patron—King James himself. His Majesty’s favor gave them the protection of being members of his household, the clout of serving the king, and the money that being so powerfully employed afforded. If the king called, so would the company appear, no matter how much the musty old banqueting hall smelled like old, soggy potatoes.
Every so often, one of the men would glance Joan’s way and chuckle. All the actors in the company knew Joan never forgave the sloppy execution of a stage fight, and each was grateful to not be currently under her scrutiny.
Samuel and Nick had both fumbled so badly through the movements in that morning’s rehearsal that Joan demanded they drill the fight in the empty playing space. She’d see they got the moves right before they performed for King James and the court. Or before the boys accidentally ran each other through.
Samuel yelped as Nick’s blade sliced across his knuckles.
“Sorry!” Nick shouted.
The latter looked more and more likely.
“Hold,” Joan called, shaking her head as Nick and Samuel stopped fighting. She walked over to Samuel, who had his injured fingers in his mouth.
“Are you bleeding?” Nick tugged anxiously at his ponytail; his blade pointed safely toward the ground.
Samuel frowned and looked at his hand, blond brows drawn together on his pale forehead. “No,” he said.
Joan’s eyes followed Nick’s length of hair from where it was tied at the base of his neck and swept around past the smooth column of his elegant throat. It draped over one broad shoulder, slithering down in an inky black fall. The barest glimpse of a rich brown collarbone peeked out through his open shirt. His skin was as dark brown as her own, only with undertones of red instead of gold. His hair straight and silky where hers was a lush spray of soft coils and curls. But that she could trace that path with her fingers and know the feel of his hair.
She shook herself when she realized she’d been staring, her entire face going hot.
“Be glad it only hurts.” Joan took the sword from Samuel, who smiled at her knowingly. “Being a full beat behind can cause much worse.”
He laughed. “Yes, yes, of course. Well, will the master show me how it’s done?” He grinned and stepped back, arms wide in a flourish.
Joan rolled her eyes at him and squared herself up with Nick. “Come on, then.”
“Ah, please be gentle with me, Joan.” Nick stood tall, bringing his sword up in a salute.
Her heart raced as her gaze instantly caught on the thick fan of lashes surrounding his deep-brown eyes.
She needed to focus.
Joan touched her fingers to the blade, felt the metal sing to her. It whispered its secrets, gave Joan its name—Alala. The cold surety of the steel grounded her. She commanded the sword to dull even more. The metal shifted under her fingers; the change subtle enough that no one watching could have noticed what Joan had done.
This was a secret she would not share.
Joan cleared her throat. “Half speed this first time, then full.” She tightened her grip on the sword and saluted him back.
“In your skirts, Joan?” Samuel snorted. He looked her up and down appraisingly. “Really?”
She cut her eyes at him. “There’s no need to trouble myself with changing for this simple a combination.” She smacked the flat of the blade against the fleshy back of his thigh, grinned when he yelped. “Do try to pay attention so you don’t embarrass the whole company in front of His Majesty and the whole court.”
Nick and Samuel both guffawed but listened, Samuel stepping off to the side to watch and Nick taking his first position. She smiled to herself. It was always easier working among the apprentices. These two boys at seventeen were only a year her elder, and, for all his talk and bluster, Samuel always listened to Joan’s directions. The older company members were another story—especially a certain white-haired sharer. Augustine Phillips only pushed himself to a point. He and Joan never seemed to agree on what that entailed, but, as one of the men whose money paid for their costumes, props, and her instruction, Phillips’s desires always prevailed.
Joan shook her head and slipped into the first stance, feet wide, left forward, right back, rapier held in front of her ready to strike. Her mind went quiet as her focus zeroed in on the impending fight. The blade hummed in her hands. Nick had the first move.
He swung his sword around and brought it down directly over her head. Joan caught his blade on hers, knocking it away with her guard. The move left him wide open and she faked an elbow strike to his face. He grunted and threw himself backward, giving an extra flourish because they were moving so slowly.
Joan stifled her grin. She swept across, as if to slice open his belly, and Nick jumped back out of the way. He jabbed at her hip. She parried. He sliced at her opposite arm. She brought her rapier up to block just as he swung his sword back around and pretended to slice into her gut. The death blow. End of fight.
“At speed?” Nick said as they shifted back to their starting positions.
Joan nodded. “Keep watching, Samuel.”
“Yes, teacher,” he droned.
Joan ignored him.
Nick swung for her head. She blocked, shunting his blade away and elbowing him in the “face.” He grunted, stumbled back a few steps. Joan pressed forward, slicing at his belly. He dodged, stabbing at her hip. Blocked. His sword swung for her arm. She brought hers up to parry and met only empty air as he tapped the flat of his blade against the side of her bodice. He flexed his shoulder and jerked his hip to make it look like he drove his sword deeper into her side. Joan dropped her rapier and fell toward him, selling her “death.”
Joan looked up and their eyes met. Their faces were so close, she could see the hints of gold swirling in his brown irises. All she needed to do was lean up and—
“Hm, I’m not sure I have it as yet,” Samuel said, leering at them. “Would you two go at it again? Although, if you need a moment alone with Nick, Joan, I can . . .”
Joan’s face exploded with heat. She stepped away from Nick, doing her best not to look at him. She picked up her fallen sword and tossed it at Samuel—point down, of course—keeping her expression neutral.
“Laugh if you’d like, but mess up again . . .” She let the threat hang in the air, leaving Samuel to dread what dastardly and exhausting punishment she’d come up with should he fail.
Samuel laughed harder but Joan could see the fear in his eyes. “Aye, teacher.”
Good.
“Now l Source: Gizmodo