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The Lost Queen Excerpt: Perfect for Outlander Fans!

by  | November 5

I’m a sucker for a big, juicy, historical epic.

Give me a book as heavy as a brick that promises to completely transport me to another place and time, one that I can get lost in for hours on end, and I’ll be happy any day of the week. My newest obsession in this delicious category is The Lost Queen by Signe Pike, the first in a trilogy (I know! Even better!), which tells the story of Languoreth, a forgotten queen of sixth-century Scotland and the twin sister of the man who inspired the legend of Merlin.

In a land of mountains and mists, tradition and superstition, Languoreth and her brother Lailoken (a warrior and druid who will one day sit by King Arthur’s side) are raised in the Old Way of their ancestors. But a new religion is rising, one that brings disruption and bloodshed. And even as her family faces the burgeoning forces of Christianity, the Anglo-Saxons, bent on colonization, are encroaching from the east. When conflict brings the hero Emrys Pendragon to her father’s door, Languoreth finds love with one of his warriors, Maelgwn. Her deep connection to Maelgwn is forged by enchantment, but she is promised in marriage to Rhydderch, the son of a Christian king. As our heroine is catapulted into a world of violence and political intrigue, she must learn to adapt. Together with her brother, Languoreth must assume her duty to fight for the preservation of the Old Way and the survival of her kingdom, or risk the loss of them both forever.

The Lost Queen is THE book for fans of The Mists of Avalon, Game of Thrones, and—you guessed it—Outlander. Believe me, we have our Outlander Season 4 plans set in stone by now, but when you finish episode 1 and undoubtedly still haven’t gotten your fix for ancient Scottish dramas with love stories at their heart, Signe Pike’s debut novel is the place to go.

Check out an exclusive excerpt below!
Cadzow Fortress, Strathclyde
Land of the Britons
Late Winter, AD 550

I was dreaming of the forest. This time no rustle of wind, no bird-call, no sliver of light penetrated the thick canopy of trees. Silence thundered in my ears like a band of warhorses. And then, through the gloom, I heard my mother call my name, her voice soft and hollow-throated as a dove’s.

Languoreth.

I woke with a start as my brother tugged back the covers and a rush of cold air met my feet. Lailoken’s sandy hair was unkempt. He watched impatiently as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and reached for my dress, but as I tugged the wool over my head, my mind quickened and the memory came rushing back.

Mother was dead.

Nine days had passed since the sickness took her. Sleep—when it came—brought some relief, but each morning when I woke, my wound tore open anew.

“I dreamt of her.” I looked at my brother. “Mother was calling my name, I’m certain. If only I could have seen her . . .”

I waited a moment, hoping for a response, but Lailoken only frowned and handed me my cloak. The purple rings beneath his eyes told me he’d been up through the night again, seeking her spirit in the Summerlands. For a moment, Lail looked envious I’d dreamt of her. But if my brother did not sleep, how could he dream?

“Tonight you must rest,” I said. “There is sickness yet beyond Cadzow’s walls.”Lail’s face only darkened.

“Lailoken.” I caught his sleeve. “Sooner or later you will have to speak.”

He ignored me, reaching instead for the door’s iron latch.

“You cannot force her to come to you,” I said. “After all, the Wisdom Keepers say—”

Lail turned on his heel, his narrowed eyes unmistakable.

Don’t be stupid—you’re going to wake Crowan.

I bit my tongue. I didn’t want to wake our nursemaid any more than he; Crowan would never allow us to go down to the river this time of morning. And though neither Lailoken nor I could explain it, we knew the beast waiting in the shallows waited for us alone. As though it were ours alone to see.

I followed Lailoken down the dark corridor, softening my footfalls as we crept past the entryway to the great room with its sleeping warriors and softly dying embers.

Yes, Mother was dead. Now our rambling timber hall felt like a husk without her.

I swallowed the stinging that rose in my throat and followed Lailoken out the heavy oaken door and into the milky morning light.

In the courtyard, mist swathed the late winter grasses. Past the fallow kitchen garden, Brant stood watch on the platform of the inner rampart, breath clouding beneath his hood. At the sound of our footsteps, his grip tightened on his spear before he caught sight of us and smiled.

“Ho, there, little cousins. And where do you suppose you’re off to?”

“We’re only going down to the river,” I said.

Brant looked at Lailoken. “Still no good morning from you, eh, Lailoken?”

“He isn’t speaking to anyone.” I shifted my weight, and Brant’s brown eyes softened.

“Right, then. Down to the river.” He gestured us through. “But you two had better mind each other. The cliff trail is slick as a snake’s belly.”

“We’ll be careful,” I swore, but as we hurried through the gate, I made certain Lailoken felt my eyes on the back of his head. It was hurtful and foolish, his vigil of silence.

“Do you imagine you miss her more than I do?” I said. “You are not the only one who lost her, Lailoken. Mother’s gone and we cannot bring her back.”

My brother stiffened as he ducked beneath a low-hanging bough, but at the sound of hurt in my voice he glanced back, reaching for my hand.

An offering, an apology.

I joined my fingers with his and we wound our way along the forest path to the place where the towering outer rampart ended. At the cliff’s edge, a deer trail stretched down hundreds of feet to the gorge below. A thick sponge of moss lined the narrow trail where the first tender shoots of fern budded from their peaty winter beds. We edged down the steep path toward the river, mud caking the leather lacing of our boots, and I breathed in the earthy smell that always brought relief. My mother had spent endless days in the forest with us, plucking mushrooms from fallen tree trunks, gathering blackberries and marshmallow and nettle, using the knife she kept at her belt to strip the bark from hazel and birch. Mother was the wife of a king. But she had also been a Wisdom Keeper, trained in the art of healing. It was the lady Idell our tenants visited for a tonic to ease their child’s cough, a salve to slather on their horse’s foot, or a remedy to ease the aches of old age. And it was by her side, in the woods, under our great roof of trees, that I felt most at home.

The river Avon glinted like liquid glass as we emerged at the cliff bottom. Stooping low, we moved softly through the underbrush until we neared the bank of the river and Lailoken squeezed my hand. We crouched at the water’s edge, just out of sight, as I struggled to quiet my breathing.

The red stag was magnificent—nine points on each of his antlers. We watched the river course round his black hooves as he drank in the shallows, the graceful muscle working in his throat. It was strange to spot deer this late in winter, and stranger still to find one so close to our fort; most had been hunted into the deepest glades beyond Cadzow by now. Surely such a beast was wise to the ways of men. And yet, each morning since our mother’s death, we had descended the steep banks of the gorge to find him standing in the current as if he, too, were keeping vigil.

Now the only sound was the soft gurgle of water over rock. Fog pillowed over the dark sheen of river and I opened my ears to the sounds of the stream, longing to hear the sweet strains of the melody my mother so often hummed while walking the woods.

Then, a movement flickered in the corner of my vision. I turned instinctually, looking upriver. At first I could make no sense of the shadowy form that appeared where nothing had stood a moment before. I blinked to clear my eyes. But there, in the water, rising out of the mist, stood a figure, her dark hair flowing over her simple green dress. If my fingers hadn’t been stinging with cold, I would have been certain I was still dreaming.

Mother.

Her skin was no longer flushed by fever or marred by the blisters that had come. Her face was smooth and her lips wore a smile, but her gaze was unsettling; her eyes were wild and dark in the river’s dim. I opened my mouth to cry out her name, but the stag bolted upright, nostrils flaring. I glanced back upriver, and my heart sank. My mother had vanished as quickly as she had come. Or had she been there at all?

The Lost Queen

The Lost Queen

by Signe Pike

In a land of mountains and mist, tradition and superstition, Languoreth and her brother Lailoken are raised in the Old Way of their ancestors. But in Scotland, a new religion is rising, one that brings disruption, bloodshed, and riot. And even as her family faces the burgeoning forces of Christianity, the Anglo-Saxons, bent on colonization, are encroaching from the east. When conflict brings the hero Emrys Pendragon to her father’s door, Languoreth finds love with one of his warriors. Her deep connection to Maelgwn is forged by enchantment, but she is promised in marriage to Rhydderch, son of a Christian king. As Languoreth is catapulted into a world of violence and political intrigue, she must learn to adapt. Together with her brother—a warrior and druid known to history as Myrddin—Languoreth must assume her duty to fight for the preservation of the Old Way and the survival of her kingdom, or risk the loss of them both forever.

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The Forgotten Kingdom

The Forgotten Kingdom

by Signe Pike

From the author of The Lost Queen, hailed as “Outlander meets Camelot” (Kirsty Logan, author of Things We Say in the Dark), a new novel in which a forgotten queen of sixth century Scotland claims her throne as her family is torn apart and war looms.

AD 573. Imprisoned in her chamber, Languoreth awaits news in torment. Her husband and son have ridden off to wage war against her brother, Lailoken. She doesn’t yet know that her young daughter, Angharad, who was training with Lailoken to become a Wisdom Keeper, has been lost in the chaos. As one of the bloodiest battles of early medieval Scottish history scatters its survivors to the wind, Lailoken and his men must flee to exile in the mountains of the Lowlands, while nine-year-old Angharad must summon all Lailoken has taught her and follow her own destiny through the mysterious, mystical land of the Picts.

In the aftermath of the battle, old political alliances unravel, opening the way for the ambitious adherents of the new religion: Christianity. Lailoken is half-mad with battle sickness, and Languoreth must hide her allegiance to the Old Way to survive her marriage to the next Christian king of Strathclyde. Worst yet, the new King of the Angles is bent on expanding his kingdom at any cost. Now the exiled Lailoken, with the help of a young warrior named Artur, may be the only man who can bring the Christians and the pagans together to defeat the encroaching Angles. But to do so, he must claim the role that will forever transform him. He must become the man known to history as “Myrddin.”

Bitter rivalries are ignited, lost loves are found, new loves are born, and old enemies come face-to-face with their reckoning in this compellingly fresh look at one of the most enduring legends of all time.

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Isabel DaSilva is a Marketing Coordinator at Atria Books. She reads every kind of fiction you can think of but gives special bonus points to books that are so good they make her miss her stop on the subway. As a born and raised New Yorker, this is the only criteria that will ever matter to her. She also loves memoirs, humor, and essay collections. You can follow her on Instagram and Twitter: @isabelrose05