Tag Archives: Fantasy

Trapped in the Great Below: The Story of the Goddess Inanna

From time to time I tune in to mythical beings. Often, they inspire my work. This has seldom been more strongly true than with Inanna.

Inanna in History

Inanna is a goddess of ancient Sumer. The stories about her, which survive in hymns and records of rituals, are among the oldest in the world. She was worshipped as the Queen of Heaven and Earth, considered a goddess of justice and war as well as of love and fertility. In the sky, she was identified with the planet Venus. In later times, her cult combined with that of the Babylonian Goddess Ishtar, and later the Eurasian Aphrodite (1)

In this image from a Cylinder seal dated about 2300 BCE, Inanna is shown with wings and fully armed. Her foot rests upon a lion (one of her emblems), while an eight-pointed stars hangs above her shoulder, representing Venus. Cylinder seal dated about 2300 BCE

How I Met Inanna

Five years ago, I was working on Ghosts of Lock Tower, the third of the Abby Renshaw Supernatural Mysteries. One day, the above image of Inanna showed up on my FaceBook feed. Later that evening, while I was reading a book about magic, I found myself staring at the very same image on the page. That night, I had a recurring dream in which a woman kept coming into my bedroom and shaking the bed.

Now, I may be dense. But an ancient goddess only has to disturb my sleep a few times before I pay attention. Plainly, Inanna had something to tell me. I started researching her. She ended up playing a key role in the plot of Lock Tower, serving as a spirit guide for Abby on her quest.

But how would the presence of a Sumerian goddess make sense in our world (even in fiction)? Abby wondered that too. She asked Kevin, a retired Anthropology professor and one of her mentors. He offered several ideas:

“I can see maybe three ways. One, she’s an element of your personal unconscious that you’ve activated by magic. Two, she’s a figure of the collective unconscious that you’ve drawn into yourself by magic. Three, she’s the spirit of a real ancient goddess who has always existed in the world, waiting for humankind to reawaken her.”

“Good answers. Which is it, I wonder.”

Kevin laughs. “My guess? All of the above.”

Journey to the Underworld
Akkadian cylinder seal from c. 2300 bce or thereabouts depicting the deities Inanna, Utu, Enki, and Isimud. Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inanna

Surely the most famous story about Inanna is of her descent into the Underworld. According to Wolkstein and Kramer, this myth exemplifies:

“…the path of the descent (which) has impelled the mystic since the beginning of recorded human experience. In many traditional societies, initiatory tribal rites are often characterized by a symbolic descent into and ascent from the labyrinthine Earth Mother.” (page 156).

The same idea is played out in later descent myths, such as that of Demeter and Persephone, and Orpheus. It was also the theme of mystery cult initiations, such as the famous rites of Eleusis.

In the case of Inanna, the myth again resonates with the planet Venus. With its orbit close to the Sun, Venus is sometimes seen in the morning sky and sometimes in the evening. And sometimes it remains below the horizon and is not seen at all. In other words, like Inanna, it journeys from the Great Above to the Great Below, and is at times stationed in the Underworld.

In the Sumerian myth, Inanna decides she must leave all of her Earthly temples to visit the Great Below, the realm of the dead, which is ruled by her older sister, Ereshkigal. Inanna adorns herself with royal garments and symbols of her power. But Ereshkigal has decreed that she must surrender these attributes, one by one, as she passes the seven gates to the Underworld. Inanna arrives stripped of power and Ereshkigal “fastens the eye of death upon her.”

When Inanna does not return after three days, her loyal servant Ninshubur, pleads for the gods of heaven to free her mistress. The first two refuse, but then Enki, the God of Wisdom, fashions two creatures and sends them below to rescue Inanna. So the goddess is reborn and returns to her rightful place in the world above.

Myth to Fiction

In Abby’s latest adventure, A Demon on the Lion Bridge, the myth of Inanna again plays a role.

Abby is working as a law intern in St. Augustine, Florida, when she encounters a demon that has haunted the city since earliest time. This demon feeds on human dread and despair. Abby tries again and again to banish the creature. Each encounter weakens her, until at last she falls into despair. Lost in the spirit realms, thinking she will never escape, she calls out to Inanna for help—just as Ninshubur called out to the gods of heaven.

A single candle glows. The light flickers on walls painted with murals. I’m seated in a heavy chair, like a throne, dressed in a long skirt, fringed shawl, gold jewelry—like the priestesses of Inanna wore in ancient times. But when I try to stand, my arms and legs won’t move. I am chained at the wrists and ankles.

“It appears you are trapped in the Great Below, my priestess. Even as once I was.” Inanna floats in front of a bolted iron door.

“How can I escape from here?”

She pauses a moment, considering. “I shall send spirits to try to free you. That is how I was freed.”

 

As promised by Inanna, certain spirits do come to Abby’s aid. Like Inanna, she is able to return to the world of the living—for a final confrontation with the demon.

To learn how that turns out, read A Demon on the Lion Bridge, available on Amazon. Cover: A Demon on the Lion Bridge (1) See Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth by Diane Wolkstein and Samuel Noah Kramer.(1983)

Conversations with the Talking Book

Minor characters are important. While protagonists, antagonists, and so-called “power players”*carry most of the weight of a novel, minor characters add sparkle, and can be critical in turning a plot twist or maintaining reader interest.

In fantasy and science fiction, of course, minor characters need not be human. Often, a story is more interesting if they are not. Aliens, robots, AIs, elves, gnomes, unicorns, talking trees—the possibilities are endless.

In the Glimnodd Cycle <link to series page> in particular, I’ve had the pleasure of writing about a number of nonhumans, including:

  • Kizier – a once-human scholar trapped by magic in the body of a talking sea-fern.
  • Kosimo – a cold-blooded sorcerer whose species were spawned by fish.
  • Trippany – a bee-winged lady of the drell people.

But perhaps the most amusing (to me) minor character is Buroof, a talking book.

Buroof is introduced in the second novel of the series, A Mirror Against All Mishap.

Buroof had once been a human, a mage and scholar of vast learning. Long ago, his mind had been captured and caged in the book by a serd sorcerer. For nearly three thousand years, his mind had continued to thrive and learn, absorbing the knowledge of each mage, sorcerer, and witch who possessed the book.

But over those centuries, Buroof had apparently lost whatever capacity for human morals he once possessed.

Buroof, it turns out, is not only amoral. He is also impatient and cranky. In this scene, early in the story, he is suggesting that Amlina the witch choose a dark and dangerous path.

“How can you still dispute the choice,” Buroof said, “when even the Bowing confirms it?”

“Because it is blood magic,” Amlina answered. “And, as I am a witch of Larthang, my very soul calls it unspeakably evil.”

The book made a sound like a dismissive grunt. “For how many nights have I labored on your problem, young and naïve witch of Larthang? Yet, when I offer a viable solution, you are too qualmish to accept it. I honestly fail to see why I should assist you any further.”

Amlina glanced at Kizier, one side of her mouth pulled back in a frown. She stood, walked to the far end of the table, and shut the book—pre-empting further comment from Buroof.

In fact, Amlina usually ends their conversations by shutting the book. (Buroof is not exactly a congenial conversationalist.)

In this scene, later in the story, Amlina consults him about training Glyssa, one of the barbarian Iruks, in the magical arts:

“What is it you want from me, Amlina?” Buroof asked impatiently. “And should I continue to speak Larthangan, to hide my responses from the barbarian?”

Amlina sighed. The book had disingenuously asked the question in Tathian, so that Glyssa would understand it clearly. “No, I do not wish to conceal anything from Glyssa. I am trying to understand about her vision, and to ascertain what if anything needs to be done.”

She explained how Glyssa had fallen into trance immediately after the Threshold of Deepshaping rite, and had not awoken for six days. Glyssa then repeated all she recalled from those days, culminating in her encounter with Belach.

“So in summation,” Buroof said, “you took a primitive young woman, who was already damaged by enthrallment, and subjected her to the traditional Larthangan initiation rites, with absolutely no preparation, and all in the space of two days. A most reckless decision, I must say.”

“I am aware of my many failings, Buroof,” Amlina replied. “My question to you is: what light can history shed on our situation? The fact that she fell into a trance, and there encountered an entity that might or might not have been a magician of her people—”

“—Speaks to the fact that you gave no thought to her cultural context.”

“I know! But there must be cases on record where initiates with foreign backgrounds encountered beings from their own traditions.”

“Certainly. But not without first receiving a full and adequate grounding in Larthangan principles. No, Amlina, here you have broken new ground of incompetence.”

Amlina gave up and shut the book.

Buroof is consulted several more times throughout the novel and also in the next book Tournament of Witches.

But every good character deserves closure—I mean, not closing of the book cover, but a conclusion to the character’s story.

In Buroof’s case, this comes when Amlina presents the talking book as a gift to the Tuan, the August Ruler of Larthang. The Tuan, although a nine-year-old boy, has mental access to the memories and knowledge of his 154 dynastic predecessors.

Amlina is thanking the Tuan for his hospitality …

“I possess little of value in worldly terms, certainly nothing worthy of your kindnesses. But, as you are a scholar of wide interests, I thought this might at least provide you some amusement.” She set the heavy volume on the table. “This is a talking book, which I acquired from the lair of the serd sorcerer in Kadavel. For more than three thousand years it has passed from hand to hand and acquired much recondite knowledge of magic and witchery.”The faces of the chief tutor and governess evinced both curiosity and reservation. But the Tuan bolted to his feet, eyes full of excitement.

“Indeed, it is a talking book? I have heard of such books, but never seen one. They are very rare in this age, I believe?”

He had directed the remark to Kizier, who replied: “Definitely so. This is the only one either Amlina or I have ever come across.”

“Wonderful!” the boy cried. “Can you demonstrate?”

“Yes, of course.” Amlina opened the front cover. Immediately, a haze of light appeared over the parchment leaf. “Buroof, I Amlina summon you.”

“I am here.” The book answered, inciting a delighted grin from the Tuan.

“As I said I would, I am presenting you to the Tuan, Me Lo Lee, August Ruler of Larthang. He is now your owner.”

For once, Buroof sounded not proud and impatient, but humble. “This is indeed an honor, August Ruler. I had asked Amlina to offer me as a gift to the House of the Deepmind, as I was frankly rather bored with her and the low company she keeps. But I never expected to greet so glorious and magnificent a master.”

“Ha ha!” the boy was exultant. “He is wonderful! Buroof is your name?”

“Yes, majestic one. I have absorbed knowledge into my pages for thousands of years. And I know, of course, that you are gifted with the wisdom of your esteemed ancestors. I think we may have a great many interesting conversations.”

“Oh, yes! I am sure we shall,” the boy cried.

To read more of the Glimnodd adventures, check out the first novel, Cloak of the Two Winds.

Or, you can purchase the entire collection with bonus stories in this omnibus edition. |

And for background on the magical world of Glimnodd and the series, see this page.

* See 2K to 10 K: Writing Faster, Writing Better, and Writing More of What You Love by Rachel Aaron

A Bridge From Balor, Chapter One

In this post we present the opening chapter of A Bridge from Balor, a historical fantasy set in Medieval Ireland.

A Bridge From Balor Cover
Cover photograph courtesy of SandiePhotos www.sandiephotos.com.

Ireland, 1305. Six are called: warrior, druid, healer, scholar, harper, witch. Summoned in a dream on the Eve of May, they are charged by the Earth itself to thwart an invasion from another realm.

Chapter 1 – A May Day Dream

On the Eve of Beltaine, the First of May, the young Lord Farrel dreamed a vivid and peculiar dream.

Transported to a grassy hilltop near the boundary of his lands, he found himself wandering among massive, tumbled stones—the ruins of an ancient ring fort. An old, slender moon glided low in the east. Rolls of mist, glistening in the moonlight, floated about the hill and over the plains below. The countryside, green and lush with Spring, shimmered with a ghostly, emerald glow.

Farrel shuddered at a disturbing sense of the uncanny: he knew he was dreaming, yet the dream felt undeniably real. Ring forts and other such ruins were known to be the haunts of faeries. Sensible folk shunned such places—especially at night.

A murmur of voices reached Farrel from higher up the hill. Just then a bank of mist parted and he saw a man and woman standing together before a crumbled gray wall. The man, dressed in long robes of gold and white, pointed a crooked wand at Farrel.

“Come forward and join us,” he called.

Instinctively, the young chieftain glanced down to see if he was armed. But the broad, studded belt over his linen tunic held neither sword nor dagger. Farrel set his jaw and put a slight swagger in his gait as he marched toward the two strangers.

The man looked mortal enough, and seemed about Farrel’s age of twenty. He was tall, perhaps half a head above Farrel’s considerable height, and well-made, though he lacked the Lord of Tronwall’s deepness of chest and wide, brawny shoulders. The stranger’s beard, the same tawny color as his unshorn hair, curled long and full but retained the softness of youth. It looked like yellow down compared to Farrel’s scruffy black beard.

The girl seemed even younger than the man. Trim and fair, she wore the simple skirt, blouse, and bodice of a country maid. A bright plaid kerchief bound her auburn hair.

“Who are you?” Farrel demanded of them both. “How have I come here? Stolen from my bed by faeries, was I?”

“Not quite.” The man gave a wry smile. He gazed at Farrel’s forehead as though reading an invisible scroll there. “You, so I behold, are the young Lord Farrel, Chieftain of Tronwall on the northern coast.”

Farrel gestured broadly to the countryside at his back. “That is part of my lands, as are these hills. Making you my guests, or foes. Which is it?”

“I am no enemy, I assure you,” the young woman answered. “I only arrived a moment ago, and was about to ask this man if he knew how I came to be here.”

“We are all of us here in a dream,” the other said, “a dream we share together, if you can conceive of such a thing. What I know of it, I know in the manner of dreamers. For instance, this lovely green-eyed girl is Glenna, a maid of Tirawley and apprentice to the healing woman of Nephinwood. As for me, I speak my true name only to trusted friends. Yet such, I feel certain, you both must be—or become. I am Valin, initiate of the Oak Priests.”

“A druid then.” Farrel’s voice took on a calmer tone.

From earliest times the druids had been the magicians, priests, and law-givers of his race. Even in this Christian age, the Old Ways had a following, especially in the wild places of forest and upland. A druid was a man of mystery and power, respected by all save the most arrogant churchmen and lords.

“Why have we been brought here, druid?” Farrel asked.

“No doubt we will learn that in time,” Valin said. “But I sense our circle is not yet complete. Look, another joins us.”

With his short wooden wand he gestured down the hill, to where a maiden was stepping among the fallen stones. She wore a gown of white linen, loose and frayed. A girdle of new flowers circled her waist, and a similar wreath of blooms crowned her abundant, gold-red hair. Gazing up at the three dreamers, she gave a wild, gleeful smile. She came toward them barefoot, treading lightly.

“I have dreamed this dream before,” she said. “But always before I dreamed alone. This time we dream together, do we not? For I feel each of you is truly here with me: Valin, Glenna, Farrel, most brave and true.”

Speaking their names, she touched each on the arm, touching Farrel last and allowing her fingers to trace over his hand. She stared at him with mad, enchanting eyes.

Farrel stared back, utterly captivated. A moment passed before he collected himself and gruffly cleared his throat.

“Young woman, you seem to know more of this than we do. Perhaps you can tell us the reason we are here.”

The girl shrugged, looking about. “My dream never went past our meeting. But is not our meeting enough on such a glorious night?”

“You are Kerrawyn,” Valin intoned, “daughter of a mortal lass and some elf-man she met on Midsummer’s Eve …”

“And never thought to ask his name,” Kerrawyn said, “so beguiled was she by his wild faery charms. Yes, I am Kerrawyn the wood-witch, friend to birds and water-sprites, lover of bright flowers. Is not Spring the sweetest time of year?”

“This Spring is tainted by a threat,” Valin murmured, looking aloft. “Though as yet I cannot discern its shape. Wait, two more arrive—to complete our assembly, I think.”

They followed his gaze to where a young man and woman emerged from the mist, climbing the slope toward them. The man, clean-shaven except for a thin mustache, was of middle stature, slim and angular. The girl was only a bit smaller and very pretty, with black hair cut short above her shoulders. Both wore traveling garb, colorful woolen cloaks and soft leathers.

As he approached, the young man scrutinized each of the dreamers, his dark eyes keen beneath a red cockade hat.

“An unlikely conclave, this. And why my sister and I find ourselves here I confess I cannot fathom. You look as if you may have authority here.”

He had addressed the last remark to Valin, staring at the druid with a mixture of irony, confusion, and belligerence.

“I am merely a dreamer like you,” Valin replied. “I perceive that you are Sontoral and Aidan, children of the Lord and Lady of Caer Wold in Wales, now deceased.”

“Aye, our parents are dead seven years,” Sontoral answered. “Murdered by the local Norman tyrant in order to steal our lands. But how do you know who we are?”

“He sees with the druid’s sight,” Farrel answered.

Valin continued, addressing Sontoral: “Further, I learn you are a harper of the ancient school. And though only a journeyman, already your name carries some fame, owing to certain satires against the English and their king. While your sister, despite her youth, is an accomplished scribe and scholar, a preserver of traditional verse and lore.”

“So you know us,” Aidan said, “while we know nothing of you save that you speak the Irish tongue.”

“That is meet, for we stand on Erinn’s soil,” Valin replied, “though your bodies lie asleep across the sea. I am Valin. Here is Glenna, Farrel, Kerrawyn …”

The druid paused, brow wrinkled, as though he listened to some internal voice. “I sense that we six are sharing this dream at the behest of some unknown power … Three women and three men, all born within the same three-year. Druid, warrior, harper, healer, scholar, witch: each of us is needed.”

“Needed for what?” Farrel demanded. “You bewilder us with a tangle of details while claiming ignorance of this central question: Why are we brought here?”

Valin chuckled and scratched his bearded chin with the tip of his wand. “That is the central question,” he agreed. “Let us sit and listen for the answer.”

He sat down on the ground with legs folded. Kerrawyn nodded and followed his example.

“And to what are you listening?” Sontoral asked.

“Inner voices speak with wisdom to the spirit,” Valin replied, “provided one has the wisdom to listen.”

Glenna glanced around at the others, shrugged and sat down beside the druid. Farrel waited a moment more, then flopped himself down as well.

“A stranger dream than this was never dreamed,” he grumbled.

“Shhh,” Valin held up a hand, eyes shut, a look of keen attention on his face.

Only Aidan and Sontoral remained standing, wearing grim and baffled expressions.

Presently, Valin rose to his feet. “The dream will provide our answer,” he said. “Look there!”

He pointed his wand into the mist, which immediately retreated, rolling back from the hilltop. In moments the whole countryside in that direction lay uncovered, flat marshland stretched beneath the moon and stars.

From the center of the marsh, faintly visible against the sky, rose an arc of blue light, sweeping up in a tremendous curve until lost in the outer firmament.

The sight filled the dreamers with a feeling of awe and foreboding. For several moments, none of them spoke.

“What is it?” Glenna asked finally. “A bridge,” Valin whispered, “a bridge from another world.”

The arc of light grew brighter, till it flashed with dazzling brilliance. Then the vision shifted and the dreamers stood upon the marsh, the bridge of light before them like a huge, gleaming tower.

Gradually, the marshland surrounding the bridge began to change. Reeds and rushes withered and died. The marshwater drifted with oily smears, dead fish and frogs floating on the surface. Trees on the surrounding hillsides rotted and fell. The soil turned ashen, and the very air shimmered with dank, fetid gasses.

Nature spirits, visible to the dreamers’ eyes, rose twisting from their dwelling places in root, stream, and rock, driven out by this foreign power unleashed upon the Earth.

Kerrawyn seemed to share the spirits’ agony. She cried out as if in pain, covered her face and wept. Farrel hesitated, then drew her close and held her against his shoulder. Frail and birdlike, she trembled in his arms. With one hand he caressed her wild hair.

When Farrel looked up again his breath caught in his throat. Creatures were gliding down the bridge and emerging on the marsh. Huge and monstrous they were, with bulky shoulders, sallow hides, and sloping, hairless skulls. Armed with axes and hammers the first group of creatures slogged forward, approaching the dreamers.

Farrel lifted Kerrawyn in his arms, preparing to flee. Sontoral and Glenna recoiled. But the druid held up his arms.

“No need to fear,” he said. “These beings are only images, portents of what might be. They cannot harm us, yet.”

The chieftain of Tronwall was not entirely convinced. But he set the young woman down behind him and stood his ground. Clustered near the druid, the dreamers stared as the fearsome creatures marched to within a few yards of them—and moved on.

As the monsters slouched by Farrel gazed at them with sickening fascination. Though surely no beings of Earth, they yet stirred dim primordial memories that filled him with loathing and hate.

Abruptly the vision altered again. Now the dreamers saw a fleeting succession of images: the creatures stalking through the night, approaching huts and cottages near the marsh, smashing down doors and walls to drag the inhabitants from their beds. Farrel heard the screams of women as they watched their husbands butchered, the wailing of babes lifted from their cribs to be torn apart by fiendish hands. Helpless to stop the appalling vision, he watched many of his clanspeople dragged back to the marsh to be devoured alive.

On that grisly scene the vision mercifully faded. Farrel found himself with the other dreamers, standing on the hilltop once more. Across the lowlands, shrouded in mist, the arc of blue light faintly glowed. Aghast, the dreamers gazed at one another.

“I am ready for this dream to end now,” Sontoral the harper declared.

“What meaning do you read in all this?” Aidan, the harper’s sister, asked the druid.

“A warning of invasion from another realm,” Valin muttered, plainly as shaken as the others. “A prodigious omen, especially outlandish in this age when the Earth is receding from contiguous worlds. Still, if true, it would explain why we are assembled here. Of old, the Earth protected herself by summoning her children to her defense. From this it would follow that we six are called upon to foil the invasion.”

“How can we do so?” Farrel demanded, enraged by what he had seen.

Valin sighed. “That answer I do not have. When I wake I will seclude myself in the forest and try to learn more of this bridge of light. I have many allies who may give me counsel. If I learn that this dream portends a true danger, I will summon each of you, in the waking world.”

“This has been most fascinating,” Sontoral remarked. “But now my sister and I are ready for more ordinary dreams.”

He gripped Aidan’s wrist and started to leave. But she held back, unsure.

“Do you mean you would refuse to help us?” the druid said.

Sontoral frowned and cleared his throat before answering. “I am sorry. But Aidan and I have other schemes to hatch, and flesh-and-blood enemies to fight.”

“What enemies?” Farrel asked.

Sontoral gave a hard smile. “Some things are better not spoken of, even in dreams.”

He tugged Aidan’s arm. But before she could turn away Kerrawyn spoke out in loud and forceful voice.

“Sontoral and Aidan belong to the Society of the Black Glove, a secret band dedicated to driving the English from Wales.”

The Welshman and his sister froze, glowering at the witch. “I suppose an inner voice told you this?” the harper said.

“Friends,” Kerrawyn stared at them earnestly, her eyes still wet with tears. “Your own minds told me this. Sometimes when thoughts are strongly felt—as yours in this are strong as iron—I hear them in my head as clear as voices. You have no enemies here. I spoke only to show you that I understand your duty to your people. Yet I beg you to put that aside for a time, because I feel in my heart how sorely we may need your help.”

Sontoral scowled and looked away. But his sister returned Kerrawyn’s gaze for a long moment, like one enspelled by a glamour. Finally, Aidan shook her head.

“I do not know how to answer. All this is a dream, as we all agree. Yet I cannot escape the feeling that what we have seen portended is real.”

Suddenly the hilltop brightened. The dreamers glanced about, then upward, for it seemed the glaring light shone from above—a blue light like the one that gleamed over the marsh.

“We are discovered,” Valin cried, holding up his wand as if for protection.

With a cringing in his gut, Farrel sensed a presence, a powerful awareness probing his mind. The blue light intensified to a piercing flash that sizzled, then clapped like thunder.

Next moment, the six sleepers in their far-flung bodies awoke.

                                                   ***
Want to read more?
You can find the rest of the novel (currently free) on Royal Road.   Check it out here.

Excerpt from A Tournament of Witches

Happy October!

full moon photo

This month I am celebrating the completion of the Glimnodd Cycle audiobooks. Book 3, A Tournament of Witches has just gone live on Audible. You can read more about the series here.

To mark the occasion, here is an excerpt from Chapter 1.  Amlina, the exile witch of Larthang, has succeeded in winning back the mighty Cloak of the Two Winds, but at a terrible cost.   She and her warrior crew are in hiding while Amlina struggles to regain her health. She still hopes to return the Cloak to its rightful owners, but when that  can happen is in doubt …

Streams of light and shadow—some drifting slowly, others pouring in torrents, crashing in waves, spinning into whirlpools—so, in her meditation, Amlina the witch perceived the currents of the Deepmind, the realm below the surface of appearances.

In her immediate vicinity she perceived dense curtains of power, sparkling on one side, utterly dark on the other. But the curtains were separating, rips appearing in their fabric.

Once again, her concealments were coming undone.

Daily now, they grew flimsier, harder to maintain. Of course, she had known this must happen sooner or later. One could not hide a source of power so great as the Cloak forever—no matter how carefully the designs of concealment were woven, no matter how much energy fed those designs.

Amlina’s hands rose from her lap, fingers pointing and circling as her mind summoned power to repair the barriers. But even as she envisioned the fabric mending, the tattered weave thickening again, pain burned in her heart and throbbed behind her eyes.

Too much power.

That, of course, was her real problem—the dark power that seethed in her body, growing stronger, more insistent, no matter what measures she took to disperse it, to bleed it away.

Bleed it away.

Amlina opened her eyes, staring at the red lamps arranged around the room, the feathered desmets and glittering balls that hung suspended on threads. She sat cross-legged in her closet-bed, alone.

Below the floor, she could faintly hear her friends in the great room downstairs—talking, the clatter of pots and dishes as they prepared breakfast. Draven, Glyssa, Lonn, Kizier—friends who had become her family. This farmhouse in the hills south of Fleevanport was such a peaceful place, belying the turmoil of the outer world, the fear and chaos that had filled Amlina’s life for so long—chaos that was closing in on her again.

Half a year had passed since their arrival. At the start of First Winter they had sailed into the harbor of Fleevanport, their Gwales raiding ship a unique sight in these parts. That and the unusual crew had been more than enough to attract attention—scrutiny Amlina did her best to fend off with witchery. As soon as possible, they used some of their treasure to purchase this house in the hill country south of the town. Originally built as a hunting lodge by a Tathian merchant, it had become a farmstead and passed through the hands of several owners who tried breeding sheep and woolgoats—a difficult proposition in the frigid climate. Set on a wooded hill overlooking an inlet of the sea, the place made a perfect hideout for a renegade witch and her pirate companions.

The first months had been peaceful, Amlina grateful for victory, able to rest at last. Together with her warrior crew, her klarn, she had defeated Beryl, the Archimage of the East, reclaimed the Cloak of the Two Winds, which Beryl had stolen long ago. Amlina planned to return the Cloak to Larthang. She only meant to linger in Fleevan a short time, long enough to recover her health. The great ensorcellment she had forged, the Mirror Against All Mishap, had taken its toll, left her weak and sick.

At first, she seemed to be recovering, nourished by the peace of this place, by the presence of her friends, and by her love for one of them, Draven. That love had proven all she could have hoped for and more. So many nights she had fallen asleep beside him, satiated from lovemaking, warmed by his body, contentment filling her heart.

But even as her strength returned, her energies lurched farther out of balance. The Mirror was forbidden magic, blood magic. By invoking it, Amlina had raised fearsome, dark power. She had thought that when the Mirror expired, the evil force would drain away.

That hope had proven false. Instead, as her vitality was restored, hunger for more power grew. Food no longer satisfied her. Her coupling with Draven became by turns frantic and repellent. When she started imagining biting him, tasting his blood, she knew how deep the sickness ran.

With the arrival of Second Winter and the ice-sailing season, Amlina had planned to depart for Larthang. But in all her treasured imaginings, she had returned in triumph, presenting the Cloak at the House of the Deepmind, victorious and honored. Instead she was now a broken, tainted thing. Were she to return in that condition, she would likely be an outcast still, reviled because of the evil magic that possessed her.

So she had delayed longer, trying every method she could to overcome the sickness—meditations, purification rites, imbuing herself with light. She had consulted with the scholar Kizier and with Buroof, the talking book, who knew the magic of ages past.

All the time she had studied and fretted, others were searching for the Cloak. The Iruks had reported stories from Fleevanport of war in the Tathian Isles. On their voyage here, Amlina’s party had used the Cloak to unleash a storm that blew away the fleet of Hagan, Prince-Ruler of Kadavel. With the disappearance of Hagan’s fleet, rival city-states had moved to fill the void, seizing Kadavel’s lands and ships. In the midst of these skirmishes, the navy of Larthang had suddenly invaded the Island of Gon Fu—forcing the Tathians to abandon their differences in the face of a common foe.

To all of the rulers of the Three Nations, the Cloak would be an enviable prize. As a weapon of war, it could freeze whole cities, scatter fleets. Increasingly, Amlina had sensed the minds of deepshapers searching—Tathian State Sorcerers, magician-priests from Near and Far Nyssan, witches of Larthang.

As the pressure mounted and her concealments frayed, she still hesitated, indecisive, unsure. A few days ago she had invoked the Bowing to the Sky, the ultimate surrender to the Deepmind. But that ritual gave her no answer at all—except that she must wait and accept.

It was the Bowing that originally told her to go forward with the blood magic. At least, that had been her interpretation of the message at the time. And that course had led her to defeat the Archimage and win the Cloak.

But at what cost?

Despondent, Amlina wondered if she had vanquished the bloodthirsty Queen of Tallyba only to become like her.

“That is right, little Larthang, little fool.” Beryl’s voice crept into her mind.

Amlina lurched out of bed, clutching her skull with both hands. The voice came often to torment her. Was it the product of her imagination, or the Archimage’s actual ghost? She did not know.

“You are not real,” she said. “You are dead and have no power over me.”

“I have no power, it is true,” the voice answered. “But the blood magic, that has power, power you cannot deny. The cravings grow and grow. Sooner or later they will overwhelm your paltry qualms and then … your lover, your friends, victims you lure from the town, it will not matter.”

“No,” Amlina whispered through closed teeth. “I will not become like you.”

“You were always like me. You just refuse to see yourself.”

That much might be true. Amlina had often thought herself lacking in self-awareness, blinded by ambition, an exaggerated sense of her own importance and power. Ambition had brought her to this …

“There is no other way to still the cravings,” Beryl taunted her.

“Oh, but there is.” Amlina crossed to a dressing table, pulled open the top drawer. Reaching to the back, she extracted a small bone-handled knife with a razor-sharp edge.

“Cutting yourself is no solution,” Beryl whispered.

“Begone,” Amlina said, and used the knife to trace a sign of banishment in the air.

Pulling up the sleeve of her dressing gown, Amlina stared at her forearm. The tiny scars were growing numerous, a pattern like a spider’s web. She used a cosmetic and a cantrip, a mind-trick, to hide the marks from Draven and her friends. How long would that concealment last?

No matter, she must relieve the pressure. She must balance her energies, restore her equilibrium, so she could make plans to return the Cloak to Larthang.

Time was running out.

Deliberately, she sliced the steel edge along the skin above her wrist. Holding her arm over a porcelain basin, she squeezed the spot above the cut and watched the red droplets fall.

                                                      ***
— from Tournament of Witches, Chapter One.
Copyright (c) 2020 by Jack Massa. All Rights Reserved.

Tournament of Witches Audiobook

Want more?

Read about the Glimnodd series here.

Or check out Tournament of Witches on Amazon

Holding Up the Sky

Lately I’ve been feeling like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. (Yes, I know I’m not the only one.) Thinking of that phrase this morning reminded me of Hecules and how he carried the sky (or some say the world) on his shoulders as part of one of his labors.

Statue of Hercules
Source: https://www.greekmythology.com/Myths/Heroes/Heracles/heracles.html

As you might remember, Hercules (Greek Heracles) was a demi-god, a son of Zeus. In the myth, he murdered his wife and children in a fit of madness. To atone, he was given twelve nearly-impossible tasks to perform. One of the last was to obtain the Golden Apples of the Hesperides. The titan Atlas, who held up the heavens (or some say, the world) was one of the few who knew the location of the sacred garden where the apples could be found. Atlas refused to disclose the location, but offered to fetch the apples himself if Hercules would hold up the sky while he was gone.

Contemplating the story, I wrote this poem some years back…

Hercules with the Sky on His Shoulders

Who’d have thought the sky could be so heavy?
Below it looks so empty, full of light,
Not this altar slab of bloody marble
Pinching the bone at the back of my neck.
I should have thought to fold the lion skin,
Make it a pillow to soften the pain.

The Nemean Lion–there was a foe.
His famous hide no blade or point could pierce.
Lucky I caught him sleeping, belly full.
Still, not many heroes, or even gods,
Could have strangled him, won that prize pelt. But
I was stronger then, not so worn with toil.

So many labors, monsters, wars–For what?
Expiation? How can that be justice
When you can’t even remember the crime?
Only awaking from a drunken sleep
To recognize the slaughtered innocents:
My wife, my babies–No! Don’t think about it.

I might have been a fool to trust that giant;
He seemed a bit too ready to oblige,
As if, almost, he knew I was coming.
Maybe Hera put a plan in his ear:
Offer to fetch the gold apples yourself;
Leave him supporting the sky forever.

Oh, that would be so very like the gods:
Send a man fishing in a leaky boat
Then wonder at his prayers as he’s drowning.
Better luck to try and drain the ocean.
That’s always been my way: tear up the roots,
Topple the whole…Yes, look where it’s brought me.

What would happen if I just let it go,
Slip aside and let the Cosmos collapse?
Would Olympus fall, and Zeus my father–
If he is my father–Would his house fall?
The glorious palace, the smug, bright gods…
If I could only be there to see it.

But would it be so bad to wake a shade
In Hades realm, to slowly fade to nothing?
No more tragedies, no scenes at all,
Just a quiet, merciful dissolving…
No! I can bear this pain much, much longer.
My knees will not buckle; I am resolved.

When the giant returns, although it be
Only to smirk and gloat, I’ll find a way
To make him take back his burden, and then
Carry the apples back to Argolis,
Laugh at the king’s dire disappointment
As I spill them glittering at his feet.

I will finish his trials, every one.
And on the day I’m released, scale the heights
Of Olympus, break down the shining doors,
Storm through the gaggle of horrified gods,
Face Zeus, stare into his uncaring eye,
And demand to know the reason.

Statue of Atlas holding up the world
Atlas holding up the world. Source: Wikipedia

Hope you liked my little poem. And if you’re struggling to hold up your world right now, take heart.

Even demigods must endure hard times.

_____________________

For more stories based on Greek mythology, check out my Conjurer of Rhodes titles.

Ghosts, A Hurricane, and a Dash of Shakespeare

… Or the genesis of Ghosts of Prosper Key.

Stories are strange things. They grow from tiny seeds—characters, actions, imagined events. Often for me, a story really takes off only when two or more completely unrelated ideas come together. This seems to create a kind of magical tension as I wonder “How can these things fit together?”

Background

My newest novella, Ghosts of Prosper Key, evolved in this way. It is the fourth of a series, the Abby Renshaw Supernatural Mysteries, so I already knew the back story. Abby is a teenage “true magician,” student of a tradition founded by her ancestors in the town of Harmony Springs in rural Florida.

Ghost of Prosper Key Cover
Ghosts of Prosper Key is available on Amazon.

At the end of the preceding novel, Ghosts of Lock Tower, Abby has succeeded in overcoming magical challenges and dangers spawned by the occult. She is living with her grandmother and starting college. She has relationships with elders in the magical circle, as well as two guys she is interested in romantically.

Idea 1: Molly is Haunted

Abby also has a best friend, an aspiring journalist named Molly Quick. All of my readers seem to love Molly, due to her bravery, insatiable curiosity, and no-nonsense approach to things. In Lock Tower, it was also revealed that Molly has native talent as a spiritual medium.

So I wanted this story to focus on Molly.

What’s her situation? She’s in her last year of high school, applying to colleges. Like many sensitive and intelligent kids, she is scared of the coming changes, scared of growing up. These fears haunt her. Because of the subject-matter of the series as a whole, these fears manifest as paranormal events.

Molly is haunted. But by what?

Idea 2: The Setting

One thing I love about this series is that it lets me write about out-of-the-way places in Florida. A location I had visited and wanted to use as a setting was Cedar Key.

This island lies off the northwest coast of the state. The area is known as the Nature Coast, as it has little population but lots of swamps, ranches, and nature preserves. Today, Cedar Key is a remote, “old Florida” tourist destination.

But the past has a different story to tell.

Cedar Key cemetery
Cemetery at Cedar Key, site of one of the scenes in Ghosts of Prosper Key

In the late 1800s, the Cedar Keys (as they were then called) were one of the most populous areas in Florida. The island then known as Way Key was the end point of the east-west railroad and the major port on Florida’s west coast. Fishing, oyster farms, and especially timber were major industries. Because of over logging, the economy began to decline in the 1890s. Then, in 1896, the area was devastated by one of the worst hurricanes ever to hit the United States.

So, I thought: if Molly is haunted and if our heroes visit Cedar Key, the ghosts must originate there. And if there are unhappy spirits roaming the place, they most-likely lived during that great hurricane.

Idea 3: The Tempest

So now I had the main character, her conflicts, and the setting. But something was still missing. Who were these ghosts? Why were they restless?

It had something to do with that hurricane.

For research, I read the book The Cedar Keys Hurricane of 1896: Disaster at Dawn by Alvin F. Oickle. The events were both frightening and amazing. The island that is now Cedar Key was leveled, while nearby Atsena Otie Key (then known as Depot Key) was inundated by a ten-foot storm surge.

Their whole world washed away in a night and a day.

Pondering that, I suddenly thought of a famous song that the spirit Ariel sings in Shakespeare’s The Tempest:

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell
Hark! now I hear them. Ding-dong, bell.
(Act I, Scene 2)

Sea change. The sea rising up and changing everything. That idea resonated strongly. My story had some relationship to The Tempest. But what?

Scene from the Tempest
Illustration from the Tempest source: https://shakespeareyouthfestival.com/2015/12/tempest/

As you might recall, the play concerns Prospero, a powerful magician who has lost his Dukedom by betrayal and now lives on a remote island with his daughter, Miranda (and spirits that he conjures).

Prospero raises a storm to wreck a passing ship which, he happens to know, contains the party of Alonso the King of Naples and Prospero’s own brother, Antonio, who usurped his place as Duke of Milan. Ferdinand, the son of the king, swims to shore and is found by Prospero. Put into service by the magician, he falls in love with Miranda, and she with him.

So: Molly haunted by ghosts, a powerful father and his daughter, a tempest and disaster, a love story.

My completely unrelated ideas had come together.

The story had taken off.

Denouement

Throughout the action of Shakespeare’s play winds roar; confusion reigns and disappears; love is found; moral order is restored; and all the lost characters reunite in the end.

As Gonzalo, the loquacious king’s counselor, summarizes:

…O, rejoice
Beyond a common joy, and set it down
With gold on lasting pillars: In one voyage
Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis,
And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife
Where he himself was lost, Prospero his dukedom
In a poor isle and all of us ourselves
When no man was his own.
(Act V, Scene 1)

Shore at Cedar Key
Along the shore at Cedar Key

These days, of course, our own world is facing dangers and changes of every kind. Will we all drown in wreckage, or will we emerge on some better shore having found ourselves in unlikely ways?

We can hope for the best. That’s what stories are for.

————————

You can find Ghosts of Prosper Key on Amazon.

Or check out the rest of the
Abby Renshaw Supernatural Histories here.

The Fabled Land of Witches

Tournament of Witches, Book 3 of the Glimnodd Cycle, is finally available. (The paperback is on sale now , and  the ebook up for pre-order on Amazon , with publication set for July 15).

Tournament of Witches Cover

The writing of this novel took far longer than I like to think about. Suffice it to say that the original outline was developed sometime in the last century. So it is extremely gratifying to me for this mind-child to see the light of day at last.

This third volume of the saga sees Amlina the witch and her Iruk warriors sail to Larthang to return the Cloak of the Two Winds to its rightful owners, the witches of the House of the Deepmind. Epic fantasy often involves a journey, as well as a multi-layered plot rife with contending forces and intrigue. Tournament has all that aplenty.

The Golden Land

Larthang, Amlina’s homeland, is the westernmost of the Three Nations and has a long history of deep magic. But along with great witches, it is a land of warriors, sages, scholars, philosophers, and poets. Elements of the cultural background are drawn from ancient China, mixed with other historical sources, and transposed into the magical universe of Glimnodd.

Map of Larthang
Map of Larthang, (c) 2020 by Jack Massa. All rights reserved.

The Iruks, barbarians from the south polar region, are largely unfamiliar with Larthang and unsure what to expect. In this excerpt, as they near the coast, the scholar Kizier gives them an introduction to the history and politics …

———————————————————————–

Their destination was Randoon of the Onyx Gates, one of three major ports on the Larthangan coast, each built at the mouth of a river. Kizier described the city one evening, as he and Eben sat in the stern beside the windbringers. It had become their custom to spend an hour or two there each day reviewing and practicing Eben’s language lessons.

In ancient times, the scholar said, the three rivers had flowed free and wild from their sources in the west and north. But during the first centuries of the current era, when the Dynasty of the Tuans was established and the great witches of Larthang practiced their arts, the rivers had been tamed. Now levees and dams controlled the floods and maintained irrigation of the farmlands. Inland, a grand canal linked the three rivers at Minhang, the Celestial Capital.

“But why is it called Randoon of the Onyx Gates?” Eben inquired.

“This you will see when we arrive,” Kizier answered. “On each side of the river stands a mighty tower fashioned of smooth, precious stone. These towers control a magical force that can be raised from the riverbed like gates of onyx to prevent ships from passing in or out of the channel. This witchery guards Larthang from invasion by sea.”

“So? Do the other ports also have such defenses?” Eben asked.

“Indeed,” Kizier said. “Hanjapore of the Jade Gates to the south, and Haji-Chan of the Moonstone Gates in the north.”

“The history is all very interesting,” Lonn grumbled, speaking Low-Tathian. Standing at the helm, he had listened to their talks in Larthangan for days now and was understanding much of what they said. “But I am more concerned with the greeting we’re likely to get when we land.”

“Yes, and with good reason.” Kizier shifted to Low-Tathian himself.

“This war faction that the drell described,” Eben said. “They tried to take the Cloak once. We haven’t spotted any naval vessels since Fleevanport, but once we near the coast of Larthang, what then? Will Amlina wield the Cloak against their ships again? If not, how will she keep them from taking it? But if she does, it’s hard to imagine we’ll be received as friends when we do reach Larthang.”

“All true,” Kizier allowed. “But there are other powers in Larthang.”

“You mean the witches at the House of the Deepmind,” Eben said. “They who sent the drell.”

“They, yes. And still others, I am sure. It’s many years since I studied in Larthang, and no doubt the political situation has evolved. But I can tell you this for certain: by tradition there are three powers in the Golden Land, known as the Three Pillars of the Throne. The Witches, who practice the arts of the Deepmind; Warriors, who practice the arts of war; and Magistrates, who administer the laws and maintain the civil government. Within these three orders, or estates, there are always factions and sub-factions, and constantly shifting alliances. Above all sits the hereditary ruler, the Tuan. In name, the Tuan is supreme, but in practice he or she must balance the contending forces of the three estates.”

“Are the witches always women?” Eben asked. “We know that elsewhere in the Three Nations, mages and sorcerers might be men as well. Is this not true in Larthang?”

“No and yes.” Kizier seemed to relish conveying the complexity of these matters. “The House of the Deepmind, known as Ting Ta Roo, is the supreme magical power and home to the Five Revered Arts. It trains only women and only they may properly be called ‘Witches of Larthang.’ But there are other, lesser traditions of deepshaping and deepseeing that teach both males and females. These schools train prognosticators, alchemists, and conjurers, as well as scholars and sages who may include mysticism as part of their studies. Any of these practitioners might be called mages, but never Witches of Larthang.”

“Sounds very complicated,” Lonn grumbled. “So, assuming we manage to land, Amlina will need to seek out her fellow witches, since she plans to surrender the Cloak to the House of the Deepmind.”

“Yes, but perhaps not just any witches,” Kizier said. “Some witches are allied to the so-called Iron Bloc. This we have seen already. No doubt there are other factions in the three estates who would love to possess the Cloak and the power it brings. Amlina has chosen to surrender the Cloak to the Archimage in Minhang—but how we will get there is an open question. Indeed, what will happen when we land in Randoon? That I cannot even guess.”

— from Tournament of Witches, Chapter Ten.
Copyright (c) 2020 by Jack Massa. All Rights Reserved,

———————————————————————–

You can:

Purchase Tournament of Witches here.

Or check out the other volumes of the Glimnodd Cycle,

Read more about the magical world of Glimnodd,

Or sign up here for our mailing list and get a free prequel short story to the Cycle, “Street Sorceress”

Castle Image

 

Interview with Author JC Kang

This month we are pleased to present an interview with John (JC) Kang, author of The Legends of Tivara, a multi-volume epic fantasy “series of series” that includes, among others, The Dragon Songs Saga and Scions of the Black Lotus.

The Dragon Songs Saga Boxset

Welcome JC. Please tell us a little about yourself and your writing.

Thanks for having me!  I’m an acupuncturist by trade, a Wing Chun Kung Fu instructor for fun, and I do a little writing, as well.  I generally write epic fantasy with a mix of cultures drawing from Earth’s history.

When did you first decide to be a writer? What first drew you to writing fantasy?

I grew up both GMing (Game-Mastering) and playing D&D, and as a teen, I’d stood in line waiting for Dragonlance books to come out.  As something of a misfit, I tried to write a story set in my game world then. It was a total mess. Twenty years later, I came across my worldbuilding materials while cleaning out my room in my childhood home. Of course, as an adult, I had a better understanding of matters like economies and gravity, so I decided to recreate the planet that I’d envisioned as a teenager.

On the seventh day, I rested. It was then that I realized I would probably never play D&D again; and since as a DM, my players always frustrated me with their free will, I decided I would write.

Are there particular books, movies, or games that were a major influence on your work?

Besides Dungeons & Dragons, Civilization was a huge influence in terms of giving me the idea of a second world with Earth Cultures.  Of course, Star Wars, Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, Chronicles of Narnia were huge literary and media influencers when I was growing up.

Do all of your stories take place in the same fictional universe? How do you approach setting and world building?

So far, yes!  The primary characters of one series might make a cameo in another, and there is one character who appears in all of them.

For world building, one of the most important things to me is continuity and interconnectivity.  For example, I created a low-orbit moon which is tidally locked and always in the same place in the sky. I started to think, how would that moon influence the people viewing it from below? What cultural practices would that lead to?

Yes, I remember thinking what a cool idea that moon was. It gave a science fiction touch to the fantasy world. 

I am always interested in the magical aspect of fantasy. What inspires the magic or supernatural elements of your stories?

I give each ethnic group their own form of magic, but it is all based on borrowing wave energy from an abundant mineral on the planet. Each culture describe the manipulation of frequency, wavelength, and amplitude to alter reality it in different terminology:  For example, the “Roman” Diviners hear the Gods’ Whispers to Divine; whereas the “West African” Mystics sense the Resonance for sorcery; South Asians channel Vibrations into fighting prowess, etc.

I think a big challenge of fantasy is creating magic that is plausible and understandable to the reader. Do you construct rules-based magical systems or approach it in some other way?

I would neither call the magic system hard or soft—it’s firm. There are definite rules, but I don’t keep track of mana points or anything like that. The key to me is consistency: if there is magic, how will that affect the development of a culture, and the cultures around it?

Complete Tales of the Floating World Boxset

Of all the characters you’ve created, who are your favorites and why?

My favorites have changed over the years, but now, I would say it is my half Asian/half-elf ninja. Originally, she was just a minor character meant to show the world was a mix of Eastern and Western fantasies; but my first critique partners loved her so much, she got an important back story. She’s fun to write because the snark in her viewpoint.

How would you describe your writing style?

Technical?  Not technical writing—I actually worked in that field at one time—but rather, the idea of structuring variety in sentence structures and patterns. Beyond that, I can’t say I’m a brilliant wordsmith who knows the perfect word to evoke the perfect image.

Your biography includes professional experience as a Chinese Medicine Doctor and a martial arts instructor. How have these experiences added to your fiction?

Martial arts has helped me choreograph fights. Chinese Medicine has helped come up with some cool sayings.

Art of the Floating World cover

What are your current projects? When will we see your next book?

I’m currently working on the sequel to Masters of Deception, which chronologically takes place between Crown of the Sundered Empire and Orchestra of Treacheries (though the sequel to Crown, and possibly a serial) will squeeze in between those last two.

I’m also working on a cyberpunk-Progression Fantasy mashup.

What advice would you give to aspiring writers?

Read a lot. Critique, because if you’re like me, in reading unpolished works, you will see what doesn’t work, and you’ll realize you probably make the same mistakes.

In closing, is there anything else you would like to say to your readers?

I’m deeply humbled by those who’ve spent time reading my stories. Thank you!

***********************************

You can find JC Kang’s books on his Amazon page.List of JC Kang Books

To learn more about JC Kang visit http://jckang.dragonstonepress.us/

 

A Cast of Characters

Right now, I am more than delighted because I am finally nearing completion of Tournament of Witches, the third and final book of The Glimnodd Cycle .

Cloak of the Two Winds Cover image

The latest novel truly fits the mold of “epic” fantasy, weighing in at a healthy 95,000 words and featuring a multitude of characters and lots of background (aka world building).

Presenting this amount of information in a story is one of the great challenges of epic fantasy. Of course, the best way to present all of this backstory is to chop it up into little chunks and weave it into the narrative. In a past series of posts beginning here, I described Five Techniques for presenting backstory in this way.

Still, no matter how skillfully the author weaves in character descriptions and background details, readers will sometimes get lost. This is particularly true for readers who might start by reading one of the later books in a series.

To solve this dilemma, an author might provide additional tools that the confused reader can flip to to remind or re-orient themselves. One such tool is a Glossary, which can include definitions of things, places, and concepts that only exist in the fantasy world. Another such tool is a list of characters.

In Tournament of Witches I am including both of these, a Glossary in the back of the book and a character list in the front.

Ad for Book 2: the witch Amlina confronts a dragon spirit.

We’ll leave discussion of the Glossary for a future post. But here, in draft form, is the character listing. Since this is placed at the start of the novel, one thing I’ve tried to do is not only identify the characters, but give a little (hopefully intriguing) information about who they are and what their situation is at the start of the story. Because there are so many, I’ve also used the information designer’s technique of grouping them under subheadings.

Cast of Characters

Amlina – Wandering witch from Larthang, a nation of great witches. Victorious in acquiring the Cloak of the Two Winds, she now seeks to recover from what it cost her.

Eben – Warrior of the barbarian Iruk people. Inclined to poetry; squandering his loot on a life of ease; enjoying it less than he expected.

Eben’s mates, members of his klarn:

Glyssa (f), brave and loving. Trained by Amlina in the magical arts.

Lonn (m), the klarn leader, strong, passionate, stoical. In love with Glyssa.

Draven (m), Lonn’s cousin, brave and optimistic. In love with Amlina.

Karrol (f), brawny, decisive, outspoken. No longer sure where she belongs.

Brinda (f), Karrol’s sister, quiet and reserved. Loyal above all to Karrol.

Others related to Amlina or the Iruks

Kizier – Scholar and friend to Amlina. Ruminating over his past life as a sentient sea-fern.

Buroof – A talking book, once a human. Three thousand years old and full of knowledge.

Beryl Quan de Lang – Amlina’s great enemy. Now a ghost that haunts her.

Bellach – Iruk shaman and sometime mentor to Glyssa in visions.

Witches of Larthang

Drusdegarde – Archimage of the West. Supreme witch of the Land.

Trippany – Bee-winged lady of the drell people. Envoy from the Archimage.

Clorodice, Keeper of the Keys – Powerful and strict. Adherent of the austere Thread of Virtue faction.

Arkasha – Clorodice’s subaltern and member of her circle.

Elani Vo T’ang – Clorodice’s favored apprentice.

Melevarry, Mage of Randoon -Chief witch of that port city. Loyal to the Archimage.

Larthangan Military and Court

Duke Trem-Dou Pheng – Supreme Commander of the Larthangan Forces and leader of the militarist faction, the Iron Bloc.

Shay-Ni Pheng – Admiral of the Larthangan Navy and the Duke’s nephew. Unhappy with his current assignment.

The Tuan (Me Lo Lee) – Supreme Ruler of Larthang. A nine-year-old boy with access to the memories and knowledge of his 154 dynastic predecessors.

Prince Spegis – drell ambassador to the Court. Cousin to Trippany.

Ting Fo -gentleman tutor and interpreter for the Iruks at the Court.

Ancient Chinese Rulers
Ancient Chinese Rulers: Inspiration for the Larthangan court. source: http://earlyworldhistory.blogspot.com/2012/01/yao-shun-and-yu.html

 

You can find more background on the magical world of Glimnodd here .

Or check out the series on Amazon.

Origins of the Frog Monster

As guest author at a book club meeting recently, I was asked about the egregore, a figure in my latest novel Ghosts of Lock Tower. In the story, the egregore is a thought-form, a monster that originates as an internet meme but soon takes on a life of its own.

Ghosts of Lock Tower
Ghosts of Lock Tower is available on Amazon.

As I explained to the book club, as much as possible in my fiction, I like to base magical content on the real thing—that is, magic as it is actually believed in and practiced in our world. I have researched this quite a bit, and both historical and modern occult practices are represented in Lock Tower.

Two Schools of Magic

The protagonist, Abby Renshaw, is an initiate of the Circle of Harmony, a magical order loosely based on the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. Founded in the late 19th Century, the Golden Dawn became a wellspring of modern occultism, and there are still Golden Dawn groups practicing today.

Perhaps the best-known book on the Golden Dawn, by Israel Regardie

During the story Abby encounters another tradition, called “Postmodern Magic,” which is (again, loosely) based on contemporary occult practices grouped under the collective term “Chaos Magic.” As explained in Wikipedia: “Chaos magic has been described as a union of traditional occult techniques and applied postmodernism – particularly a postmodernist skepticism concerning the existence or knowability of objective truth. Chaos magicians subsequently treat belief as a tool, often creating their own idiosyncratic magical systems…”

A character in Lock Tower explains to Abby that he was drawn to Postmodern Magic because it is “free of doctrine and bullshit, a completely scientific search for truth.” Abby finds this appealing, but also worrisome. Postmodern magic lacks the structure and guidance she is used to from the Circle of Harmony. Yet is also offers power that she needs.

The Concept of the Egregore

Two concepts from Chaos Magic that figure prominently in Ghosts of Lock Tower are sigils and the egregore.

We’ll leave sigils for perhaps another time, but (again quoting Wikipedia), “Egregore (also egregor) is an occult concept representing a “thoughtform” or “collective group mind”, an autonomous psychic entity made up of, and influencing, the thoughts of a group of people.”

Source: Supernatural Magazine, Image Source: https://supernaturalmagazine.com/articles/egregore

Notice that an egregore is both made up of the thoughts of a group of people (usually an occult circle) and also influences their thoughts. An independent entity, created by thought, that manifests in the world and affects peoples’ minds – if you spend any time on social media, it is no stretch at all to see how this idea compares to a meme.

The egregore in Ghosts of Lock Tower begins life as a character in an online game. Soon he is adopted as a meme representing collective rage and hate.

But why a frog?

The egregore first appears early in the book. Abby has a nightmare that takes place in a virtual reality game world. She runs in terror through dungeons and corridors filled with dazed and injured young people. Finally:

I enter an upper chamber, like a temple or throne room. Suits of glittering armor stand along the walls. More kids are lined up in a queue, approaching a throne. On the throne sits a huge white frog, with mad angry eyes in its head—and dozens more eyes in its stomach. A girl approaches the throne, and the frog monster opens its mouth. She shrieks as he sucks her in, like sipping cola through a straw.

A frog monster
A Frog Monster similar to the one in the novel. Source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/480266747758596316/

When I drafted that scene, the image of the egregore as a giant white frog spilled readily out of my unconscious. It was only later that I realized a connection. In our own little world there is in fact a meme (or egregore) that started as a harmless online character but transformed into a powerful emblem for hate. You may have heard of Pepe the Frog .

Pepe the Frog from New York Magazine
Pepe the Frog, from an article in New York Magazine. http://nymag.com/intelligencer/2017/04/the-whole-world-is-now-a-message-board.html

The ways of the group mind are vast, deep, and strange, gentle reader. Like Abby, we all must look for principles and guideposts to help us navigate the chaos.

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To learn more about Abby’s quest to combine the two forms of magic, check out Ghosts of Lock Tower here .
You can also read more about the frog monster in this (free online) story published by Harbinger Press: “Return of the Egregore.”