P.C. Hodgell's Blog, page 5
August 19, 2018
Snippet 2
“We meet again,” said Ishtier, smiling.
He raised his claw of a hand. It only had four fingers. Jame remembered when the priest had chewed off the fifth, in this very room, after he had been so ill advised as to touch the Book Bound in Pale Leather. As he brought his maimed hand down now, the circle of dancers parted into eddies but never stopped moving.
“I thought you were dead,” said Jame.
“You hoped it, certainly. Before I left to reclaim my rightful place here, I heard much about you, little to your credit. The Women’s’ Halls cast you out, did they not? Then you went to Tentir, of all places. Truly, Randon standards have become lax in this degenerate age. Have they found you out yet? If not, rest assured: they soon will. But before all such misadventures, there was Tai-tastigon. Have you told your brother about your sojourn here?”
Jame had shared much with Torisen in these latter days, but not everything. “He knows what he needs to know.”
“Ha. Then you have lied by omission.”
“And you, about me, on purpose.”
His sunken eyes glittered. With anger? With amusement? “Priests trust priests.” He spread both hands. His mouth lifted in a sneer. “Behold my faithful followers.”
Titmouse twitched.
“Now that we are here,” said Jame, to distract the high priest, “what do you want with us?”
“Not with him.” Ishtier indicated Loogan with a contemptuous jerk of his pointed chin. “With you. Why, as a gift for Master Gerridon, of course.”
Sweet Trinity.
“He’s here?”
“Not yet, but he will come, soon, when he sees what I have to offer him.”
Through a haze of panic, Jame began to work this out. Here, perhaps, at last were the reasons for the city’s plight that had so far eluded her.
“You changed the flow of the temple’s power inward, rather than out. Why?”
“This is how it always should have been, how it was on all previous worlds. An old song told me that and an old singer, when he had been induced to perform. The Priests’ College at Wilden is set up properly. Our temples here, for some reason, are not. Think about it: why should we feed power to such jokes as this amphibious godling and his pathetic priest?”
Here he paused to strike a spark in the fire-pit. Loogan squeaked as flames rose to lick the rounded bottom of the glass. Gorgo goggled.
“The Chain of Creation was meant to serve us, not the other way around,” said Ishtier, ignoring the growing conflagration at his elbow even though it threatened his sleeve. “We in turn were meant to do what we thought best with it. But that was before our god failed us, oh, so long ago. To whom should we turn now if not to the shadows?”
Titmouse moved sideways, stumbling a bit over his big boots. He tapped the shoulder of a fellow priest as if to wake him from a trance. “Listen.”
“The Arrin-ken, those filthy cats, betrayed us in disowning Gerridon and naming his kinsman Glendar as our leader when we first arrived on this world. I realized that when his descendent, Ganth Graylord, was driven into exile some thirty years ago. Surely that could not have happened to a true High Lord; therefore, he was not one.”
“You only say that to justify abandoning him in the Haunted Lands.”
“He was not my lord!”
It came out almost in a shriek. More dancers faltered, as did the current in the room. Ishtier caught himself with a gasp and resumed with a sickly smile meant to show how reasonable this all was, how dim-witted – nay, insane – anyone who questioned it.
He’s mad, thought Jame.
“That honor belongs to Gerridon, who saw the truth about our so-called god and led the way to freedom, to immortality. Our ancestors were fools not to follow him.”
The water in the bowl began to stream. Gorgo paddled in it anxiously. Enough of the past.
“What are you trying to do here?”
Ishtier snorted. A drop of snot gathered on the tip of his long nose and fell, unnoticed.
“Trying? What can I do but succeed? Why do you think all of the other worlds fell?”
Jame felt suddenly sick. “Oh god. We drained them. They had native powers, native gods. Like Mother Ragga. Like the Falling Man and the rest of the Four, not to mention the Old Pantheon and the Ancient Ones. We bled them until they couldn’t protect themselves or their worlds, just as you’re trying to do here in Tai-tastigon, now. Wait. All of that was long before Master Gerridon betrayed us.”
“Heh. Did I say that this was a new thing? The priests have always known that ours was the power to take, to use.”
“But not wisely. World after world has fallen.”
“Was that our fault? Our god betrayed us. Therefore he … she … it was never meant to win.”
This was more than Jame had expected, more than she could accept. Tai-tastigon had tried her faith before and nearly broken her. Was it about to do so again?
“Never meant by whom?”
“Ah.” He threw up his hands dismissively, as if scattering birds of bone upon the air. “Questions, questions.”
By now Titmouse had tapped perhaps a dozen of his colleagues and they had stumbling out of step, looking dazed. Jame noted in passing that none of them belonged to the group who had taken her prisoner before. Were those Ishtier’s supporters, who had followed him on his return here, and therefore not friends of Titmouse?
“No, no, no!” raged high priest. “Dance, damn you, dance! We are so close!”
To what? Jame was still scrambling to make sense out of what she had already heard. “But … dead gods? Souls? Demons?”
Ishtier sneered. “And some fools call you clever. That was my doing, an extension of my earlier experiments with the Lower Town Monster and the Shadow Thief, both limited, mindless creatures. Incorporating this world’s so-called dead godlings has added the power of personality. Of purpose. Besides, as former Old Pantheon gods these demons have already shown their affinity to human sacrifice. That makes them more deadly to this world than their New Pantheon predecessors, who for the most part only seek that weak thing, faith.”
“Now I’m confused. Again. What, then, does our own god require?”
The priest laughed, a shrill, jarring sound. “Faith, he says, but does he give us a choice?”
“Well, yes, if you want it.”
Ishtier waved this away. “More trickery.”
“Loogan tells me that the real danger lies in taking human souls. He says they glue together the world.”
Titmouse had circled closer, drawn by their debate. “If here,” he said, “what about down the Chain of Creation? Is that why the previous worlds fell?”
A colleague drifted up to them, still mimicking the kantirs if not fully committed to them. “We’ve never understood quite what Perimal Darkling is. What if it uses the souls that it overwhelms to propel it farther down the Chain?”
“To fresh food?” said Jame. “I can see that. Perhaps when it dissolves the bonds, it creates the energy by which it lives. It’s a predator, like the demons, who also break down barriers and feed on souls, and it’s always hungry. Like Gerridon, for that matter. Is he now also a demon? What is a demon, anyway? Dead gods needn’t be involved. They weren’t with the Lower Town Monster. What if feeding on souls is enough in itself to make one demonic?”
Ishtier stomped his foot. “Questions, question, questions! I go by what I see. Demons please the Master. They bring Rathillien closer to the Haunted Lands, to Perimal Darkling itself. Wherever they tread, the shadows rise. Life mixes with death, animate with inanimate. What an army I bring to serve my lord! What we do in Tai-tastigon’s strongest city we can surely accomplish anywhere on this world. What more do you need to know?”
“Oh,” said several voices. “A lot.”
“Shut up!”
This all had the sickening ring of truth, as far as Ishtier understood it.
“And these demons obey you?”
Ishtier showed the blood-shot whites of his eyes, the yellow of his teeth. “Of course. I created them.”
“Heliot says that he means to take over this city, this world, solely to feed his appetite. He’s come back as a demon, thanks to you. He preys on human souls. Then too, what about those of Heliot’s kind who are breeding freely?”
“What? Impossible.”
“I saw it happen when a dead goddess, Kalissan, absorbed a human soul. You didn’t sanction that, did you?”
“Of course not. You lie.”
Jame felt, at last, a rising twinge of anger. Her fists clenched, nails pricking into palms.
“Those who know me best do not say such things.”
He raised his claw of a hand. It only had four fingers. Jame remembered when the priest had chewed off the fifth, in this very room, after he had been so ill advised as to touch the Book Bound in Pale Leather. As he brought his maimed hand down now, the circle of dancers parted into eddies but never stopped moving.
“I thought you were dead,” said Jame.
“You hoped it, certainly. Before I left to reclaim my rightful place here, I heard much about you, little to your credit. The Women’s’ Halls cast you out, did they not? Then you went to Tentir, of all places. Truly, Randon standards have become lax in this degenerate age. Have they found you out yet? If not, rest assured: they soon will. But before all such misadventures, there was Tai-tastigon. Have you told your brother about your sojourn here?”
Jame had shared much with Torisen in these latter days, but not everything. “He knows what he needs to know.”
“Ha. Then you have lied by omission.”
“And you, about me, on purpose.”
His sunken eyes glittered. With anger? With amusement? “Priests trust priests.” He spread both hands. His mouth lifted in a sneer. “Behold my faithful followers.”
Titmouse twitched.
“Now that we are here,” said Jame, to distract the high priest, “what do you want with us?”
“Not with him.” Ishtier indicated Loogan with a contemptuous jerk of his pointed chin. “With you. Why, as a gift for Master Gerridon, of course.”
Sweet Trinity.
“He’s here?”
“Not yet, but he will come, soon, when he sees what I have to offer him.”
Through a haze of panic, Jame began to work this out. Here, perhaps, at last were the reasons for the city’s plight that had so far eluded her.
“You changed the flow of the temple’s power inward, rather than out. Why?”
“This is how it always should have been, how it was on all previous worlds. An old song told me that and an old singer, when he had been induced to perform. The Priests’ College at Wilden is set up properly. Our temples here, for some reason, are not. Think about it: why should we feed power to such jokes as this amphibious godling and his pathetic priest?”
Here he paused to strike a spark in the fire-pit. Loogan squeaked as flames rose to lick the rounded bottom of the glass. Gorgo goggled.
“The Chain of Creation was meant to serve us, not the other way around,” said Ishtier, ignoring the growing conflagration at his elbow even though it threatened his sleeve. “We in turn were meant to do what we thought best with it. But that was before our god failed us, oh, so long ago. To whom should we turn now if not to the shadows?”
Titmouse moved sideways, stumbling a bit over his big boots. He tapped the shoulder of a fellow priest as if to wake him from a trance. “Listen.”
“The Arrin-ken, those filthy cats, betrayed us in disowning Gerridon and naming his kinsman Glendar as our leader when we first arrived on this world. I realized that when his descendent, Ganth Graylord, was driven into exile some thirty years ago. Surely that could not have happened to a true High Lord; therefore, he was not one.”
“You only say that to justify abandoning him in the Haunted Lands.”
“He was not my lord!”
It came out almost in a shriek. More dancers faltered, as did the current in the room. Ishtier caught himself with a gasp and resumed with a sickly smile meant to show how reasonable this all was, how dim-witted – nay, insane – anyone who questioned it.
He’s mad, thought Jame.
“That honor belongs to Gerridon, who saw the truth about our so-called god and led the way to freedom, to immortality. Our ancestors were fools not to follow him.”
The water in the bowl began to stream. Gorgo paddled in it anxiously. Enough of the past.
“What are you trying to do here?”
Ishtier snorted. A drop of snot gathered on the tip of his long nose and fell, unnoticed.
“Trying? What can I do but succeed? Why do you think all of the other worlds fell?”
Jame felt suddenly sick. “Oh god. We drained them. They had native powers, native gods. Like Mother Ragga. Like the Falling Man and the rest of the Four, not to mention the Old Pantheon and the Ancient Ones. We bled them until they couldn’t protect themselves or their worlds, just as you’re trying to do here in Tai-tastigon, now. Wait. All of that was long before Master Gerridon betrayed us.”
“Heh. Did I say that this was a new thing? The priests have always known that ours was the power to take, to use.”
“But not wisely. World after world has fallen.”
“Was that our fault? Our god betrayed us. Therefore he … she … it was never meant to win.”
This was more than Jame had expected, more than she could accept. Tai-tastigon had tried her faith before and nearly broken her. Was it about to do so again?
“Never meant by whom?”
“Ah.” He threw up his hands dismissively, as if scattering birds of bone upon the air. “Questions, questions.”
By now Titmouse had tapped perhaps a dozen of his colleagues and they had stumbling out of step, looking dazed. Jame noted in passing that none of them belonged to the group who had taken her prisoner before. Were those Ishtier’s supporters, who had followed him on his return here, and therefore not friends of Titmouse?
“No, no, no!” raged high priest. “Dance, damn you, dance! We are so close!”
To what? Jame was still scrambling to make sense out of what she had already heard. “But … dead gods? Souls? Demons?”
Ishtier sneered. “And some fools call you clever. That was my doing, an extension of my earlier experiments with the Lower Town Monster and the Shadow Thief, both limited, mindless creatures. Incorporating this world’s so-called dead godlings has added the power of personality. Of purpose. Besides, as former Old Pantheon gods these demons have already shown their affinity to human sacrifice. That makes them more deadly to this world than their New Pantheon predecessors, who for the most part only seek that weak thing, faith.”
“Now I’m confused. Again. What, then, does our own god require?”
The priest laughed, a shrill, jarring sound. “Faith, he says, but does he give us a choice?”
“Well, yes, if you want it.”
Ishtier waved this away. “More trickery.”
“Loogan tells me that the real danger lies in taking human souls. He says they glue together the world.”
Titmouse had circled closer, drawn by their debate. “If here,” he said, “what about down the Chain of Creation? Is that why the previous worlds fell?”
A colleague drifted up to them, still mimicking the kantirs if not fully committed to them. “We’ve never understood quite what Perimal Darkling is. What if it uses the souls that it overwhelms to propel it farther down the Chain?”
“To fresh food?” said Jame. “I can see that. Perhaps when it dissolves the bonds, it creates the energy by which it lives. It’s a predator, like the demons, who also break down barriers and feed on souls, and it’s always hungry. Like Gerridon, for that matter. Is he now also a demon? What is a demon, anyway? Dead gods needn’t be involved. They weren’t with the Lower Town Monster. What if feeding on souls is enough in itself to make one demonic?”
Ishtier stomped his foot. “Questions, question, questions! I go by what I see. Demons please the Master. They bring Rathillien closer to the Haunted Lands, to Perimal Darkling itself. Wherever they tread, the shadows rise. Life mixes with death, animate with inanimate. What an army I bring to serve my lord! What we do in Tai-tastigon’s strongest city we can surely accomplish anywhere on this world. What more do you need to know?”
“Oh,” said several voices. “A lot.”
“Shut up!”
This all had the sickening ring of truth, as far as Ishtier understood it.
“And these demons obey you?”
Ishtier showed the blood-shot whites of his eyes, the yellow of his teeth. “Of course. I created them.”
“Heliot says that he means to take over this city, this world, solely to feed his appetite. He’s come back as a demon, thanks to you. He preys on human souls. Then too, what about those of Heliot’s kind who are breeding freely?”
“What? Impossible.”
“I saw it happen when a dead goddess, Kalissan, absorbed a human soul. You didn’t sanction that, did you?”
“Of course not. You lie.”
Jame felt, at last, a rising twinge of anger. Her fists clenched, nails pricking into palms.
“Those who know me best do not say such things.”
August 17, 2018
At Worldcon, and a Snippet
Things are going well so far. I had a good signing and a well attended reading. Tomorrow is the big panel. The reading is too long to post in its entirety. Here's the first third:
“Here I leave you,” said Sart Nine-toes.
They stood in the Lower Town on the edge of the desolation that circled the Kencyr temple.
“I know when I’m out-matched. Dead gods, haunts, and demons are one thing. Your god, though … ugh. And I’m on duty tonight. I’d quit to stand by my love, but we need the money, in case Kithra gets her way and throws us out of the Res aB’tyrr.”
“She would do that?”
“So she says, when she loses her temper – which, with Cleppetty, is often enough.”
“Truly, a marriage off and on?”
“Mostly on. She’s a strong woman, my Cleppetania, with strong opinions. When those arise, a wise man stands back.”
They watched him walk off, still rather unsteady but gaining certainty with each stride. A strong man, that, not greatly injured by his recent trial.
By now it was late afternoon under a brazen sky, the air murky with dust and thick with heat. Grinding sounds still came from above, muffled by clouds. A weight seemed to press down. Jame and Loogan crossed the expanse. Ragged figures rose from the ruins to shamble after them and to line their way. Jame thought that she saw Aden, although so disfigured with dirt as to be barely recognizable. Another figure caught her eye – stout, clothed in rich if tattered finery. She had seen him somewhere before. Yes. In the square before the Skyrrman five years ago as it had gone up in flames. Harr sen Tenko: Harri’s father, the Archiem’s rival. There too were the three soulless Kencyr priests huddled together, one drooping –dripping? – between the other two. Again, there was that stench of fetid water and rotting vegetation, again that sharp odor that made Jame sneeze. What did they all want? What, if anything, could she give them?
Here was the temple door, shut. Jame knocked. No answer. No keyhole, either, with a convenient lock to pick.
See, little thief? What good are your tricks now?
“Try again,” said Loogan, anxiously shifting from foot to foot.
This was no time for subtlety. Jame hefted half a brick and slammed it against the door. The brick crumbled. The door remained unscathed. After a moment, though, a crack opened in the apparently seamless wall and swung wide. There stood Titmouse. He had shed his black coat. The white shirt beneath drooped with sweat and his tufted hair stood more wildly on end than usual, moving in an unfelt breeze. At first he seemed glassy-eyed, barely able to focus on his visitors. Then he blinked.
“You.”
“We’ve come for the frog,” Jame said, glowering up at him, and thrust the note into his hands.
He peered at it, lips moving as he read. Blink, blink. “Oh. Good.”
They followed him into the temple. The halls thrummed with power, much more fiercely than they had on Jame’s last visit. Her feet didn’t touch the floor at all. This was more like trying to stay afloat in savage rapids. She grabbed Loogan as the current threatened to upend him. Force keened. Hair bristled.
This time, she saw nothing reminiscent of Bane, unless it was the tangled clots of spider web that twisted in corners.
“How in Perimal’s name do we get flies inside with only one door and that usually shut?” Titmouse had asked.
Now spiders? Bane had liked them. Perhaps he was here, in some form, but how? And why?
From somewhere ahead came a sound: shuffle, shuffle, stomp; shuffle, shuffle, stomp. It reminded Jame of her descent years ago into the Priests’ College at Wilden when the earth had seemed to move around her with ponderous effort.
The door to the main hall stood open. She and Loogan clutched the posts, left and right, to avoid being swept inside, where the priests danced. There were more of them than she had expected. Outermost were the brown-clad novices stamping and turning in the kantirs of earth-moving Senetha. Within was a ring of grey acolytes, some flowing as if in swift water, others leaping like flames. Where they crossed paths, the air hissed with steam. Inner still, priests channeled the current into the swift, air-borne subtleties of wind-blowing Senetha that fretted the uncertain air into eddies and spirals. All moved independently yet together, the kantirs of one form reflecting its counterparts among the other three, circle rotating within circle. It was the Great Dance, which gathers power and molds it to the dancer’s will.
One black robed figure stood at the maelstrom’s still heart, where Jame had once left a whorl in the stones of the tessellated floor. To his right was Titmouse, swaying slightly. To his left, suspended over an unlit fire-pit, was a glass bowl in which floated a green, straddle-legged form.
“… quink …” piped tiny Gorgo piteously, scrabbling at the glass with webbed toes.
The high priest raised his head. The slit of a mouth appeared, then the tip of a long, thin nose. The hood slid back entirely to reveal a skull-like face, the waxy yellow of its brow.
“We meet again,” said Ishtier, smiling.
“Here I leave you,” said Sart Nine-toes.
They stood in the Lower Town on the edge of the desolation that circled the Kencyr temple.
“I know when I’m out-matched. Dead gods, haunts, and demons are one thing. Your god, though … ugh. And I’m on duty tonight. I’d quit to stand by my love, but we need the money, in case Kithra gets her way and throws us out of the Res aB’tyrr.”
“She would do that?”
“So she says, when she loses her temper – which, with Cleppetty, is often enough.”
“Truly, a marriage off and on?”
“Mostly on. She’s a strong woman, my Cleppetania, with strong opinions. When those arise, a wise man stands back.”
They watched him walk off, still rather unsteady but gaining certainty with each stride. A strong man, that, not greatly injured by his recent trial.
By now it was late afternoon under a brazen sky, the air murky with dust and thick with heat. Grinding sounds still came from above, muffled by clouds. A weight seemed to press down. Jame and Loogan crossed the expanse. Ragged figures rose from the ruins to shamble after them and to line their way. Jame thought that she saw Aden, although so disfigured with dirt as to be barely recognizable. Another figure caught her eye – stout, clothed in rich if tattered finery. She had seen him somewhere before. Yes. In the square before the Skyrrman five years ago as it had gone up in flames. Harr sen Tenko: Harri’s father, the Archiem’s rival. There too were the three soulless Kencyr priests huddled together, one drooping –dripping? – between the other two. Again, there was that stench of fetid water and rotting vegetation, again that sharp odor that made Jame sneeze. What did they all want? What, if anything, could she give them?
Here was the temple door, shut. Jame knocked. No answer. No keyhole, either, with a convenient lock to pick.
See, little thief? What good are your tricks now?
“Try again,” said Loogan, anxiously shifting from foot to foot.
This was no time for subtlety. Jame hefted half a brick and slammed it against the door. The brick crumbled. The door remained unscathed. After a moment, though, a crack opened in the apparently seamless wall and swung wide. There stood Titmouse. He had shed his black coat. The white shirt beneath drooped with sweat and his tufted hair stood more wildly on end than usual, moving in an unfelt breeze. At first he seemed glassy-eyed, barely able to focus on his visitors. Then he blinked.
“You.”
“We’ve come for the frog,” Jame said, glowering up at him, and thrust the note into his hands.
He peered at it, lips moving as he read. Blink, blink. “Oh. Good.”
They followed him into the temple. The halls thrummed with power, much more fiercely than they had on Jame’s last visit. Her feet didn’t touch the floor at all. This was more like trying to stay afloat in savage rapids. She grabbed Loogan as the current threatened to upend him. Force keened. Hair bristled.
This time, she saw nothing reminiscent of Bane, unless it was the tangled clots of spider web that twisted in corners.
“How in Perimal’s name do we get flies inside with only one door and that usually shut?” Titmouse had asked.
Now spiders? Bane had liked them. Perhaps he was here, in some form, but how? And why?
From somewhere ahead came a sound: shuffle, shuffle, stomp; shuffle, shuffle, stomp. It reminded Jame of her descent years ago into the Priests’ College at Wilden when the earth had seemed to move around her with ponderous effort.
The door to the main hall stood open. She and Loogan clutched the posts, left and right, to avoid being swept inside, where the priests danced. There were more of them than she had expected. Outermost were the brown-clad novices stamping and turning in the kantirs of earth-moving Senetha. Within was a ring of grey acolytes, some flowing as if in swift water, others leaping like flames. Where they crossed paths, the air hissed with steam. Inner still, priests channeled the current into the swift, air-borne subtleties of wind-blowing Senetha that fretted the uncertain air into eddies and spirals. All moved independently yet together, the kantirs of one form reflecting its counterparts among the other three, circle rotating within circle. It was the Great Dance, which gathers power and molds it to the dancer’s will.
One black robed figure stood at the maelstrom’s still heart, where Jame had once left a whorl in the stones of the tessellated floor. To his right was Titmouse, swaying slightly. To his left, suspended over an unlit fire-pit, was a glass bowl in which floated a green, straddle-legged form.
“… quink …” piped tiny Gorgo piteously, scrabbling at the glass with webbed toes.
The high priest raised his head. The slit of a mouth appeared, then the tip of a long, thin nose. The hood slid back entirely to reveal a skull-like face, the waxy yellow of its brow.
“We meet again,” said Ishtier, smiling.
August 14, 2018
World Con Again
Going over the program schedule, I see that I'm down for a reading Friday 6:30-7:00 in 211A. This item isn't listed anywhere else and I wasn't told about it, so I'm not sure how legit it is. Just in case, I'm packing a excerpt from the next novel, By Demons Possessed.
August 10, 2018
World Con Again
Many thanks for the words of encouragement and sympathy. My mood tends to be affected by how the writing is going, which at the moment isn't well (I'm trying to plot a summary for the tenth novel, hard work). No doubt I've been over reacting.
Anyway, these are my two events at worldcon. Hope to see some of you there!
AutographsFormat: Autographs
Anyway, these are my two events at worldcon. Hope to see some of you there!
AutographsFormat: Autographs
17 Aug 2018, Friday 11:00 - 12:00, Autographing (San Jose Convention Center)
David Brin, Richard Kadrey, Fran Wilde, PC Hodgell, Megan E. O'Keefe, Jiang Nan
In For the Long Haul: The Ups and Downs of Writing a Long SeriesFormat: Panel18 Aug 2018, Saturday 16:00 - 17:00, 210C (San Jose Convention Center)
Many authors have committed a significant part of their lives to writing fantasy series. Such a long-term project makes particular demands both on authors and readers. What gives a series "legs"? What can be done to deserve such devoted readers? What do serioes do to personal and professional lives?
Robin Hobb, Brandon Sanderson (M), Marie Brennan, Seanan McGuire, L.E. Modesitt Jr, PC Hodgell
August 9, 2018
World Con
This time next week I'll be in San Jose CA at the world science fiction (and fantasy) convention, something that I've been looking forward to literally for years. At the moment, it's looking a little shaky.
To explain: months ago I proposed a panel on long-running fantasy series, the advantages and disadvantages, about which I know something. It was accepted and I was made the moderator. Last week the semi-final schedule came out. I had been dropped not only from leadership but from the panel altogether. Without warning. The committee wanted to give award finalists more coverage and several of them had expressed an interest in "my" panel. I sent a polite but stiff email, the likes of which I would not want to receive myself. The committee chair replied that she had just been assigned this duty and hadn't known the history of the idea. Moreover, they had a lot more authors than they had panels, suggesting that other writers had also been dumped. The progressive website Daily KOS actually ran an article about this development, before I realized that I was a target. The last I heard, I'm back on the panel although not as moderator, which is okay. It does raise issues, though.
Yes, we should honor award finalists and winners. To some extent, though, this amounts to favoring best-sellers, who do not necessarily represent the best of our field. There has to be room for the wonderful variety here. Why else write SF&F, unless one wants to conform to the best-seller formula? Yes, a lot of readers favor that (it's easy; it's comfortingly familiar; look, another elf, another dragon!), but is it the work that will last, that will inspire?
Myself, I've never felt especially original, but I give my work everything that is in me. I've given it my life. To be snubbed in such a way is a profound rejection. I hope I will enjoy this convention, regardless. If any fans are there, please say hello.
To explain: months ago I proposed a panel on long-running fantasy series, the advantages and disadvantages, about which I know something. It was accepted and I was made the moderator. Last week the semi-final schedule came out. I had been dropped not only from leadership but from the panel altogether. Without warning. The committee wanted to give award finalists more coverage and several of them had expressed an interest in "my" panel. I sent a polite but stiff email, the likes of which I would not want to receive myself. The committee chair replied that she had just been assigned this duty and hadn't known the history of the idea. Moreover, they had a lot more authors than they had panels, suggesting that other writers had also been dumped. The progressive website Daily KOS actually ran an article about this development, before I realized that I was a target. The last I heard, I'm back on the panel although not as moderator, which is okay. It does raise issues, though.
Yes, we should honor award finalists and winners. To some extent, though, this amounts to favoring best-sellers, who do not necessarily represent the best of our field. There has to be room for the wonderful variety here. Why else write SF&F, unless one wants to conform to the best-seller formula? Yes, a lot of readers favor that (it's easy; it's comfortingly familiar; look, another elf, another dragon!), but is it the work that will last, that will inspire?
Myself, I've never felt especially original, but I give my work everything that is in me. I've given it my life. To be snubbed in such a way is a profound rejection. I hope I will enjoy this convention, regardless. If any fans are there, please say hello.
April 27, 2018
Submission
By Demons Possessed has gone to the publisher. What a tricky story it turned out to be. I'm glad to have it off my hands, and hope that it makes better reading than it did writing.
Since then, I've been thinking about the next novel, which may be the last in the series. I'd rather it was the next to last, but that depends on how complicated the plot gets, or rather on how long it takes to wrap things up.
I left Gerridon in a fix at the end of Demons. No plot spoilers -- or not much -- but next he will be thinking seriously about reclaiming his role as Highlord of the Kencyrath to ensure his immortality. Why that would work for him, though, puzzles me. Highlords aren't immortal, at least these days. Were they ever? That feels like revisionist history. Any other ideas?
Since then, I've been thinking about the next novel, which may be the last in the series. I'd rather it was the next to last, but that depends on how complicated the plot gets, or rather on how long it takes to wrap things up.
I left Gerridon in a fix at the end of Demons. No plot spoilers -- or not much -- but next he will be thinking seriously about reclaiming his role as Highlord of the Kencyrath to ensure his immortality. Why that would work for him, though, puzzles me. Highlords aren't immortal, at least these days. Were they ever? That feels like revisionist history. Any other ideas?
March 22, 2018
A progress report
A reader (rhodielady) sent me a question that for some reason the website wouldn't let me answer directly. How is the next novel coming along? Well, I've got a few days left before the deadline on April 1 and I'm going through it one last time. How long before it goes into print? I have no idea. It strikes me as lively but fairly dark. Had hoped for more humor. (I think it was the English actor Edmund Kean who said, on his death bed, "Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.") It does tie up a number of loose ends, though, and gives Jame something to work with going forward, plus it was nice to check in with favorite characters. I still don't know if I'm looking at one or two more novels to finish up the series after this. My sense is that I currently have a book and a half worth of material. On the other hand, whatever I have tends to expand, so we'll see.
January 26, 2018
A Question
Aplogoies to everyone who posted recently for not chiming in. Sometimes I get overwhelmed with the sheer volume of details in these stories and with all that I still haven't covered, or have forgotten, or haven't thought through. Then too, I'm on the last chapter of the current novel, struggling to pull everything together. That takes up a lot of brain space.
Speaking of details, I just spent most of the morning going through the combined texts, trying to find out if I ever said that the House was Gerridon's soul-image in the soulscape. I know that Jame thought it or at least its hall was hers, but it isn't. She's still wandering about there in her rathorn armor. My sense is that Tagmeth will become part of her soul-image once it really belongs to her.
But back to the House (the inspiration for which, by the way, was William Hope Hodgson's House on the Borderland). It never struck me before how many ways it appears in these stories -- in the flesh, as it were; in dreams; in the soulscape; louring in the clouds over Tai-tastigon as an exhalation of the Haunted Lands .... But I don't think I ever said that a version of it was the Master's soul-image. Does anyone remember something that I've forgottten or are currently too dazed to remember?
PS: This is looking ahead, but I expect to be in San Jose CA for worldcon in August, in case anyone wants to touch base.
Speaking of details, I just spent most of the morning going through the combined texts, trying to find out if I ever said that the House was Gerridon's soul-image in the soulscape. I know that Jame thought it or at least its hall was hers, but it isn't. She's still wandering about there in her rathorn armor. My sense is that Tagmeth will become part of her soul-image once it really belongs to her.
But back to the House (the inspiration for which, by the way, was William Hope Hodgson's House on the Borderland). It never struck me before how many ways it appears in these stories -- in the flesh, as it were; in dreams; in the soulscape; louring in the clouds over Tai-tastigon as an exhalation of the Haunted Lands .... But I don't think I ever said that a version of it was the Master's soul-image. Does anyone remember something that I've forgottten or are currently too dazed to remember?
PS: This is looking ahead, but I expect to be in San Jose CA for worldcon in August, in case anyone wants to touch base.
January 6, 2018
Where do we go from here?
I just googled my own LJ photo-stream and discovered that I've been unknowingly downloading to it. Eek. Not that there's anything embarrasing there. It seems to be a mix of art projects and cat photos. Still, how did that happen?
Meanwhile, I'm up to a point in the new novel where Ishtier demands that his god pass judgment on him/her/itself. Basically, Ishtier blames the Three-faced God for everything that has happened to him including his current ruin. "You failed me. It's all your fault." He gets the God-Voice, first the Arrin-ken Immalai and then, cutting in, the Dark Judge. I have to figure out what these two demigods have to say about their absent deity and to each other. This, in turn, reflects back on the ultimate reality of said god.
Someone directed me to the TV Tropes website. http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Literature/ChroniclesOfTheKencyrath I didn't know there were so many obscure cliches (family of hats? Substitute goldfish?), but that led me to another Tropes link: WMG (huh?) where I found some interesting theories. Damien, this may be your balliwick. I've already introduced your Builder's hoax as a theory. The other one that struck me as feasible was "The Three-Faced God Never Existed." which I quote below with comments.
Throughout this novel I've been circling around similar questions. My basic position is that things can't come to a crisis until powers become individuals. The Four, the Three, and the One, i.e the Rathillien Elementals, the Tyr-ridan, and Perimal Darkling via the Master. That at least narrows the final conflict to manageable dimensions. Still, what happens here should also shape that final battle.
What would the Arrin-ken say about this here?
From WMG Chronicles of the Kencyrath >TV Tropes
The Three-Faced God never existed
We know from Seeker's Mask that the occasions in God Stalk when the God seemed to take control of Ishtier and speech through him was faked by the Arrin-Ken. What if that was true all along?
[Hmm. I think I made clear later that the God Voice first spoke when the Kencyrath came to Rathillien and the priests tried to take control. Since then, the voice has only spoken through Ishtier. Granted, in GS he's pretty blaise about it, as if it happened all the time, but it doesn't. My bad.]
Way back on the first world in the Chain, the Arrin-Ken discovered that Perimal Darkling was about to eat their world. They knew it would take something with the power of a god to stop it, but they didn't have one on hand. So they recruited the Highborn, Kendar, and Builders, created the Kencyrath, and told them "We're on a mission from God", and faked miracles to convince them. The Arrin-Ken knew that they'd have to retreat through multiple worlds until they found an ally powerful enough to defeat Perimal Darkling.
[I don’t know about faking miracles. The AK don’t strike me as fakers. Given this assumption, presumably the AK expected to come up with the Tyr-ridan or a powerful world sooner rather than later.]
Eventually the Kencyrath got sufficiently fed up with the long retreat that some of them were ready to rebel; enter Gerridon and Jamethiel I. But here the Arrin-Ken got lucky: the next world they escaped to was the one they were looking for all the time. The four native gods of Rathillien, coupled with the power of the Arrin-Ken and the hypothetical Tyr-Ridan, might be powerful enough to end the war.
[Okay, but the problem here is that the Tyr-Ridan are manifestations of real power. That power presumably existed before them, if not with personalities attached. The AK had prior knowledge that said powers had to manifest in individuals? They were dealing with universal but inchoate forces? (Parallel to the Four becoming flesh, if not mortal?)]
When the Arrin-ken supposedly got fed up with the Highborn squabbling among themselves and left in a snit, that wasn't the real reason; they just took advantage of it as a convenient excuse to leave. The real reason they hid themselves away was to make sure the rest of the Kencyrath were stranded on Rathillien and couldn't leave for another world if things started going pear-shaped. (They may have arranged for the Builders to be wiped out for the same reason.)
[I agree that the AK’s departure isn’t adequately explained. They are apparently waiting for the Three, the Four, and the One to manifest. So far, they have the Tyr-Ridan (more or less) and the Rathillien elementals {sort of}. What they don’t have is the One – Gerridon becoming PD’s voice and therefore making both himself and it vulnerable. The Builders (most of them) died because of their own arrogance, a mirror to that of the Highborn. I don't think there was any AK plot here.]
In the meantime, the Arrin-Ken are waiting for the Tyr-Ridan to show up and start kicking Darkling arse. Things were delayed more than they expected when the Dark Judge lost his marbles and started killing potential Tyr-Ridans before they could fully develop their powers. But now, finally, a suitable set of candidates are all alive at the same time: Jamethiel II, Torisen, and Kindrie.
[Yes, the Dark Judge is partly to blame, but more so the Highborn for turning against the Shanir after the Fall.
The purpose of the Tyr-Ridan isn't to serve their God.
It's to create Him.
• Or, perhaps, to be him?
[I think the AK were trying to run a breeding program but the Highborn opted out too soon. The idea was either to create or recreate their God. I like the idea that the Kencyrath’s faith is partly responsible for creating this reality.]
Meanwhile, I'm up to a point in the new novel where Ishtier demands that his god pass judgment on him/her/itself. Basically, Ishtier blames the Three-faced God for everything that has happened to him including his current ruin. "You failed me. It's all your fault." He gets the God-Voice, first the Arrin-ken Immalai and then, cutting in, the Dark Judge. I have to figure out what these two demigods have to say about their absent deity and to each other. This, in turn, reflects back on the ultimate reality of said god.
Someone directed me to the TV Tropes website. http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Literature/ChroniclesOfTheKencyrath I didn't know there were so many obscure cliches (family of hats? Substitute goldfish?), but that led me to another Tropes link: WMG (huh?) where I found some interesting theories. Damien, this may be your balliwick. I've already introduced your Builder's hoax as a theory. The other one that struck me as feasible was "The Three-Faced God Never Existed." which I quote below with comments.
Throughout this novel I've been circling around similar questions. My basic position is that things can't come to a crisis until powers become individuals. The Four, the Three, and the One, i.e the Rathillien Elementals, the Tyr-ridan, and Perimal Darkling via the Master. That at least narrows the final conflict to manageable dimensions. Still, what happens here should also shape that final battle.
What would the Arrin-ken say about this here?
From WMG Chronicles of the Kencyrath >TV Tropes
The Three-Faced God never existed
We know from Seeker's Mask that the occasions in God Stalk when the God seemed to take control of Ishtier and speech through him was faked by the Arrin-Ken. What if that was true all along?
[Hmm. I think I made clear later that the God Voice first spoke when the Kencyrath came to Rathillien and the priests tried to take control. Since then, the voice has only spoken through Ishtier. Granted, in GS he's pretty blaise about it, as if it happened all the time, but it doesn't. My bad.]
Way back on the first world in the Chain, the Arrin-Ken discovered that Perimal Darkling was about to eat their world. They knew it would take something with the power of a god to stop it, but they didn't have one on hand. So they recruited the Highborn, Kendar, and Builders, created the Kencyrath, and told them "We're on a mission from God", and faked miracles to convince them. The Arrin-Ken knew that they'd have to retreat through multiple worlds until they found an ally powerful enough to defeat Perimal Darkling.
[I don’t know about faking miracles. The AK don’t strike me as fakers. Given this assumption, presumably the AK expected to come up with the Tyr-ridan or a powerful world sooner rather than later.]
Eventually the Kencyrath got sufficiently fed up with the long retreat that some of them were ready to rebel; enter Gerridon and Jamethiel I. But here the Arrin-Ken got lucky: the next world they escaped to was the one they were looking for all the time. The four native gods of Rathillien, coupled with the power of the Arrin-Ken and the hypothetical Tyr-Ridan, might be powerful enough to end the war.
[Okay, but the problem here is that the Tyr-Ridan are manifestations of real power. That power presumably existed before them, if not with personalities attached. The AK had prior knowledge that said powers had to manifest in individuals? They were dealing with universal but inchoate forces? (Parallel to the Four becoming flesh, if not mortal?)]
When the Arrin-ken supposedly got fed up with the Highborn squabbling among themselves and left in a snit, that wasn't the real reason; they just took advantage of it as a convenient excuse to leave. The real reason they hid themselves away was to make sure the rest of the Kencyrath were stranded on Rathillien and couldn't leave for another world if things started going pear-shaped. (They may have arranged for the Builders to be wiped out for the same reason.)
[I agree that the AK’s departure isn’t adequately explained. They are apparently waiting for the Three, the Four, and the One to manifest. So far, they have the Tyr-Ridan (more or less) and the Rathillien elementals {sort of}. What they don’t have is the One – Gerridon becoming PD’s voice and therefore making both himself and it vulnerable. The Builders (most of them) died because of their own arrogance, a mirror to that of the Highborn. I don't think there was any AK plot here.]
In the meantime, the Arrin-Ken are waiting for the Tyr-Ridan to show up and start kicking Darkling arse. Things were delayed more than they expected when the Dark Judge lost his marbles and started killing potential Tyr-Ridans before they could fully develop their powers. But now, finally, a suitable set of candidates are all alive at the same time: Jamethiel II, Torisen, and Kindrie.
[Yes, the Dark Judge is partly to blame, but more so the Highborn for turning against the Shanir after the Fall.
The purpose of the Tyr-Ridan isn't to serve their God.
It's to create Him.
• Or, perhaps, to be him?
[I think the AK were trying to run a breeding program but the Highborn opted out too soon. The idea was either to create or recreate their God. I like the idea that the Kencyrath’s faith is partly responsible for creating this reality.]
December 5, 2017
And there's this too.
I've been thinking about Bane, who is about to show up again (don't ask).
I knew early on that he mutilated children. This may be the the first time that I've dealt with him mulitating himself as a child. As I understand it, one does that in part because one can't hurt someone who abuses one in one's childhood. (Not quite that simple: I raked skin off my arms in punishment when I couldn't perform in gym as a teenager. Once.) But Bane had his foster father Abbotir, who came to realize that Bane wasn't truly his son and thereafter taught him how to "direct his talents." Bane in turn began to prey on younger children. Pain and release matter to him, vitally. Jame represents his ultimate release, if she calls upon him to make it and he is strong enough to follow through. Is that icky, or just human?
I know Bane hasn't gotten much sympathy. It befuddles me a bit that I feel it for him. Does the above make any sense?
I knew early on that he mutilated children. This may be the the first time that I've dealt with him mulitating himself as a child. As I understand it, one does that in part because one can't hurt someone who abuses one in one's childhood. (Not quite that simple: I raked skin off my arms in punishment when I couldn't perform in gym as a teenager. Once.) But Bane had his foster father Abbotir, who came to realize that Bane wasn't truly his son and thereafter taught him how to "direct his talents." Bane in turn began to prey on younger children. Pain and release matter to him, vitally. Jame represents his ultimate release, if she calls upon him to make it and he is strong enough to follow through. Is that icky, or just human?
I know Bane hasn't gotten much sympathy. It befuddles me a bit that I feel it for him. Does the above make any sense?
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