P.C. Hodgell's Blog, page 13

Challenges vs Hazing

Thanks for all of your excellent suggestions. They've made me think again about what I'm trying to do here. My original idea was to give the senior cadets a chance to cull the junior, but that's giving them too much power. I can see them hazing the 2nd years, though, as they would have the first years if both had been at Tentir at the same time. The third year cadets are proud of having been blooded at the Cataracts, but at the same time they missed most of their year at the college (if I haven't gotten their years mixed up). What they do at Kothifir is a lot more like hazing than challenging. It won't necessarily change any randon minds, but they will pay attention, especially if things get out of hand.

What Jame gets is more like a taunt -- something she has no intention of doing but will possibly end up doing nonetheless. She doesn't have to win the support of the older cadets, but she would like to. Maybe in the end she has to. I guess I see her life as a series of challenges, proving herself to one group after another, none of them being inclined to take her on trust. If nothing else, it's become a structural feature of these novels.

Getting toward the end ...

I have two months left to finish the new book, and time is beginning to feel tight. One short chapter and one long one to go. At the moment, I'm stalled at an unlikely place: the Randon Council and the instructors have both had a shot at culling the current crop of cadets, including Jame. Now it's the turn of the third year cadets of each house. The Knorth 3nd years are already annoyed with Jame because she stopped their hazing of younger cadets. They issue her a personal challenge -- but I can't figure out what. It should be something that sounds impossible, which she accomplishes almost by accident. Any ideas?

Meanwhile, riding goes by fits and starts. I had a terrible ride on Countess a week or so ago with her backing up, flailing about, and threatening to rear, probably because I was pulling too hard on her mouth. Given the rest of my life, which is pretty quiet, it's odd to suddenly be in a situation where my physical safety depends entirely on myself. The mind changes gears fast. I've learned a lot from my equine experiences, as I hoped I would when I started out. Rides since then have been better.

Interestingly, in the past 24 hours I've had people asking about Dad's work, Mom's, and my own. I think I may have sold one of my father's Florida landscapes.

It's wider than this image.

Kin-Slayer

I'm trying to remember if Tori has ever experienced Kin-Slayer's power when wearing Ganth's ring on the opposite hand. My sense is, no. When he did combine the ring and the sword, as at the wolvers' keep, it was almost by accident, and he couldn't let go without breaking three fingers. Everyone seems to think that if Kin-Slayer is drawn, it has to kill before it's re-sheathed. Maybe that's only true in conjunction with the ring. Tori is right-handed, unlike most Kencyr, and therefore more likely to wear a ring on the left hand. He's also sensitive about what does or doesn't give him claim to his father's status. Ganth, of course, is taunting him about that. The ring and sword are important in that regard. If they remain inert, Tori is even more likely to question his right to rule, but he's already risked his hands twice.

I have about three months to finish this novel. Tori's part is drawing to an end, for the time being. He's about to do something petty and stupid, which goes against the grain because on the whole I think better of him than that, but that's what the plot is leading up to. Argh. I also have to plot out Jame's final days in Kothifir, and figure out what happens next. It looks to me at the moment as if I have about two more books in the series, with a lot of bases left to cover.

Bane

I see that I left it open at the end of God Stalk whether it was Bane or Dally on the Mercy Seat when the earthquake swallowed it, so it really is unclear what happened to Bane after his soul returned to him. Said soul is next seen crawling after Jame in Seeker's Mask, and finally in the pesthole at Mount Alban guarding the Book and the Knife. The whole thing hinges on what happened to his remains, which are presumably back in Tai-tastigon, so the idea about the bones is a good one. Those, at least, are still there. I remember now that I was leaving things open because a) I really don't know at present what happened to Bane and b)that will be a major concern when Jame finally returns to Tai-tastigon.

Bane has always been odd. Writers talk about characters who take on a life of their own, and I suppose some of mine have, but Bane has always done the unexpected.

Looking back, I can see how I've structured much of my life in order to write this series. An odd thought. I hope it's been worth it.

Question

A question has come up. Do we know for certain that Bane was flayed on the Mercy Seat? Jame has visualized it, but do we know if it actually happened? I know that I've left it open whether he's alive or dead.

One more time ...

I agree that Caldane is too direct, and he's showing his hand too soon. Here's a possible revision:

Kirien became aware of a coldness beside her, and Ashe’s yellow, knobby hand touched her arm.
“Caldane’s men … have sealed off the college,” the haunt singer muttered in her hoarse, halting voice. “Not that the fog … hadn’t already.”
“But why would Caldane do such a thing?”
“I don’t know … but I suspect.”
“Have we no way to signal Valantir?”
“Not … that I can see.”
“Well, we still have this.” Kirien extracted a tablet from her jacket and began to write on it in her spiky script.
“Gothregor and your aunt … the Matriarch Trishien … are a hundred miles away.”
“I know Tori. He’ll find some way to answer, although it may take time.”
“Then there’s another song of special interest to me,” Caldane was saying, leaning forward again. “’Gerridon Highlord, Master of Knorth, a proud man was he. The Three People held he in his hand—-Arrin-ken, Highborn, and Kendar—-by right of birth and might.’ D’you remember it?”
“Everyone does,” said the Director. “So?”
“I’ve been talking to my own scrollsmen. They tell me that it was composed on this world after the Fall and subsequently written down. Only one copy exists. Now, that I would like to see.”
“Why?”
“Oh,” Caldane said, with the airy wave of a fat hand. “Intellectual curiosity.” He looked around the library. “Is it here?”
“Possibly. Most Kencyr know that song by heart, though, passed on as it has been from mouth to mouth. No one has had to refer to the manuscript in years. Who even knows where it is?”
“One man, I’m told,” said Caldane. “A scholar named Index.”

Merry Christmas!

A Merry belated Christmas! I meant to post earlier, but couldn't properly scan this year's Xmas card to share. Instead, here's a Christmas magazine cover my father painted long ago.


I had a very quiet Xmas. No visitors or tree, although I did buy myself a GPS as a gift.
And I've been working on the novel, getting near the end with four months to go. Yike. I just finished a section about which I'm unsure, with Caldane trying to use logic. I know that he muddles it up, but is it too much? Let me know what you think.

Lord Caineron and the Director of Mount Alban sat in the college’s library on either side of its massive oak table. The southward-facing window was curtained to keep out the fog, leaving a gloomy interior lit with candles as if it were twilight, when in fact it was morning on the last day of winter. The Director leaned back in his chair, his opaque eyes overhung by shaggy brows. Caldane sat opposite, his hunting leathers straining against his girth. He had just finished a late, large breakfast, more by fretfully scattering its remains about the table and the floor than by consuming them. He seemed simultaneously eager and on edge, although he did his best to hide it. The former randon who served as the college’s director might not have noticed, but Kirien suspected that he did: Taur was no one’s fool.
Kirien herself stood behind a screen by the door.
The inhabitants of the college had kept their visitor under convert observation since his arrival the previous evening with a hunting party that claimed to be lost in the dense fog. The Director had pointed out that Valantir across the river had better accommodations, but Caldane had insisted that he couldn’t find the Jaran keep, which might have been true. On the other hand, the Caineron and the Jaran hadn’t been on good terms since the previous summer. Certainly, the current if temporary lord of Valantir, Kirien’s uncle, would have objected to Caldane’s hunters on his land. So did Kirien, as the Jaran lordan.
Caldane wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his gilded leathers, leaving a greasy smear.
“For this hospitality, again, much thanks,” he said. “Such a fog I’ve never before seen, although we do get some monsters in the early spring, here in the north. They can last for days.”
“I trust you wouldn’t be cast adrift from your home for long, my lord,” said Ran Taur dryly.
Caldane shot the big Kendar a suspicious look. Was he being hinted away?
Yes, thought Kirien. Go.
Caldane leaned back, his chair groaning as he overlapped it on all sides.
“We won’t be leaving just yet,” he said. “I’ve wanted to have a word with you for some time, Ran Taur.” He gestured around him at the library’s scrolls lurking in their niches. “It’s about these. How many would you say came with us to Rathillien?”
”Several dozen, at least. We didn’t have time to gather more.”
“And the rest?”
“Scrollsmen and singers dictated them from memory.”
“Ah. Singers. Now, this has always puzzled me: given their use of the Lawful Lie, how can we trust anything that they say?”
“Singers swear not to distort the basic truth in their songs.”
“But they take liberties with it.”
“They may. Such songs as abuse the privilege, however, don’t endure, nor do we record them.”
Caldane leaned forward. “But how do you know? These songs of Ashe’s, for instance, about the battle at the Cataracts – I was there, man. The dead didn’t speak to me. They were just that: dead.”
“If you don’t hear something yourself, my lord, does that make it a lie?”
“If some blasted singer says it, does that make it the truth?”
“That depends on the circumstances, also on the judgment of the scrollsmen, when it comes to recording a particular song. The two branches of the college keep each other in check.”
“Yes, but see here ….” Caldane made himself sit back with a creak of wood. His be-ringed, pudgy fingers tapped nervously on the arms of his chair. The effort at logical argument was making him sweat. “I don’t quarrel with the oldest songs, the ones composed before the Fall. After all, those can be dismissed as legends rather than laws.”
The Director’s heavy brows lifted at this, but he made no comment.
“It’s the more recent lot that worry me,” Caldane continued. “For instance, those that demand individual responsibility rather than loyalty to one’s lord.”
“Honor’s Paradox,” murmured Ran Taur.
“Yes. That. A lot of romantic claptrap, if you ask me. Why, my own war-leader, Sheth Sharp-tongue, was misled by it, and the result? He released that brother of his …”
“Bear.”
“… a dangerous madman, mind you, to roam the Riverland at will. Then, against my express orders, the Highlord’s hoyden sister not only passed Tentir but is now set loose in Kothifir where she is often absent from her post, up to what mischief, Ancestors only know. Will Harn punish her for that? Probably not. He’s also been corrupted by such songs as Ashe sings. Huh. That woman is an abomination who should be immediately consigned to the pyre where she belongs.”
Kirien became aware of a coldness beside her, and Ashe’s yellow, knobby hand touched her arm.
“Caldane’s men … have sealed off the college,” the haunt singer muttered in her hoarse, halting voice. “Not that the fog … hadn’t already.”
“Have we no way to signal Valantir?”
“Not … that I can see.”
“Well, we still have this.” Kirien extracted a tablet from her jacket and began to write on it in her spiky script.
“Gothregor and your aunt … the Matriarch Trishien … are a hundred miles away.”
“I know Tori. He’ll find some way to answer, although it may take time.”
“Then there’s another song with which I have a special quarrel,” Caldane was saying, leaning forward again. He had sounded almost querulous before, but now his voice sharpened. “’Gerridon Highlord, Master of Knorth, a proud man was he. The Three People held he in his hand—-Arrin-ken, Highborn, and Kendar—-by right of birth and might.’ D’you remember it?”
“Everyone does,” said the Director. “So?”
“My research tells me that it was composed on this world after the Fall and subsequently written down which, if you ask me, makes it suspect. Only one copy exists, and that’s what gives the Knorth their right to rule, after Gerridon lost it. ‘Rise up, Highlord of the Kencyrath,’ said the Arrin-ken to Glendar. ‘Your brother has forfeited all. Flee, man, flee, and we will follow.’ Talk about providing a legal precedence!”
“So?” said the Director again.
“If that copy is destroyed, the Knorth’s legal status will disappear, however many fools go on singing it. Where is it, Ran Taur?”
“As you say, most Kencyr know that song by heart, passed on as it has been from mouth to mouth. No one has had to refer to the manuscript in years. Who even knows where it is?”
“One man, I’m told,” said Caldane triumphantly. “A scholar named Index. If you please, Director, summon him here to me.”

This and That

More than a month this time. Oops. I hope everyone had a good Thanksgiving. I spent it with Liz'a family and had a very nice time. The holiday is always a bit problematic for me since my mother died on Thanksgiving eve ... what, six years ago? But then she was so miserable. I hate it that my memories of her are predominately of her dementia. Most of my life, she was gone pursuing her academic career. We were more like sisters than mother and daughter. Oh well. I never have dealt much with Jame's mother either -- another absent figure. My father still overshadows my life, 12 years after his death, partly because I'm still dealing with his artwork. About once a week, someone contacts me about one of his prints, either asking about its value or asking if I have one for sale. The most recent in demand is "Reach," which was on the cover of motive magazine and is now featured in a collection of art works that churches might want to adapt for their own use (I've insisted on keeping the copyright).

http://www.pchodgell.com/site/index.php?module=PhotoGallery&func=detail&pid=375&startnum=45

As for my own writing, I've been stuck on the same chapter for more than a month, with not that many months to go before I have to turn in the ms. Here's a tidbit of Jame and Shade in the Master's House:

The Randir took a step away from her. Like a nervous tick, one of her eyes fluctuated between her own and the porcine orb of the Karnid whose form she had assumed. “You know too much.”
“I’ve been asking questions for a long time, in many strange places. What’s wrong?”
Shade retreated another step. “Everything is too much. The Master, the Prophet, you, me … is anyone what they seem to be?”
They had stopped in a room where every surface was crusted with luminous lichen. Flat leaves, scales, and hairy clumps of ochre, rust, chartreuse, and leprous white crawled around them like sluggish thoughts trapped in a bad dream. Shade stumbled backward into a wall. Fungus crept up over her shoulders and down her arms, holding her as she strained to free herself. Jame unsheathed her claws, but hesitated to use them for fear of ripping the other’s skin off. Filaments inched across Shade’s startled face. Addy struck at them, drawing blood, until fungus encased her too. The wall sucked both in with a dry rustle and closed over them. All that remained was a blurred image shaded with lichen, in the process of dissolving.

Checking In

Someone sent me an email remarking that I haven't posted to LJ in more that a month. Whoops.

First off, nothing terrible has happened. I've just been busy.

Oh, and thanks for all the name suggestions for the randon with no affect. I especially liked Sounder Sand-anchor, but would have to go back and explain that. I may do it yet. At the moment she's Marigold Onyx-eyed, which combines an unexpected, soft first name with a descriptive last name. I have yet to work her in adequately.

Currently, I have Jame entering a Kencyr temple and finding the Master's House inside. As far as I can remember, the last time she was there was in Dark of the Moon (please correct me if I'm wrong). I went back to re-read that section, and was amazed at how much Jame has grown up since then. Tentir was obviously good for her. For me, DotM was over 25 years ago, 10+ years since both my parents crashed and burned more or less simultaneously and I finally grew up. Now I've got to sort out Jame's current reactions.

Adventures out at the stable. Countess has been lame most of the past six weeks. Marc suspects an abscess and has had me soaking her hoof in epsom salts, with her most welcome if unexpected cooperation. She was well enough yesterday to try to gallop off with me in the indoor arena with Marc shouting "Faster, faster!" and me hanging on for dear life as she stumbled around the soft sand in the tight corners. If/when we go outside again, I hope to God that I can stop her. But, as Marc keeps reminding me, she is a former racehorse.

Tonight a group of us from the stable are going to The Burial Chamber, a local, quite extensive haunted house. Marc is trying to talk me into getting buried alive in a "REAL used coffin." Er ... used? Moreover, do I detect a pattern here?

Worldcon reDux

Well, I'm home again. I guess you could say that the convention went well. I spoke to my agent who tells me that the novels are selling well across the series, which is unusual. Most of the recent royalties (e-book) were for the God Stalker Chronicles, which leads me to hope that I'm picking up some new readers. Also I saw many fans and had well attended panels. The two that I moderated went pretty well, although in the "Strong Female Character" one nobody wanted to talk about the difference between a strong female and a strong male character. That panel would probably work better at Wiscon. I got run over in the other two panels by more talkative panelists. I'm just not good at making myself speak up. Anyway, thanks to all for the reading lists and comments, which really helped.

While I was there, a friend gave the complete ms (so far) for the next novel its first read-through. She says it hangs together well, except that I don't introduce the Southern Host until Chapter 6. It's a fair cop. Now I'm writing a new first chapter from the Knorth randons' point of view when Jame first arrives, and it suddenly occurred to me that the only Knorth randon at Tentir during Jame's year there was Harn, who doesn't gossip. So the Knorth with the Southern Host have only heard about Jame second or third hand. That should be fun to play with. I need a name for the randon in charge of the Knorth barracks at Kothifir. She's short (for a Kendar) with white, close-cropped hair and almost a complete lack of affect. No one can tell what she's thinking, least of all Jame. She needs a given first name and an earned last name, e.g. Jamethiel Priest's-bane. Any ideas?

On the home front, bad news about Countess: she's developing cataracts in both eyes. The only solution seems to be to send her off to Michigan for really expensive surgery that will only partly correct the problem. So far, she seems unaffected otherwise and is in no pain. I need to think about this.