the ways of winter

Perkunas Press, 2013
Paperback from Amazon, e-book
from Amazon and the publisherPerkunas Press, 2013
Paperback from Amazon, e-book
from Amazon and the publisherAuthor and avid foxhunter Karen Myers continues the adventures of huntsman George Talbot Traherne of Virginia, who found himself inexplicably pulled into a realm of fae and immortals in her first novel, To Carry the Horn: The Hounds of Annwn.
 
Her second and third novels, The Ways of Winter and King of the May plunge George deeper into the lives of the fascinating characters who inhabit this mysterious otherworld, where it is not always clear who is friend and who is foe.  George discovers that he is related to the rulers of this ancient domain, which seems to have once paralleled that of humans. But he possesses godlike powers that not even the wisest of the fae with their magic and their charms fully understand.

Throughout all three novels, Myers weaves the myth of the Great Hunt and the Hounds of Annwn, which belong to the antlered god, Cernunnos. The hounds, which hunt stag and man, were bestowed by Cernunnos upon George's kinsman, Gwyn ap Nudd, the Prince of Annwn, and are the secret to the prince's power. Without the hounds, Gwyn loses all. George discovers magical skills of his own as he struggles to keep his hounds safe so that the Great Hunt on Nos Galan Gaeaf, or All Hallows’ Eve, can take place.

His eyes popped open in the dim light cast by the banked fire. For a moment the bed felt strange and then he remembered—Angharad’s house—and there she slept, turned away from him, breathing slowly. He was wide awake and on the alert.

What woke me? The snow was deep on the ground, muffling any outside noises. No cars were here to disturb him, and he was still getting used to the absence of the sounds of human civilization. He cataloged what he could hear—the tick of the embers in the fireplace, the occasional creak of the floorboards as they adjusted to temperature changes, Angharad’s soft breaths.

Then it came again. Muffled barks of excitement. He looked over at his dogs by the fire. Sargent, the yellow feist, was motionless except for his chest rising and falling, but Hugo, the bluetick hound was quivering in his sleep, his paws twitching as he ran. He panted and yipped, his eyes closed. No wonder it woke me, he thought.

George had no trouble interpreting the real sound behind Hugo’s dream, the loud, deep bays as he followed a hot scent. That cry would ring off a hillside, but here it was, indoors, just a remnant to wake him in the night.