Antony Bronson has never known his past—as far as he knows, he’s the second son of his father Bron and has lived an unremarkable life in the village of Barnswood, other than a fateful fall from a tree that caused him to lose memories. But when rumors of a lost prince—the Prince Adrian who was supposed to have died in an act of war ten years before—begin to surface among the kingdom of Southborn, Antony begins to wonder if he’s been told the truth. So does Adelaide DuMont, the girl who had been destined to be the prince’s beloved, and Sir John, the hated son of the former king’s advisor. As Antony discovers his true identity, so does King Tanor, who will stop at nothing to make sure his crown is secure. To some a prince, to others a pretender, Antony must forge his own destiny—as the true king of Southborn, or as an enemy of the people. A thrilling adventure of political intrigue, royal drama, and a romance as old as Robin and Maid Marian.
Antony Bronson has never known his past—as far as he knows, he’s the second son of his father Bron and has lived an unremarkable life in the village of Barnswood, other than a fateful fall from a tree that caused him to lose memories. But when rumors of a lost prince—the Prince Adrian who was supposed to have died in an act of war ten years before—begin to surface among the kingdom of Southborn, Antony begins to wonder if he’s been told the truth. So does Adelaide DuMont, the girl who had been destined to be the prince’s beloved, and Sir John, the hated son of the former king’s advisor. As Antony discovers his true identity, so does King Tanor, who will stop at nothing to make sure his crown is secure. To some a prince, to others a pretender, Antony must forge his own destiny—as the true king of Southborn, or as an enemy of the people. A thrilling adventure of political intrigue, royal drama, and a romance as old as Robin and Maid Marian.
He called his daughter’s name, and the trees echoed it back.
She’s done this before, he thought as the cold nagged at his thin tunic. She knows her way home.
But this time felt different. The Harvestmonth night felt so total around him. The girl was only ten but knew her way around the Hemlock Forest. She’d never come into contact with anything—or anyone—that could harm her in those woods.
That may have just been luck.
The woodsman chopped the trees of the forest to make his living, yet he didn’t dare to step into the forest as far as she. He could understand why she loved it. Hemlock was ethereal, magical even. Great, wide oaks that seemed a thousand years old and a thousand feet tall stretched above him, their drying leaves falling in a steady rhythm to the ground. He watched his step for fear of tripping over their gigantic roots.
He wasn’t a superstitious man, but he felt the coarse hairs rise on the back of his neck as though he were being watched—studied. The women of Barnswood liked to talk about how the trees of the Hemlock came alive at night and would dance under the Harvestmonth moon. The woodsman looked up at the bright silver orb resting just above the skeletal trees. On a night like this, he could almost believe the stories.
The forest was too quiet. It waited with him for something to happen. It held its breath.
He made to call his daughter’s name again, but the sound stopped in his throat when he saw the body.
The woodsman’s breath caught at the sight, thinking for one horrifying moment it was his girl lying there, a bundle of crumpled clothing. But then he saw the length of the body, the outstretched arm, and saw that it was a man. A long, narrow shaft jutted from the man’s back. An arrow.
He scrambled to the body. His first thought was outlaws. They would be quick to kill a villager who entered their territory. The woodsman scanned the dark forest around him. Then he looked down at the body.
The man was on his stomach, his head turned to one side. A handsome face, with dark hair that glowed in the moonlight. He wore a long, luxurious cloak brightly embroidered, and the arm that extended from his body wore a velvet tunic.
“By Aug’s beard,” he breathed.
The man’s eyes snapped open, stared at him helplessly. The eyes were unafraid.
“Your grace,” said the woodsman. “Your majesty.”
The pale face smiled. “No longer,” he breathed.
Then, the king of Southborn died.
The woodsman remained still, kneeling beside the body of King Alfred. He’d never seen the king in the flesh before, only his likeness on tapestries and coins. He seemed so young, younger than the woodsman himself. His face was stern, yet noble, even in death. His dark eyes shone like dying embers, even as their light went out.
“May the Nine carry you to your rest,” whispered the woodsman.
He jumped when he heard feet crashing through the underbrush. He darted away into the trees, his heart pounding.
There he waited, hoping to see his girl’s small form appear in the clearing. But those footsteps were too loud. His daughter knew better than to crash around like that and cause a ruckus. The woodsman feared his heart thundered so hard it could be heard throughout the forest.
Two men appeared, one tall and one short. The shorter one held a long, deadly bow in his hands, but he threw it into the underbrush as they approached the body.
“Murder!” cried the taller man over his shoulder. The woodsman thought he heard a distant thrum, like hoof beats. “They’ve killed the king!”
The shorter man knelt beside the king and put a hand on his neck. “Dead,” he said gruffly.
The taller man’s shoulders heaved, as though he were breathing a heavy sigh.
“Thank you, Edwin,” he murmured. The woodsman could see the outline of a sharp nose and a strong chin as the taller man looked around.
“The king is dead,” said the shorter man, looking up at his companion. “Long live King Tanor.”
His companion shushed him. “Soon,” he said.
Another figure clambered out of the underbrush. This one was small and thin. A child, but not his daughter. A boy—a small boy.
“John,” barked the bigger man. “Is it done?”
The boy, panting, turned and vomited. The bigger man scoffed.
“He’s never seen death before, Lord Tanor,” said the smaller man. “Look at him. He’s covered in blood. Must have been worse than Innermost Hell for him.”
The woodsman saw dark stains on the boy’s tunic, as rich and velveteen as the king’s. His stomach turned. His thoughts turned to his daughter. Whoever these folks are, he thought, they can’t find her.
The bigger man’s head snapped up, and for a moment it seemed as though he stared right at the woodsman in the silver light. The woodsman dipped deeper into the shadow as silently as he could. There was no way the man could see him—was there? At this hour, the Hemlock Forest was made of shadow. Men could see that which wasn’t there without seeing what actually was.
The woodsman bolted from the scene. He knew how to run through the brush undetected. He’d done it before to avoid being caught chopping wood from the king’s forest. A man crashed and crunched recklessly through the brush. A deer, however, bounded in quick jumps and light steps. He kept his strides long and quick—the two men wouldn’t suspect a thing.
Don’t forget, the king had said. All he wanted was to forget what he’d just seen. He expected to hear footsteps pounding behind him. Saint Aug, let them strike me down. Let them kill me for what I’ve just seen. Don’t let this burden fall on me. Just let me find her.
He stopped, out of breath. His lungs burned from the cold. For a moment, that was all he could hear, that and the blood rushing through his ears, eliminating the silence of the night.
But that blood turned cold when his breaths quieted, and he heard footsteps running behind him. Don’t let them find her, he thought desperately.
But the footsteps were quiet—too fast and nimble to be a grown man.
A small, warm body collided with him, wrapping its small arms around his waist. His little girl buried herself in his tunic, her shoulders shaking with sobs. His heart wrenched as he lifted her in his arms, her tiny frame feather-light. She immediately dug her face into his neck.
He whispered her name and stroked her red hair, tinged with silver in the moonlight. His heart could have burst with relief.
“You’re all right,” he said. “You’re all right.”
His girl looked at him, her big eyes red and swollen, her lip trembling. She tried to catch her breath to speak to him. She nodded.
“I found Antony,” she said. “I found him.”
But the words didn’t stop her tears.
Vispilio by Audrey D. DeBoer is very loosely inspired by the folktale of Robin Hood. The narrative mainly follows Antony Bronson, the foundling son of a local bowyer; Adelaide DuMont, an orphaned lady come to court to find a husband; and Sir John Behrens, the bastard son of King Tanor. When the Southborn common folk of the Isle grow restless—after the end of a long war with the North doesn’t bring them the promised prosperity—these three young adults in their twenties must decide who they want to be and what side they want to fight for as decade-old betrayals come to light.
DeBoer’s novel artfully constructs a fresh story out of a familiar mythos with just a dash of Hamlet. Her characters are uniquely their own, and the plot is a rich construction of high fantasy, complete with its own religion, distinctive regions, and royal intrigues. One gets a good sense of the world’s geopolitics reasonably quickly in a way that enhances the narrative instead of bogging it down with exposition. Action and romance pepper the narrative in equal measure, but while graphic violence is on page, the sex is mainly closed door. The characters drive the plot forward, and readers will get a glimpse of good people who make flawed choices, bad people who occasionally show humanity, and how trauma informs poor decisions. DeBoer’s pacing is excellent, with every chapter giving a sense of urgency that will keep readers in suspense and have them turning the page to see what happens next. DeBoer wraps up the plot and character arcs in a way that’s an emotionally satisfying conclusion for the beginning of this tale but sets up the premise nicely for the ensuing books, where, hopefully, she’ll expand the world into the North and eventually off the Isle.
Vispilio is a solid debut novel with fluid prose and a compelling plot that whets the appetite for its continuation. Readers who enjoy character-focused epic fantasy with webs of intrigue may clamor for the next book to hurry. Those who do not enjoy keeping up with political scheming or character soul-searching may not engage with this story.