I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the THE SWORD & THE
SOPHMORE by B.P. Sweany Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!
About The Book:
Author: B.P. Sweany
Pub. Date: July 9, 2024
Publisher: Th3rd World
Studios
Formats: Hardcover, eBook, Audiobook
(Read by Tami Stronach, The Childlike Princess from the NeverEnding Story)
Pages: 297
Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/THE-SWORD-THE-SOPHMORE
Check out the 3WS shop and get 15% off on EVERYTHING in the store! Use coupon code- twochicksonbooks
"Terrifically entertaining! ...a whirlpool of teenage hormones,
high-school life and Arthurian magic. Hilarious and engaging!" — Diana
Gabaldon, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Outlander series
Arlynn Rosemary Banson is an atypical sixteen-year-old—the cool, popular
outsider, effortlessly straddling the line between divas and dorks. Her forever
young mother, Jennifer, is dedicated to making her life awkward by trying to be
her friend. Her father, Alan, is a workaholic history professor who barely
acknowledges his family’s existence. Her boyfriend, Benz, the quarterback and
homecoming king, has just broken up with her, while her best friend, Joslin,
bears reluctant witness to Rosemary’s romantic drama. But nothing prepares any
of them for a Welsh foreign exchange student named Emrys Balin. Emrys looks
like a teenager, but he seems to act much, much older.
Rosemary discovers she is part of the Lust Borne Tide, children born to the
royal line of King Uther Pendragon who are imbued with mystical powers after
being conceived in lust. Rosemary’s parents are Guinevere and Lancelot,
banished by King Arthur to twenty-first century suburban America prior to
Rosemary’s birth as punishment for their affair. Rosemary is the third in the
Lust Borne line, after King Arthur and his son Mordred, the latter of whom has
traveled to the future to continue the line of the Lust Born Tide by retrieving
Rosemary and returning her to the late fifth century to conceive a child with
her. But Rosemary has other plans—plans that involve training under Emrys and
kicking Mordred’s butt, as long as it doesn’t interfere with prom or getting
back with her boyfriend Benz.
Packed with action, emotion, and humor, The Sword and the Sophomore goes beyond
the Camelot you know with an Arthurian tale fit for the modern world. Combining
sword fights and epic quests with the real-life teenage issues of fitting in,
sexual agency, and profound personal loss; this fresh take on the classic story
of what it means to wield Excalibur and all the power it entails will make you
rethink the power of legend.
REVIEWS:
"A tongue-in-cheek, self-aware Arthurian fantasy set in a 21st century American suburb that’s anchored by an empathetic, hilarious, whip-smart, fierce teen protagonist. The Sword and the Sophomore almost makes me want to write a young adult novel. Almost.”— Pierce Brown, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Red Rising Saga
"Captivating worldbuilding and an irresistible main character. I couldn't put it down."— A.G. Riddle, internationally bestselling author of The Origin Mystery Trilogy and The Lost Colony Trilogy
"What wonderful storytelling, for any age! Loved this book and especially the incredible protagonist—I would have loved to have known her in school! An excellent read!"— Heather Graham, New York Times bestselling author of the Krewe of Hunters series
"Dark
forces from an ancient world descend on a high school near you. The Sword and
the Sophomore is funny, scary, astute, and up-to-the minute. The pages turn
themselves and you'll be cheering the unforgettable heroine on every single
one."— Peter Abrahams, New York Times bestselling author of
the Edgar Award-winning young adult mystery Reality Check and the Agatha
Award-winning Echo Falls series for younger readers
Excerpt:
Chapter 1
Sixteen years ago, give or
take a millennium.
She stumbles outside the
building made of reflective glass and red stone, the contractions
noticeably ripping through her body. Two steps. Three steps. She loses
her footing again, reaching for the wall beside the doors that
slide open and closed of their own accord. She catches herself before she
falls, but just barely.
I hide behind a tree as her
water breaks. The people in aqua-blue vestments come to her aid,
unfurling around her beneath the portico that reads South Entrance
Hospital Pavilion.
The baby is coming
early.
When the soon-to-be mother
is asked her name, the reply catches in her throat. She groans once,
twice. “Jennifer,” she says. When asked the name of the baby’s father,
she answers, “My husband’s name is Alan.”
Neither “Jennifer” nor
“Alan” are their given Christian names, but I will maintain this ruse on
their behalf.
I saw Alan earlier that
morning. He and Jennifer were standing outside as I walked by their
house. Alan told Jennifer he was taking “a day trip sailing on the
Chesapeake Bay” with some “friends from the pub.” Jennifer nodded, saying
something in reply that I couldn’t hear from a distance.
Whilst observing them these
last few weeks, I’d pieced together that they arrived in this place, in
this time, roughly seven months ago. Right after Alan and Jennifer
discovered she was pregnant and their world turned upside down. Neither of them
carried around those personal communication devices people called “cell
phones.” Jennifer walked to the hospital because, I assumed, she could
not yet afford a low-slung metal carriage.
Alan never had the time nor
the inclination to sail when I knew him, but the water had always been
his escape. Not so long ago, it was Jennifer’s escape as well. When her
husband was away, she would often rendezvous with Alan at his lake cabin, far
from prying eyes. Even when Jennifer couldn’t make it to the lake, a
passageway beneath the stone bridge near her home allowed for many stolen
moonlit kisses.
Jennifer loved Alan, and
Alan loved Jennifer. They thought they could carry on with their illicit
affair indefinitely, but theirs was the worst-kept secret in the kingdom.
They were always being watched.
It seemed the water was no
longer a shared experience for Alan and Jennifer. Nothing in their life
seemed shared, really. The conversation I witnessed this morning was the
same exchange they had every morning these last two weeks: Alan lamenting
his commitments, Jennifer silently suffering from loneliness. It was as
if she could not summon the courage to impose on him after he’d already
sacrificed so much for her. His best friend, his kingdom. All of it gone.
Even in the short time I’d been here watching them, I saw how that
sacrifice weighed on Alan, in the way he withdrew from Jennifer’s touch
at times. I’d catch a wistful glint in his smoky blue eyes when he thought no
one was looking. His eyes to the east. Always to the east.
This is not to suggest that
Alan and Jennifer are alone in this world. The other person in their
lives is a man, or a boy, depending on your perspective. Jennifer is
still young, nineteen. Alan is in his thirties. Emrys Balin—that is what
people call him here at least—appears to be somewhere between the two in
age.
It is Emrys waiting for
Jennifer at the hospital.
I walk carefully behind a
large man as I follow Jennifer into the hospital, using his girth to
shield me from view. I sit on the opposite side of the room of the sick
people, slumped in a chair, my face buried in a thin book of pictures
that I grab off a nearby table. I’m still within earshot of Jennifer and
Emrys, but barely. I peer over my book. An individual wearing the
customary aqua-blue vestments taps her fingers on a board of individual
lettered cubes while looking at a bright rectangle of illuminated words
and asks Jennifer questions. Jennifer refers to Emrys as a “close family
friend.”
After a few more questions,
Jennifer is surrounded by several more people in aqua-blue. The one
giving the orders is distinguished by a long white coat. She is the one
they call “doctor.” I hear someone call her, “Dr. Mirren.” They take Jennifer
into the delivery room. Emrys does not follow her. He stands watching as
Jennifer is wheeled away on a bed, then turns in my
direction.
I lean in close to the large
man to shield me from view. The man looks at me, fidgets uncomfortably. I
know that Emrys will eventually sense my presence, but I am not ready for
our reunion. Not yet.
The delivery was quick.
Mother and child are resting now, attended to by a midwife. I hide in the
small basin room attached to their larger room; the door cracked open
enough for me to hear their conversation. The midwife just asked Jennifer
about her English accent. I suspect the magical herbs they gave her
during the procedure are doing the talking, as Jennifer is now presenting
an inspired, albeit completely imagined, biography. She was a member of
the British Archery Team before a surprise pregnancy derailed her Olympic
ambitions, forcing her to move to the States with her fiancé. Her
competency with a bow and arrow makes this lie believable. Jennifer is
skilled with a lot of weapons—swords, axes, slings, bo staffs… Her father
taught her how to use them, famously bragging to his friends on more than
one occasion, “My daughter will grow up to be more prince than
princess.”
Jennifer had a beautiful
baby girl, as Emrys and I knew she would. She named her daughter “Arlynn
Rosemary.” The name carries sentimental value that is obvious to me,
although not to most. “Rosemary” is a version of Jennifer’s original middle
name, Rosmarinus. “Arlynn” is a combination of her two husband’s
names, Arthur and Alan. Arthur was Jennifer’s first husband and Alan’s
best friend. Arthur didn't want to have any more kids after his son was
born. He didn’t mean to hurt Jennifer by neglecting to tell her about the
bastard he had with another woman—just as Jennifer didn’t mean to fall in
love with Alan’s best friend.
Jennifer and Rosemary have
fallen fast asleep after another successful feeding. The nurse retrieves
Rosemary, tucks her into her crib, and exits the room.
I squint as I open the door
and enter Jennifer’s room. My eyes have not adjusted to these hard
artificial lights, preferring the muted glow of a thick-wicked candle. If
Jennifer wakes, she might recognize me; there is only so much that can be
concealed by a white doctor’s coat, bright lights, and a pair of
eyeglasses. Then again, maybe Jennifer would not recognize me. We were
always more acquaintances than friends. We never frequented the same
gatherings, Jennifer being mortal and me being—well, not.
Ancient words come to me in
an almost conversational flurry. The great secret of magic is that it is
not unnatural; you are merely asking the world a different question and
getting a different answer. I stand over Rosemary’s crib, on the side opposite
Jennifer’s bed. Arms raised over Rosemary’s sleeping form, I start to
sway and chant. I hope I have enough left in me to cast this spell
correctly. If someone had walked in at that moment, they might dismiss
the vague buzzing sound as one of those flickering lights in the ceiling.
That is, assuming they don’t notice the tiny swaddled bundle in the crib
glowing like a giant ember.
I open my eyes at his
touch.
“Hello, Fay,” the warm,
familiar voice says. Too warm. Too familiar. Emrys Balin cradles my head
in his lap.
Fay. Emrys
is the only one who has ever called me that. It is a childhood nickname.
A nickname given back when all I ever wished was that Emrys look at me
the way he looks at my sister, Vivian. “I wondered when you and I would
be reunited.”
Emrys brushes my hair back
from my brow. He is dressed plainly, in blue pants and a shirt rolled at
the sleeves. His eyes travel down to the small brass placard on my white
coat. “Dr. Mirren?”
“She’s not using it right
now,” I say.
“I can see that,” Emrys
affirms. “Should I be worried?”
“The doctor is fine. It will
be dismissed as a mere fainting spell.”
“Looks like she isn’t the
only one fainting around here.”
His comment was probably
sincere, not that it matters. If there is one thing on this earth by
which I cannot abide, it is a man’s pity. “Spare me your condescension
disguised as concern. I am still far more powerful than—”
“How many spells,
Fay?”
“What do you
mean?”
“How many did you
do?”
I inhale a deep breath, then
exhale. “Two.”
“You shouldn’t have done
that to yourself. A cloaking spell? Really?”
“Never mind the cloaking
spell,” I say. “It was the temporal displacement spell to transport me
here that about did me in. I’ve been here following you, Jennifer, and
Alan for weeks, and I’m still not what I would call dependable on my
feet.”
“Oh, my dearest
Fay…”
The look on his face
confuses me. Concern? Remorse? Affection? Have we been apart so long that
I can no longer read his emotions? “I am struggling, Emrys, to recall a
time when I ever qualified as ‘dearest’ in your universe.”
“Temporal displacement
spells are dangerous, especially when they go horribly wrong.”
“You should know,” I
counter.
Emrys ignores me. “And to
throw on top of that a cloaking spell?”
“What else would you have me
do?” Swatting away Emrys’s hand, I sit up defiantly. “A cloaking spell
will hide Rosemary’s powers. You of all people should know he will not
stop until he finds her. There’s no telling what might eventually come
after her—incubi, succubi. Those wretched demon scouts would have been
already tracking Rosemary by her smell. She has a unique signature. You
know this. The cloaking spell will mask that signature while limiting her
powers.”
Emrys has yet to break eye
contact. He points back to himself and shrugs. “I’m the magician here. I
should be the one lying in your lap right now.”
“You should be so lucky.” I
hate it when Emrys does this, the flirting. To Emrys, it’s innocent—the
stroking of my hair, the staring. To me it, it is everything. Or at least,
it used to be everything.
“I still have a trick or two
up my sleeve.” Emrys’s assertion sounds more like a hopeful guess than a
boast.
“By the looks of things, two
tricks might be pushing it.” I reach up and rub his peach-fuzzed face.
Seeing him here now, looking so young, brings back the old feelings. “Is
it really you?”
He smiles while squeezing my
hand. “I ask myself that same question every day I look in the mirror,
expecting the man I was and seeing this boy’s face staring back at
me.”
I try in vain to
ignore the pang of want at seeing Emrys, who I once adored as an aged man
many years my senior, now younger and even more attractive. “Oh,
Mer—”
“Please,” he interrupts,
helping me to my feet. “It’s Emrys here.”
“Of course it is,” I say.
“My apologies.”
“Took me a couple hundred
years to get used to it. I’ll cut you some slack for not nailing it on
the first try.”
“Cut me some slack? Nailing
it?” They are sayings with which I am unfamiliar. “Never mind,” Emrys
says. “It’s good to see you, Fay.”
I ignore the sentiment,
reminding myself that I did not embark upon this quest to see Emrys.
“When did you know?”
“That Jennifer was
pregnant?”
I nod.
“The day I sent her away.
How about you?”
“Soon thereafter,” I say.
“It has taken me this whole time to track you down.” “So you have been in
Maryland how long?”
“As I said, a few
weeks.”
Emrys cocks his head. “And
you waited until now to show yourself?” “I had to be sure of your…” I
trail off, the Fates whispering in my ear. “My what?” Emrys asks, as if
telling the Fates to mind their own house. “Intentions,” I answer.
Emrys presses on. “Does
anyone else know you’re here?”
“You think I’d go to the
trouble of nearly killing myself traversing space and time, casting these
soul-sucking spells, just to let myself be followed?”
“‘Soul sucking.’ You know
that’s what you’ve done, right? The cloaking spell gives the baby—gives
Rosemary—a part of your soul to hide her identity. You’re basically
mortal now, even if you still retain a trace of your immortality. You might be
long-lived, but you can die from injury or disease a lot more easily. And
temporal displacement spells will diminish your powers for centuries.
Believe me, I know. Is that what you want?”
“Please, Emrys.” I exhale
dismissively. “I have lived a thousand lifetimes and grow bored with the
tedium. Perhaps knowing my life has limitations will make it more
meaningful. And besides, contrary to your earlier sentiment, you’re not the only
magician here. If they come for Rosemary, they’ll be looking for a donkey
or a horse—but all that they will find is a mule.”
“So, she’s
safe?”
And there’s the Emrys I was
once so accustomed to: feigning concern before obliviously segueing to
the next girl in the room. “Our mutual enemy will not be able to find
her, if that’s what you are asking. Rosemary will still be of course enhanced
as a child—a little stronger, a little faster. A cloaking spell can only
do so much to diminish
the magic inside this little
girl. But to borrow a phrase from this world I have recently learned, she
will ‘remain off the grid’ as long as no one fully activates her
gift.”
“Her gift?” The Emrys
I knew had always been good at disguising most emotions, but this younger
version of his self cannot contain his resentment. “I believe the word
you’re looking for is curse.”
I place my hand on his
shoulder. “The moon shall beest from wh’re the flote engluts the
fallen son…”
“You don’t need to recite
the prophecy to me.” Emrys scolds. “Was I not the one who the goddess
Arianrhod came to in a dream? Was I not the one who first sacrificed
nearly all my powers to save Jennifer and Alan, to ultimately keep Rosemary away
from, away from…him?”
“Then you of all people
cannot deny the prophecy,” I said.
“Sure, I can.”
I reach for his hand. “I
know you are well-intentioned, Emrys, but I think you might be too close
to this. Rosemary cannot hide forever. At some point, she will need
these powers, and the training that comes with them. Just think what would
happen if he found her before she was capable of fighting him
off.”
“So eventually Rosemary will
be a lot stronger and a lot faster?”
“All that and
more.”
“Well, she’s going to need
all that and more.”
“I trust you to put her on
the correct path, Emrys, to be her mentor and her—” “Bestie?”
“Her what?” I
ask.
“Bestie,” Emrys says. “It’s
short for ‘best friend.’ Another word for it is ‘BFF,’ which stands for ‘best
friends forever.’”
“May I make an observation,
Emrys?”
He bows slightly. “By all
means.”
“Twenty-first century
vernacular fits you like an ill-fitting codpiece.”
“Don’t I know it?” Emrys
smiles. “So what’s left for you to do here?”
“Between finding you and
cloaking Rosemary, I fear I am stranded for the foreseeable future. I
guess I am what you call a ‘tourist’ now. What can you tell me about this
place called Mexico?”
Emrys shakes his head,
smiling.
I bow again, stepping well
back from the crib. “Hwyl fawr, Myrddin.”
It has most likely been
centuries since anyone has spoken to Emrys in his native Welsh. He nods
in appreciation of the gesture. “Hwyl fawr, Muri-gena.”
I kick off my white shoes.
While comfortable, they are ghastly looking, also borrowed from Dr.
Mirren. I focus on my body’s movements more this time around, lifting
onto my toes and spinning like a top until my scrubs and lab coat become a blur
of blue-white light. I can feel my body starting to fall away, like a
waterspout receding into a spring.
“Until we meet again,” I
whisper. I am disappearing into the ether, saying goodbye one more time
to my dear Emrys. Leaving him to turn the page with a disinterested
father, a weary mother, a newborn baby, and a pair of ugly hospital shoes.
“Uh, Fay?”
I open my eyes. “Why am I
still here?”
“I told you those spells
would tap you out,” Emrys boasts. He reaches down into his pocket. “Allow
me to help.”
“Absolutely not,” I snap,
grabbing him by the wrist. “I do not need you to cast an enchantment on
my behalf with whatever talisman or bauble lies hidden in your
pocket.”
Emrys wrenches his hand free
from mine, retrieving his cell phone from his pocket. “I was just going
to call you a cab.”
“What is a cab?” I
ask.
“It’s a mode of
transportation,” Emrys answers.
“So this cab would convey me
to Mexico?”
“Not technically. The cab
will take you to a place where they have large vessels that will then fly
you to Mexico.”
“I am flying?” This was a
welcome, unexpected surprise. “So I am to be escorted by this cab to a
den of benevolent dragons?”
Emrys laughed. “I guess you
could call an airport that.”
About B.P. Sweany:
A veteran of the publishing industry, B.P. Sweany has worked with many notable content creators, including Pierce Brown, Dean Koontz, Diana Gabaldon, Alice Walker, and Dolly Parton. The Sword and the Sophomore is the first in a projected trilogy.
Website | Twitter | Instagram | TikTok | Goodreads
Giveaway Details:
1 winner
will receive a finished copy of THE SWORD & THE SOPHMORE, US Only.
Ends July 23rd, midnight EST.
a Rafflecopter giveawayTour Schedule:
Week One:
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6/24/2024 |
Excerpt |
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6/25/2024 |
Review or Excerpt |
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6/26/2024 |
IG Post |
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6/27/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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6/28/2024 |
Excerpt/Twitter Post |
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6/29/2024 |
Excerpt |
Week Two:
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6/30/2024 |
IG Review |
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7/1/2024 |
Review/IG Post/TikTok Post |
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7/2/2024 |
IG Review |
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7/3/2024 |
Review |
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7/4/2024 |
IG Review/LFL Drop Pic/TikTok Post |
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7/5/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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7/6/2024 |
IG Review |
Week Three:
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7/7/2024 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
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7/8/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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7/9/2024 |
Review |
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7/10/2024 |
IG Review |
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7/11/2024 |
IG Review/LFL Drop Pic/TikTok Post |
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7/12/2024 |
IG Review |
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7/13/2024 |
IG Review |
Week Four:
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7/14/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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7/15/2024 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
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7/16/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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7/17/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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7/18/2024 |
Review |
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7/19/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
