Terry Mancour's Blog, page 3

REVEALED: Shadowheist - Chapter One

Chapter One

A Long Carriage Ride

The tree of House Furtius has many branches, family members, and scions, and it shall bear diverse fruits: some with the Talent of Darkness and some without. All are Furtiusi, first and foremost, and their loyalties lie with the House whether they have been gifted with Talent or not. Mundane and arcane alike are united. They shall help us continue our unique legacy.

— from The Shield of Darkness, written by Kiera the Great

“Darkness, Attie, this . . . this is so unfair!” Gatina said in disgust. As the carriage rocked back and forth down the bumpy road, Gatina fumed in quiet outrage, arms folded tightly across her chest. She never thought that Mother would send her away. It was unthinkable . . . but it had happened. It was as if her friend Marga had seen the future when she had joked about it, a few weeks before in Falas.

Gatina had considered the idea highly unlikely, but there she was, in an enclosed coach headed away from home. The chill of the early summer air skated across her skin, making her shiver as a gust of wind blew into the carriage. Her father, Hance, was disguised as a hired coachman driving the team. She blamed him as much as Mother for the sudden and unexpected change in her life.

Her brother, Atopol, sat on the bench across from her, watching out the window, while Gatina bit her lip and suffered the torrent of dark thoughts running through her head. As usual, Atopol didn’t seem the least bit disturbed by the sudden announcement of their departure. And that irritated her even more.

Earlier that morning in Cysgodol Hall, he had watched her in silence from the foot of her bed while she ruthlessly emptied her wardrobe, tossing items onto the bed in a fit of anger, shock, and resolution. She had made a production of stomping back and forth, which was very unladylike, unusually emotional, and just plain loud. It was so out of character for her that she knew he found it entertaining.

And she found that infuriating.

She knew the announcement of their parents’ decision to send them both to Palomar Abbey for the foreseeable future had taken him by surprise, as well, but he had not reacted so forcefully at the news. Indeed, he had accepted it with grace, not voicing a word of dissent. She recalled watching his quietly amused face as she had closed her wardrobe door with a final, violent slam and thrown the final few gowns onto the bed. It had frustrated her to witness his smirk. Why wasn’t he as upset as she was about this?

The long carriage ride had done nothing to dissuade her from being upset, nor had it tempered her irritation with her brother. And it had not rattled her big brother’s calm demeanor one bit. They had ridden in silence for hours now, but she could not stand it one moment longer.

“This is some sort of punishment, isn’t it?” she demanded, suddenly. Atopol looked up. His smirk was still there. And that irritated her.

“I did warn you that Mother would not be happy about your unauthorized heist,” he answered, gently but loud enough to be heard over the crunch of the horses’ hooves and the rumble of the wagon wheels. He sounded perfectly reasonable, which was grating. She knew he was baiting her, waiting for a reaction. The closed carriage allowed for a normal conversation, especially with Mother’s added magical touches, which included spells to discourage eavesdroppers and to muffle outside noises.

So, she just stared through the crack in the window, after giving him a stony stare. He was supposed to be on her side, after all.

“Gat? I know you can hear me.” It wasn’t that she couldn’t hear his soft voice it was that she didn’t want to answer.

Gatina was quiet and withdrawn, brooding about her exile and thinking about what to say, how she could best explain herself again and keep this awful punishment from happening. They weren’t even in proper disguises or traveling under proper aliases, though they did not look as they naturally did. Her striking white hair, a legacy of her family’s unusual nature, was covered by a brown wig, and her violet eyes had been darkened to a hazel by magic, as had her brother’s. Atopol’s white hair, though, had been dyed a jet black. It gave him a swarthy look. But neither of them had true aliases yet. It was as if their parents were rushing them off into the wilderness without even a plan. She could think of no better reason than to punish her for her deeds in Falas Town.

Attie sighed. He wasn’t even willing to argue with her. She took a deep breath and exhaled so hard that her hair blew off of her face.

“I know,” she admitted with a sullen stare. “But she already yelled at me about that. I had thought she had forgiven me.”

“Forgiven, not forgotten.” Atopol chuckled. “Telling family secrets to outsiders is generally frowned upon in a family of professional thieves. It puts us all in danger, especially now. You should have known better,” he reproved.

“I do know better, I really do. But Marga’s my best friend. They are my friends. Do you know what that feels like? To have friends? To be in a position to help your friends?” she asked him, her eyes now boring into his. Gatina did not quite have the penetrating stare that her mother had perfected, but she was working on it. She hoped to play on her brother’s emotions.

Like her, he had grown up surrounded only by their family and a few trusted retainers, insulated from the real world on a remote country estate. They had learned only recently about the reasons for that, and their unusual hair and eyes, and a good number of other things that most children did not have to contend with. That was part of their complicated legacy from House Furtius. Their mutual apprenticeships to their parents were another.

“Friends are nice,” he conceded, “but they don’t take precedence over the family rules,” he reminded her. “You could have gotten me killed. Or others.”

“I didn’t know what Father had you doing. Mother didn’t even know you were there, for that matter. I did not want to mess up our missions. I just went on instinct. But I didn’t think Mother would send me away to an abbey for that! Everything turned out all right, after all. Don’t you think that’s a bit of an overreaction?” she demanded with another exasperated sigh.

“It’s not meant as a punishment, Gat,” Atopol assured her, gently. “Our family has sent their children to Palomar Abbey for more than a century now. It has nothing to do with your insubordination and ignoring the rules. Mother might still be angry, but that’s not why she’s doing this.”

“But everything turned out all right!” she objected.

“Do you think that Mother thinks that’s an excuse?” he snorted, as he removed a book from his bag. “You broke the rules. You can’t break the rules, even when it turns out all right.”

That was what had really stung her pride. Gatina had been working her first mission in Falas, the capital, during the chaotic time after the Duke and Duchess’s assassinations. House Furtius had secretly moved to counter the attempt of Count Vichetral of Rhemes to seize power, and had employed every member in assisting—including her and Atopol. As a family of magically Talented thieves, the House had used its skills and resources adeptly, which included sending her on her first mission for the House.

She had infiltrated a band of street orphans by disguising herself as one of them and then befriending them. It was all part of her greater mission in the big city. Mother had instructed her to gain access to the Brotherhood of the Rat, a ruthless gang of thugs that was working with the usurper, Count Vichetral, in the new regime. The goal was to gain access to the Brotherhood’s ways and learn information about the cutthroats that could help the greater effort against Vichetral and his cronies.

She had done well, Gatina knew. She’d made friends amongst the Nits, as the orphans were known, especially with a girl named Marga. And she had used her alias as a Nit to run errands for the Brotherhood of the Rats, for coin, of course. That had given her access to what had gotten her into trouble—the loot.

Without Mother’s approval, Gatina had stolen from the Brotherhood not once but twice. And then when Marga had been taken prisoner by the gang because she was mistaken for Gatina’s alias, Lissa the Mouse, Gatina had rescued the poor girl. She had to. But she had acted alone, without asking permission.

Worse—according to her parents—she had revealed too much about herself and her secretive family to the street orphan. And that led to House Furtius taking Marga under their protection and arranging for her service in the Temple of Trygg. Gatina had also gone off the mission plan to help a young noble pay off a debt to the Brotherhood, which had further imperiled the entire effort. So, she had, technically, broken the rules of the House and the instructions of her mistress, her mother.

When you were a newly apprenticed thief, at the very beginning of her complicated training, that was frowned upon by the family of thieves of which you were a part. But Mother should have expected that. Gatina felt that her behavior was entirely predictable, considering she had chosen her working name—“Kitten of Night”—largely because she was as curious and as fearless as a kitten.

Fortunately, Gatina had found a way to salvage the entire mission, not just hers. They had saved scores of hostages to the new regime’s power, innocent people who might even prove useful against Count Vichetral in the future. Even her friend Marga. But Mother seemed to think that Gatina was far too impetuous for her own good. Just like a kitten.

Atopol sighed. “Gat, we both know Mother and Father didn’t send you—and me—away because of Falas.” Again, he waited to see if she would react. She gave him an annoyed look. “We need more training,” he emphasized. “More education. Most young nobles go to some sort of temple school. The Temples of Trygg, Ishi, Duin, and Luin run theirs all year long. This one is just a bit . . . unusual.”

Gatina grunted and stared out the window. She had heard her brother, but she was still not in the mood to talk to him, or anyone else, right then. So, she didn’t.

Instead, she thought about the deck of blank cards in her satchel. That was something she’d been instructed to pack, along with her working blacks and her thieving tools, all safely tucked into a hidden compartment in the special case. But the cards were a new project.

She was responsible for making her own set of the family cards, just as everyone on both sides of the family had to do. Most magically Talented Coastlord families had something similar, a deck of cards that represented their lore and their ideals. Their use went back all the way to the Later Magocracy, when the magi ruled the world. Now they were a dearly held custom by the descendants of the magelords who became Coastlords in Alshar. The deck of cards was part teaching device and part inspirational tool, a means of quietly communicating important elements of a family’s history and lore to the next generation without attracting the attention of the hated Royal Censorate of Magic. They were also supposed to advise and suggest wisdom to those who employed them. She considered the card known as OPPORTUNITY and wondered if she was seeing this unfair and punishing exile in the proper light.

Because she knew Atopol was correct: most noble families sent their children to one of the many temple schools in the duchy for education and instruction beyond what private tutors could provide. Sometimes it was just a few weeks at Trygg’s temple, she knew, or a summer at Luin’s temple school. The Narasi-descended Vale Lords preferred Ishi and Duin to educate their young nobles, and the Sea Lords in the coastal havens had their own version, under their strange religion.

It wasn’t a punishment, her reason told her; it was just a part of growing up. And Mother and Father had sent their private tutors away shortly after the Ducal assassinations.

But the idea of sitting in a temple, learning a bunch of poetics or mathematics or natural history or whatever it was the Saganites wanted to teach her, sounded so absolutely boring that it felt like punishment. Especially after Falas . . . and the four weeks she and her family had spent quietly looting the manor houses and treasuries of the usurpers afterward.

Gatina had tried not to be upset and hurt by her parents’ decision . . . but she was. She did not want to listen to Attie, especially when he sounded so reasonable. It suited her better to be mad.

So, she ignored him. He finally shrugged and pulled a book out of his own satchel—it was not one she had seen before in the family library. It was a history of Sea Lord families. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask where he’d found it. She wanted to brood in silence. And the carriage bumped along at a steady pace.

But her passionate feeling of betrayal would not let her brood in silence for long.

“I don’t see how this isn’t a punishment,” she insisted, finally. “It seems to me, Attie, that Mother and Father certainly decided very quickly to send us away.”

Atopol looked up from his book. In characteristic Gatina fashion, she had picked up the conversation from their last statement as if no time had passed. Thankfully, her brother followed suit instead of reproving her. 

Gatina continued. “This is the first they’ve ever mentioned going to school. At an abbey. And it was very sudden. And that decision was made immediately after our time in Falas, during which, I admit, I behaved in a manner that Mother did not approve. I took an opportunity or two and acted in the best interests of the mission . . . eventually. And now I’m going to be locked away in an abbey for months for a few minor little mistakes.” She glanced at her big brother, looking for a reaction. “What else should I think?”

She was trying to be persuasive to her very reasonable brother. If she could get him to agree with her and be on her side, she would feel vindicated in her anger. And less irritated, maybe. Atopol always seemed to have a sensible perspective on things, which irritated her eleven-year-old soul, but if he agreed with her that their parents were being unusually punitive by sending them off to an abbey school, she would at least feel vindicated.

Patiently, Attie closed his book and set it on the tiny folding table between them. He studied Gatina for a moment before speaking. The road had smoothed, and the jostling had lessened as the horses found a rhythm in their pacing. He leaned forward on his cushioned bench, placing his arms out across the folding table around his book, as he tried his best to avoid patronizing his sister with his response. It was at that moment that she saw how much more like their father he was becoming, in both appearance and his mannerisms.

“Gat, your actions in Falas were selfish, in my opinion.” She winced at his assessment, but she did not speak. “By acting as you did, you not only endangered your mission but also all of the missions.” He paused to gauge her emotions. She was calm, but that could change quickly. She made a point of keeping quiet instead of reacting. He would call a reaction emotional, she knew, and dismiss it out of hand.

“That being said, your actions and your compassion for others helped to salvage the House’s main objective—as I understand it—while also helping to rescue a considerable number of almost-hostages and find them a place to hide. I honestly do not think Mother or Father are sending you to Palomar Abbey because of your actions in Falas. Not in the least bit. I think they are sending you and me— yes,us—to the abbey for other reasons. Falas is just not safe for us right now,” he reminded her. “We’re involved in a conspiracy against Count Vichetral, who is diligently searching for traitors and supporters of the old regime. Lingering in Falas, where we’ve just plundered the estates of four of his biggest supporters to support our conspiracy, is not a terribly wise idea. Besides, everyone has to go to school eventually,” he reasoned.

Gatina considered her brother. Matching his gaze with her own, which could be both intimidating and unnerving to those not used to such seriousness, especially from younger people, she quietly considered his statement for a moment. She stifled the desire to scream at him passionately and answered him as reasonably as possible, using her training to regulate both her breathing and her voice.

Perhaps her best tactic was to appear to concede, she decided.

“I can see your point, Attie. I suppose it’s not really a punishment. I also understand that Mother and Father may need us away for the foreseeable future. Four heists from four estates owned by vassals and supporters of the same person of interest might draw the wrong type of attention,” she admitted.

Indeed, the whirlwind round of heists her family had conducted had been one of the most exciting and fascinating things she had ever done. Seeing her parents—both master thieves—in action while they also guided her and her brother through the various ways to steal a place blind had given her valuable insight into the family business . . . which made her sudden exile all the more difficult. She was good at stealing, she knew, and she loved the challenge of doing it without getting caught. Giving that up for the prospect of school—of all things!—just seemed completely unfair.

“So, maybe they are sending us away for safekeeping.” Atopol smiled and settled back into his seat, relieved, she could tell.

“Or maybe we are going on another mission, and they just haven’t told us,” she proposed. “What do you think, Attie?”

Atopol sighed. “I think I know a kitten who is entirely too eager to get into trouble, when she should know when to curl into a ball and stay quiet. Falas is dangerous now. Home is not as dangerous, but Mother and Father won’t be there often, I suspect, with their work for the conspiracy. But that doesn’t mean we’ll be bored, I think. From what Father said, we are being sent to Palomar Abbey for both safekeeping and training while the hornet’s nest we stirred up last month has a chance to die down.”

“Do you really think we caused that much trouble?” Gatina asked, amused at the thought. “It was only four little estates, after all.”

“Gat, we stole more than five thousand ounces of gold and silver and plenty of priceless heirlooms and art that are likely worth more than that,” Atopol snorted. “Enough to fund the efforts of the conspiracy for months. Each of those nobles will be complaining bitterly to the new regime about it. Vichetral will know that they are connected, since they were so close together, and he’ll know his enemies are behind it, since each of the nobles is a very public supporter of the new regime. The four heists will, of course, draw all sorts of attention, and not only from Count Vichetral. He will have his guards looking for anyone he thinks was capable of such a feat. He may even bring on a few rogue Censors if he suspects magic was involved.”

Gatina flinched at the mention of the dreaded Censors. She had often heard her parents warn them of the enforcers of the Bans.

The Censors from the Royal Censorate of Magic, Gatina knew, were despised and feared by everyone with any ounce of rajira. Censors were magi who policed other magi. In her mind, she imagined them to be similar to the Town Watchmen she had seen in Falas but for magi instead of people without Talent. They were regulators of the ancient Bans on Magic, one of the few institutions left from the original Narasi invasion. They answered to no higher authority than themselves. And they didn’t just take you to the magistrate; they were empowered to convict and punish as well as investigate.

She had heard her parents talk about them in the past and knew the history from her own private lessons with her mother. Mother had explained that the Royal Censorate of Magic employed magi called Censors to enforce the Bans on Magic. The Censors were zealots, Mother had lectured, obsessed with policing magical use and ability. They had the support of the nonmagical nobility and were used as a means of keeping the magi—especially those magi descended from the magelords of the Imperial Magocracy, like she was.

Censors were incredibly dangerous, her parents had emphasized. They used all sorts of spells to enforce the Bans. They were difficult to bribe, impossible to overrule, and enjoyed complete immunity from the civil authorities, all in the name of “protecting” mundane people against illegal and unethical magic. The Bans were one reason why House Furtius was never properly registered. While not explicitly illegal, shadowmagic was frowned upon, after all.

“But Father has placed so many pieces on the board, in so many different locations, I doubt the Count will know where to look,” Atopol continued, hopefully, as he tapped the book. “Confusion is as good as darkness to hide something. And not being around to get caught because you’re masquerading as someone else entirely in a new temple school seems like a good way to avoid detection.”

“That, too, makes sense,” Gatina admitted, coolly. “How do you keep from getting depressed about it, though? I can hardly stand the idea of hiding out studying the stars when there are heists I could be planning!” She shifted in her seat, bothered once more by the unfair situation in which she found herself. Not even the prospect of the Censorate investigating concerned her. A group of Talented men hunting hedgewitches did not frighten her, despite Mother’s lectures.

“I see it as an opportunity,” her brother said, simply. “As a way to keep my mind occupied as well as preparing myself for the future. I’m excited by the possibilities, if you want me to be honest.”

“Yes, but you’re always reading books!” Gatina snorted. “They’re good, in their way, I suppose, but it’s no substitute for learning things by doing things. What’s that one about?” she asked, curious but also dismissive of her brother’s interests.

“I am reading about the Sea Lords and their havens in Enultramar, and their contributions to Alshar. It’s fascinating, really—the Sea Lords ruled the coasts for a century before the Magocracy sent our Coastlord ancestors here, and they have an entirely different society. You should read this too. I will be finished tonight. I think you will find it very useful, regardless of what Mother and Father have planned for us.”

It actually did sound interesting, but Gatina didn’t want to admit that to him. She didn’t get the chance. Before Gatina could pursue her line of questioning, Hance had stopped the carriage for their late luncheon.

Of course, the man driving the team looked nothing like her father—his white hair was covered under a wig, and he was dressed in clothes far below his station, as a common coachman would appear. When he walked, it was with a pronounced stoop, and his gait was completely different from her father’s normal decidedly graceful and purposeful steps.

Father parked the carriage under a lonely grove of trees near the side of the road. The foliage provided brilliant shades of green overhead and an abundance of shade from the bright sunlight, which was ideal, as she and Atopol had been riding in a darkened carriage for hours. Her father had unhitched the team and tied the two brown working horses to a tree, where they had fresh tall grass to graze upon to complement their oats and water.

Gatina found the lovely day a bit irritating, considering her mood. The three members of House Furtius shared a meal of watered wine, boiled eggs, a bit of cheese, and delicious apple tarts while sitting on a wool blanket. It occurred to Gatina that it might be the last good meal she would have for a while. Drella, the family’s cook who had been part of the household since Hance was born, had prepared the meal, and she had added their favorite tarts for both Atopol and Gatina because she wanted to make sure they had something tasty to eat before they were forced to depend on food from the abbey. Ecclesiastical fare was filling but also known to be lacking in flavor.

“I think you’ll like the abbey,” Hance suggested while they ate. “I went to school there when I was your age. Most of our family undertook the Saganite Mysteries. You’ll be taught all sorts of things— mathematics, literature, history, philosophy, and, of course, astronomy. The Saganites are master astronomers,” he added. “They study the stars and watch them in their courses.”

“Why in the name of Darkness would anyone bother to do that?” Gatina asked as she nibbled her tart. She really could not think of anything more useless and boring than that, with the possible exception of needlework.

“Because that’s how ships navigate the open seas, for one thing,” Atopol supplied, tapping his book. “The Sea Lords were good at it, but it took the Saganites from the Magocracy to establish the charts and such for truly accurate navigation. It allowed them to win several key battles back in history.”

“Palomar Abbey was established in Alshar even before the Sea Lords colonized the coasts,” Hance agreed, his unfamiliar face looking thoughtful. “It dates back to the very beginning of humanity’s existence on Callidore. It’s not a large or popular temple, but it is well distinguished among the clergy and noted for its academic rigor. You’ll learn many useful things there . . . and plenty of useless things as well.

“But the most important lesson to learn is how to portray yourself as clergy,” he continued, in a more serious tone. “In our business, that can be an extremely useful thing. The clergy are exempt from many rules and laws, and the Saganites have special regulations that even other clergy don’t enjoy. They have often proven useful in our endeavors.”

“I’ve never really heard of them before,” Gatina admitted.

“They’re fairly obscure,” agreed her father. “Unlike the larger, flashier temples, the Saganites keep to themselves and are generally quiet about their liturgies. Their devotion to the stars necessitates that they honor the darkness of night—something I think you’ll agree suits our family business. Our House has patronized them for centuries now, as much as any other temple. And part of the reason for that is that there are things that you can learn at Palomar Abbey that you simply can’t learn anywhere else.”

“So, we will be getting more training!” Atopol grinned. Gatina shot him a dirty look.

“Oh, you’ll be continuing your training for the House along with your regular temple studies—at which you will be expected to excel. But you will have to do it all in disguise,” he reminded them. “The temple is aware of the special relationship that we enjoy with it, and the senior clergy will be aware that some of their students are not what they seem, but you must attend to your aliases religiously—pardon the pun—while you are at the abbey.”

After eating the last of the apple tarts, Hance continued to explain to them the details of their new lives, particularly their new aliases. He handed them each a leaf of parchment with the details of their new identities written upon them.

“Cat, you will be called Lord Dain of Newmarket in northern Falas, the middle son of a family of Coastlord merchants who has opted to learn astronomy and has a calling to the stars. You are to be quiet, studious, and constantly reading. Dark hair and a persistent squint,” he suggested. That did seem to play into Atopol’s natural talents, Gatina had to admit.

“And Kitten, you will now become Maid Avorrita of Dentran, the bucktoothed, befreckled youngest daughter of a minor Coastlord family from southern Falas. Intellectually bright but socially awkward. Kind of dull would be best. And you will be Lord Dain’s distant cousin, in case you have to consult with him.”

“That sounds . . . completely boring,” Gatina groaned as she took the parchment.

“It’s supposed to be. The goal is to not attract too much attention. Any attention, if you can help it,” their father reminded her.

Gatina and Atopol sat up straighter as Father explained the details to them.

“Now, it is imperative that you remain in your alias at all times unless you are with me or the abbot, who is the only member of the Saganites who will know your true identity. He’s my uncle, actually. There will be others who understand that there are clandestine pupils at the abbey, but you are to stick to character constantly and not reveal yourselves. Consider it a test of your abilities. Do you understand?” Hance pointedly looked at both of his children. Gatina restrained herself from asking the many questions she had and simply nodded. “Good. This is an important exercise. I want you to create an alias based on the bit of truths you read on the parchment. But the details of each character will be up to you. You’ll have to maintain them, after all.

“Remember, it is easier, as Kiera the Great has suggested, to remain as close to the truth as possible in regard to your alias. In fact, these identities will hopefully be of use to you for years to come. Cat, yours will be a little easier than Kitten’s. Newmarket is also a real village, and the noble House you claim to come from is real, if minor, so you will have to study to be prepared to answer any questions about it. And they do have a history of magic, since they are Coastlords. Not a great one, but it has come up in the past.” After Atopol nodded his understanding, Hance turned his attention to Gatina.

“In your case, Kitten, the fictitious noble household of Dentran has been cultivated as the source of useful aliases for House Furtius for years. In fact, I have used the House Dentran alias myself, in my youth. There are records of Dentran nobles with magical Talent, even full adepts. All of those are your Furtiusi ancestors in disguise. That will be how we explain it if your rajira comes on this summer,” he explained.

Gatina smiled for the first time, finally excited by the thought of this trip, she realized. She had desperately wanted her rajira to finally emerge, the way her brother’s had the last year. Indeed, she was eager for the power to perform magic the way her parents did, and didn’t even mind the prospect of study. The things she could do with magic . . .

Her father saw her expression and caught her in a stare. Gatina tried to force a blank expression on her face. “Cat, if you would take over the driving duties, I will assist with Kitten’s disguise and give further specialized instruction on her mission to your sister.”

While Atopol tended to the horses, Hance opened a satchel and removed several jars, setting them on the blanket. Gatina remembered the last time she had seen a satchel and jars of this sort—in Falas before Cousin Huguenin used leeches to dye her hair. Instead of speaking, she watched as he gently lifted a velvet pouch from the bag.

“While wigs and dyes and cosmetics are useful to change your appearance, there are special prosthetics that can be used to distract attention from who you really are. In this case, this is how we will alter the appearance of your teeth,” he explained.

He opened the pouch and slid out two parchment-thin metal trays shaped like a crescent. “These are pliable and will be coated in a special mixture of beeswax that I will use to model a set of false teeth that will fit over your front teeth for you to create Avorrita’s bucktoothed appearance,” her father explained. “It will take a little getting used to, especially speaking and chewing. I don’t think this will be as unpleasant as your hair experience, Kitten, but it will require a bit of patience.”

Gatina nodded and watched. Her father mixed three heaping spoonsful of a sweet-smelling powder with a beige paste and a warm lump of wax and then smeared the mixture onto one of the metal appliances using a small brush. Once he was satisfied with the mixture’s consistency, he nodded.

“This is the part that requires your patience. And a bit of stillness. I will place this over your top teeth. Then we must press it up, as far as we can, to get a good impression. And then we must wait a few long moments for the impression to set. Do you understand?” Gatina nodded, wondering why there was not a spell for this. Hance saw her expression and gave her a sympathetic smile. “Unfortunately, Kitten, there are some circumstances where magic is of little help. This is one of those.”

Gatina sighed, then helped her father position the tray in her mouth and around her upper teeth. The sensation of the metal was odd. It didn’t hurt, but the tray was cold enough to send a chill down her spine. The taste of the mixture was neither good nor bad. It reminded her of unbaked bread dough. The texture was chalky and waxy at the same time. She nearly gagged as they worked to adjust the tray around her front teeth. The mixture squished out and covered her tongue, causing her to cough.

“I think it would be easier and more comfortable for you if you lay back. We can exert more pressure, which will lead to a better impression” Hance explained.

Gatina did as her father suggested. As it dried, the mixture stuck to her tongue. Hance continued to explain the process while she tried not to cough. “This is the first step in creating Avorrita’s false teeth. When this is removed, we will allow it to dry. Then, I will use wax that hardens over time to sculpt the gums and add the false teeth. Sculpture was one of the classes I took when I was a student at Palomar Abbey,” he added. “Terribly useful, sculpture is.”

After what felt like an eternity, but was only a quarter-hour, Hance gently pried the device from Gatina’s teeth and removed it from her mouth with a loud pop. There was a chalky residue in her mouth that made her forget all about the delicious tart she’d had—in fact, it seemed to be mocking it.

“You may want to rinse,” he suggested, handing her a cup. She did, feeling a sense of relief.

“Once it dries, this will be your mouth appliance,” he announced. “And that is where magic can expedite the process. I was able to procure a powder from one of our most-trusted adepts. That is one of the many ways to speed the drying.” He held up a small vial and carefully shook a small amount of the fine powder over the impression of her teeth. “While I apply the potion, you can help. Knead this wax so that it becomes pliable.” He handed her a small wad of wax wrapped in parchment.

“You took sculpture class?” Gatina asked, finally able to speak. She removed the wax and began to knead it.

“Indeed I did. And it’s a good thing. You can do a lot of things with a bit of wax or clay and a knack for sculpture. I can copy keys or create keys. I can fabricate all sorts of things. And I can make false teeth, too,” he said. “The impression is dry.”

She watched, fascinated, as he worked using what she supposed were artisan tools—thin wire, small brushes, tiny knives, and several long needles of various sizes and widths. When he looked at her, Gatina handed him the now very soft and warm wax. He pushed it into place in the front four upper teeth.

“This is the medium I am using to craft your teeth,” he explained. “These wires will help secure the false teeth in place. When I’m done, they should be able to pop in and be held firmly.” He bent the wire to create a frame while the wax hardened in the mold. “It will be uncomfortable at first, but you will adjust to the fit and the feeling. You can take it out to sleep, of course.”

When the wax had hardened, also sped by the potion, he pried the teeth from the tray. He removed another jar, he explained, to give color to the teeth. The needles were used to add texture. “No teeth are perfectly smooth,” he explained. “This helps craft the illusion and it adds depth to the appearance. And this helps create your gumline.”

“And you learned this at Palomar?” she asked, intrigued.

“I learned a great many things at the abbey,” her father agreed. “My classes in art enriched my experience. The library there is filled with ancient knowledge. The Coastlord Houses have used it as a quiet repository for their archives and secrets, if you know where to look. And there are plenty of masters of all sorts of obscure and useful crafts lurking around the temple. Do not dismiss the possibilities, Gatina. A good thief—and a good mage—always embraces the chance to learn a new skill, a new discipline, or an obscure bit of knowledge that might make the difference someday,” he counseled.

Gatina nodded thoughtfully and felt the influence of her father’s words. They seemed to dash her reluctance to the disruption in her life and assure her of the value of a Palomar Abbey education. OPPORTUNITY, she suddenly knew, would surround her at the abbey. She just had to recognize it, as her father had done with his art class.

Hance took Atopol’s seat across from Gatina in the carriage after he’d helped Atopol hitch the team back up. They continued north. And her father continued his instruction.

“This is a nice change from being up there,” he sighed, pointing toward where Atopol sat in the coachman’s seat. “I even have a cushion! Less chance that I’ll eat bugs, too.” Gatina laughed and relaxed, some of her earlier tension forgotten. Her father’s easy nature was like magic. “I think you’ll enjoy Palomar more than you suspect,” he added.

“You really went to school there?” she asked, skeptically, her voice sounding odd with the dental device in place. His enthusiasm for the place was a surprise to her. In her experience, Father wasn’t particularly interested in the stars. The darkness, yes, but not the points of light that shone through it at night.

“It’s family tradition. Your great-uncle Handrig was my father’s youngest brother,” Hance explained. “He and I both came to the abbey about the same time, and he remains as one of the holy Starbrothers, as he had no talent for thieving or magic. But he supports the House as much as any. Indeed, he’s become the abbot of the place. But we both started out as Nocturns. I loved coming to Palomar for summers when I was a boy,” he recalled. “It was a magical place and a magical time before I had rajira—or girls—to distract me.” Hance sighed fondly at the memory and considered his precocious and currently odd-looking daughter. “You are carrying on a family tradition by coming here, Gat. It’s not a punishment. There’s no place in the duchies like Palomar. Maybe you’ll discover a hidden talent, as I did.”

As persuasive as he was, Gatina could not resist one last attempt at dissuasion. “But don’t you think I can learn a lot more from you and Mother, Daddy? We learned so much from you on those heists!” Gatina knew using the familiar word Daddy instead of the more formal Father sometimes worked to her advantage. But, she discovered, not this time.

“It’s a greater opportunity, Kitten,” Father said calmly and patiently, his eyes shining with a promise of mischief. “We can teach you some of what you need, but there is a place for more- formalized instruction. I promise you: this is not about punishment. You and your brother are being sent to a safe place where you can be instructed in more than what your former tutors or your mother and I can teach you, especially now with the Rebel Counts positioning themselves to take power in Alshar,” he said. “It’s just not safe for you in Falas or even Cysgodol Hall now. You and Atopol would have visited either way, eventually. It’s tradition,” he emphasized. “And it’s not all bad. You’ll have new friends—or Maid Avorrita will. You’ll learn some interesting things, and not all about the stars. We’ll be working on some specialized techniques—swordplay, lock-picking, stealth, all sorts of things.”

“You mean you’ll be there too?” she asked, surprised.

“Only in the background,” he answered. “And only upon occasion. I will be portraying an honest servant . . . and pursuing my own investigations and missions,” he added, cryptically. “I will be known as Dareth, an ignorant, illiterate manservant of Newmarket hired to the abbey for the summer. That should be enough cover to disguise my efforts. And that way, I can keep an eye on you both without arousing any suspicion. There is much happening in Alshar now that the Duke has been killed. Ejecta is actually ideally positioned for my purposes. Being close enough to Falas to hear news yet far away enough to avoid suspicion is of benefit to the conspiracy, right now. Your mother is away at the coast on her own tasks. But at least for the summer, I’ll be around, though you must never become familiar with me in public,” he advised her.

“So, what is my mission?” she asked, curiously. “Besides studying stars and staying in my alias?”

“You should learn the history of the abbey and why Maid Avorrita of Dentran is attending to her education there, of course,” Hance said. “As you are aware, children of noble and merchant classes are often sent to temple schools for both their basic education and the possibility that they will take holy orders. If they have rajira, they can even get some elementary, Censorate-approved training there without inviting suspicion. Some of the Talented actually do take holy orders and become monks or nuns for the temple. That, of course, is not the goal for you. But education is the goal for dull little Maid Avorrita of House Dentran. As for more rigorous duties, I will let you know if you are required to do anything beyond that, at the proper time.”

“So, how did our House form this . . . alliance with the Saganites?” she asked, after thinking about the matter for a moment. “It seems an odd pairing.”

“But useful,” her father insisted. “House Furtius’s connection with the Saganites and Palomar Abbey dates back hundreds of years. Your great-uncle Handrig will doubtlessly go into greater detail about it at the proper time, if he sees value to it.

“But consider this. One reason the partnership has been so gratifying is very simple: it has allowed our family to evade the Censors by being right under their noses, should they visit the abbey. We hide in plain sight, just as you and Atopol will be doing. You do not need to attract attention. You need to become the entirely unremarkable Avorrita. Keep your lips sealed and your eyes open. Since the Duke’s death, I expect there will be plenty of gossip amongst the petty nobility for you to hear. Listen to all of it, carefully, so that we can identify which families are in favor of Count Vichetral and which are still loyal to the Ducal House . . . and might be open to assisting our efforts.”

Gatina nodded resolutely in agreement, drawing a smile from her father.

“It really won’t be that bad,” he assured her. “The temple is situated in the village of Ejecta, which is a quaint and sleepy little hamlet. You may even be able to spend some free time there.” As they rode on, he explained the abbey’s hierarchy. “There are three levels of priests and priestesses among the Saganites, each with distinct liturgical duties and distinguished by their clothing: Nightbrothers, Duskbrothers, and Nocturns. Of course, Nightsisters and Dusksisters for the women. You are to be trained as a Nocturn.”

He went on for two more hours about the history of Palomar Abbey and the village of Ejecta as well as important details about the Saganite Order. He also reminded her that the Censorate had been harassing Coastlord families for centuries, and that the abbey offered some protection from that.

By the time Hance had replaced Atopol in the coachman’s seat, her head was spinning with those details. And by the time they arrived at Ejecta, in the early evening, she was starting to get tired.

But she perked up when they arrived at the ecclesiastic estate. It was sheltered from prying eyes by a dense and lush forest of pine, oak, and cherry trees, as well as a tall hedge of cedar and hemlock. Rhododendron trees encircled the estate’s main house of the complex, she saw as they rode past the stately old manor. Abbey, she corrected herself. The great temple was a reminder of that and could be seen in the distance, looming on the edge of the cliff on a great rocky outcropping, framed between two small waterfalls. It was quite lovely, she decided.

Gatina realized that she needed to stop thinking of Palomar as an estate; it was an abbey, and it would be her home for the foreseeable future. Despite her misgivings and her skepticism about the reasons for that, Gatina—No, no, no, Maid Avorrita of Dentran, she corrected herself—would do her best to learn to be a Saganite Nocturn . . . at least well enough to fake it. There was a certain challenge in that, she conceded to herself. And she knew she would do her duty.

Autumn Has Arrived on the Mountain

 

September 2022 

Autumn has arrived on the mountain, and I couldn’t be happier. I’ve spent the last three weeks catching up on all the stuff I let lapse while I was on deadline, and generally stayed away from Spellmonger stuff for a while to let my brain rest up a bit. Pro tip: if you do any kind of creative heavy lifting, then setting periodic rest periods between projects is essential. It’s difficult to quantify, but creative work requires these little mental vacations in order to keep the equipment working. It’s kind of like cooking a big meal for all of your friends—as a cook, you want to take a few moments away from the kitchen before sitting down to enjoy the meal. So I’ve generally taken a break for the last few weeks.

How do you know how long to pause? My general rule of thumb is that when I start thinking about how to start the next book, I’ve recovered enough. That’s starting to happen. And that’s part of my point. “Working on other stuff” is frequently the best way to convince your brain that it needs to focus on your creativity. People often ask writers, Where do you get your ideas? It’s one of the most common questions, and while we look for a snappy comeback for that so we can appear witty, the plain truth of the matter is that many of us generate those plans and ideas while we’re doing normal, mundane, and even boring stuff like taking the dog to the vet or going to Tractor Supply for horse feed or sitting in a waiting room somewhere. That’s when your sneaky subconscious starts to fidget and ideas pour forth as a kind of protest to your boredom.

Conversely, a good bottle of whiskey can provide a surprising amount of inspiration. Larry Niven told me that once.

In any case, the weather is getting cooler, the pressure is off, and there are a couple of new books being released in the Spellmonger series: The Mad Mage of Sevendor (out now!), Shadowheist, and Marshal Arcane.

Also, I will be attending and sponsoring a booth at the Baltimore Comic Con the weekend of October 28th. This will include at least one off-site meet-and-greet for the fans, so if you want something signed or want to ask me awkward questions, you can do so without going to the Comic Con. But that’s where I’ll be, with plenty of merch and books and my charming kids to help out. More details will be released as I get them.

This won’t be the only promotion I do, but that’s the one I’ve got nailed down. But here are the details of the other important things, release dates, and Spellmongery goodness planned beyond Mad Mage:

TODAY:  Reddit AMA 

Join me on r/Fantasy to ask all of your questions on The Mad Mage of Sevendor and Spellmonger! I’ll be hopping on at 6pm ET/3pm PT, but start commenting those questions now 💭 it’s what wizards do… 

🧙‍♂️ Giveaway Alert 🧙‍♂️ 

As a thanks to all of you, I’m giving away this Spellmonger bundle to 10 lucky winners. Please note, entries close in one week, so enter now! 

Enter for your chance to win!

Available on Kindle and Audible October 25th:

Shadowheist

Spellmonger: Legacies and Secrets Book 2

Preorder Now

Available on Audible December 6th:

Marshal Arcane

Spellmonger Book 15

Preorder Now

Thank you all for your support, and I hope you will continue to join me on this epic-er journey! We’re only half way done, after all . . . .

Best, Terry

For early access to future blog posts and all things Spellmonger, make sure to sign up for my newsletter here!

REVEALED: The Mad Mage of Sevendor - Chapter One

 The Mad Mage of Sevendor

The Journals of Minalan The Spellmonger

 

By the grace of Holy Mother Trygg and Briga, the Flame that Burneth Bright, I, Minalan, called the Spellmonger, do herein these pages set down in truest account my willful actions and pure intent this 22nd day of Baismas.  For I am afflicted by a multitude of spirits, memories of the long-dead who haunt my dreams and my thoughts constantly. 

In order to give trust to myself and the vital purpose to which I apply myself, I seek to record my most objective plans and considerations, as bereft of the multitude who inhabit my consciousness as possible.  This is to provide guidance for myself if I find myself confused or drifting from that sacred purpose as well as to present a record for those who should require it, upon the occasion that my experiments lead to an untimely death or an irredeemable madness.

For madness is the force with which I contest my mind, at the moment.  Nine lives are locked within me, each with their diverse perspectives, opinions, histories, and prejudices.  Each has the ability to commandeer my faculties and impose their consciousness within my body for a time.  The struggle to overcome that personality is great and not at all assured.  I am finding that in conquering one I leave myself weakened to contend with another.

Alas, I am finding my sympathies within my own thoughts for their plights and suffering have the capacity to invoke their presence, sometimes in monstrous forms.  There is little remedy to this, to my knowledge; at best I begin my struggle anew and keep at it until there is resolution.  I have begun to undertake treatment from the Handmaiden to seek some relief from this malady.  But when I wake from her examinations, I find myself soaked with sweat and overcome with weariness, as if I had exerted myself mightily.  It is exhausting.

Thankfully, this madness is rumored to be temporary, though I fear it will have lasting consequences for the remainder of my days.  It is also useful.  For while the nine minds that haunt my soul are contentious, each presumably holds the knowledge I need to blaze the path in front of me, in their way.  Through this journal and other methods, I hope to keep to my way and hold fast to the essential goals I pursue.  No less an effort would be proper, in these circumstances.

I write this upon my return to civilization from the Lost Land of Anghysbel, in the 9th year of King Rard I’s reign.  Much has occurred in the kingdom in my absence, including the rise of dread evils and foes from my past.  I will try not dwell overmuch in this journal on matters of history and politics; those studies, as important as they are, seem to be a distraction away from my true purpose.  I shall see them dealt with soon enough.  Only where I find it germane to this document will I mention them at all, I think.

But, in truth, I have little control over my intentions.  I am compromised by my very thoughts.

I have struggled with the fresh chorus of voices between my ears since my fateful encounter with Szal the Yith.  Some days I seem to have more control, whilst other days see me completely at the mercy of my new memories.  The amount of control I have over them is likewise variable.  In some cases an exertion of will is adequate to keep the voices at bay; in others, I am helpless to contend against the long-dead personalities who assert themselves upon my mind.  Memory is an insidious foe.  By necessity, memory is the framework of our consciousness. When it betrays us with experience we did not personally endure, it can provide a subtle and dangerous perspective with pitfalls I am just now recognizing.

I begin afresh tomorrow, retreating to my tower at Spellgarden where I have arranged my workshop there to best support the coming trials.  While Sevendor’s facilities hold the greater power, Spellgarden offers a seclusion suited to the task ahead, as well as access to a growing library which may – or may not – prove useful.  My thaumaturgical staff here is eager to assist in my research, and the enchanters here have no rival even in Sevendor.  I will, at need, repair to my first magelands and its potencies when I require them, as well as other locales as my research indicates.  But Spellgarden was designed with this task in mind, I see now, though I did not anticipate this hellish opportunity when Viscountess Carmella constructed it for me.

To bed, now, to enjoy my eager nightmares.  May Holy Mother Trygg and the Bright One guide and protect me through this madness.

23 rd  of Baismas

I began the day with optimism, understanding the task that was ahead.  I felt little effect of my companions, during the morning, and was able to retire to my workshop after breaking my fast with my family to organize my thoughts and decide in what order I should proceed.

The base list of requirements seemed simple, at first.  Yet as I wrote each line, a host of potential challenges arose in my imagination.  Still, it was a useful attempt at delineating the matters at hand.

My list was written as follows, in the morning light:

Prepare the Heart of Stonetrunk for use to detect all manner of diverse arcane energies.

Design and build a better tool with which I could manage the tipirion, and other sophisticated artifacts.

Design and build a tool for the purpose of manipulating arcane energies across the octaves.

Arrange for the materials necessary to begin production of irionite.

 

As a manifest of desires, this seems both simple and blissfully technical.  Each one of these creations will be required if I am to see my destination reached in my lifetime.  The entire reason for me seeking the striekema in the first place was to allow me to see into the nuances of the eldritch universe and determine which thaumaturgical energies are present and to what extent.

Yet I am at odds about how to express the properties of this unique material in a manner that would be useful.  I am familiar with the limits of the thaumaturgical art, as I understand it, having had tutelage from the acknowledged masters of thaumaturgy and a certain innate understanding I have developed in my experience.  Yet there is a vast gulf of ignorance between my imagination and the realization of that effort.

Similarly, my understanding of the tipirion – that ancient Alka Alon device that promised a fine and delicate control over a molopor – is entirely beyond my understanding unless the mind and memory of Thenreyal, a long-dead Alka Alon Spiritsinger, is foremost in my mind.  Alas, she proves elusive, as I try to invoke her memories.  From our past acquaintance I understand the construction and use of the artifact was dependent upon deep study, an ascetic approach to the higher energies involved, and an iron discipline of intent that not even ordinary spellsinging required.  But I have little knowledge of the details of the rites.  That, I realize, will come only in time.

The matter of the manipulation of arcane energies is, perhaps, easier to consider as a conception of my imagination.  I do, after all, have access and use of the wide range of thaumaturgic wands of an especial manufacture used in the process of enchantment. 

The tool I envision surpasses all of these, however, in both scope and capacity.  The simple tools that have been constructed for Imperial Magic’s crude system were wholly inadequate for what I will need, should I persist in my goal of saving Callidore from destruction.  I require an instrument of unrivaled power and unprecedented control.  A tool that will combine all normal methods of arcane energy manipulation as well as powers affecting distance, dimension, life, death, energy, matter, gravity, the spectrum of light, and even the subject of time, itself.  That is no small endeavor.

On the subject of irionite, alone, I feel some degree of confidence as I plan for the tasks ahead.  That, at least, has a very real and practical beginning, and a well-understood (if obscure) process to be followed.  The collection of kirsiethsap was the first step, and that can best be done with the cultivation of that particular shrub.  To that end I had invited Lady Varen to plant that peculiar evergreen around her keep.  Once the plant is well established, I can then instruct my servants on how best to secure a goodly supply of sap. The sap will be transformed into irionite, eventually.

That, too, is no small task.  I will need some alchemical reagents, I know, as well as some specific apparatus to effect the change.  Thankfully, wealth and power provide resources.  I ordered several hundred feet of fine copper wire from the metalsmiths of Vanador.  I also sketched out a rough plan for the vessels that would contain the sap, eventually.

But as I drew this list of these basic requirements to a close, a sense of despair crept over me.  It seemed pointless, hopeless, or both to launch myself into such a daunting undertaking.  It was as if I was required to construct an elaborate millwork which I could – just barely – conceive of, but was provided only a few sharp rocks to begin with.  It isn’t beyond my capability, but the prospect is formidable and exhausting to consider.

I also know that it was a fundamental necessity that I succeed.  There is no other option.  This was not something another mage could do – or the Alka Alon, the Met Sakinsa, the vaunted Vundel or the very gods.  What lay ahead is purely the product of human pride and human arrogance.  Only my innate unwillingness to accept “conventional wisdom” allows me to consider success at all.

But we wizards are just kind of like that.  We live in opposition to good sense.  That gives me some perverse sense of destiny as I plunge into a hopeless path that, once taken, can not be departed.

For good or ill, sanity or madness, I know that I am committed.

24th of Baismas

I’ve been busy today.  To what effect, I will not know for months, but I begin my journey with a clear head and a deep sense of purpose.  Alas, I was unable to maintain that state long before a foreign perspective began to influence me.  It was subtle, at first, but before luncheon I had to reluctantly acknowledge that my ego had been compromised.  More than compromised . . . seduced.

I did not recognize it when it began.  There was a subtle shift in my perspective during breakfast, when I noted a decidedly feminine cast to my humor.  It was not apparent, at first, but as I bantered with Minalyan and flirted with Alya, there was a change in my mood and perceptions that informed me that I was no longer the one holding the reins to my body and mind.

Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to excuse myself at the conclusion of the meal, offering Alya a chaste kiss before I retreated quickly to the tower of Spellgarden, my sanctum.  Along the way, as my hurried steps echoed in the halls, I found myself reflecting on the primitive nature of the architecture and its similarity to cultures I’d never heard of.  By the time I arrived at my workshop it was clear to me that the one known as Saram was in command of my faculties.

Oh, I was still present; Saram recognized her own limitations and abilities, and within a surprisingly short time was indulging in casual experimentation and explorations of me and my world that I suppose I should have expected.  She was quite impressed by some elements – and not the ones I would have presupposed – and quite appalled by others.  I tried not to take it personally.  She’s been dead for tens of thousands of years, and there are bound to be changes in fashion that would alarm and intrigue someone from a different age.

Saram, her name was.  An academic.  A scholar.  A scion of a long-dead world.  And one possessed of a unique genius in subtlety and understanding.  Her memories flowed through my mind like a river as she quietly took control of my actions and my higher thoughts, as we entered the tower of Spellgarden.  When my ancient memories come to me, often they are merely present.  Occasionally the thoughts and remembrances of those ghosts assert themselves, particularly if my will is weak and I am unprepared, and they take power over me.

Do not think for a moment that I ceded control voluntarily.  Saram’s eruption from my mind and memory was nothing I could defend against, like a rising tide.  I confess I panicked, as it occurred, and struggled against the onslaught of unfamiliar feelings and emotions, memories and sympathies like I was struggling against a strong river current.  But to no avail.  My agency was ripped away and I was subjugated to the role of mere spectator in my life.  Saram, or her memory, was thrust into the seat of my consciousness while I clung tenuously to her wake.

It is terrifying, at first.  To lose one’s faculties is bad enough, but to forfeit any element of control to a strange consciousness produced in my tortured mind engendered a feeling of abject terror I cannot adequately describe.  Saram was not a malevolent soul, by any means, but the loss of the ability to choose one’s fate was damnable.  I sat helplessly by in a corner of my mind while this alien force usurped control of my body.  I knew what she was thinking, what she was feeling, as she realized her situation.  Perversely, I had a moment of sympathy as she initially reeled at the implications of her novel perspective.  I knew she suspected it was a mere dream.

But once she had ruled out mere madness, Saram proved an incredibly adaptable creature, a woman with an insatiable curiosity about her surroundings.  She spent nearly an hour just observing things in Spellgarden tower, marveling over the details and speculating about the influences and factors that contributed to their creation.  Saram was adept at coming to a conclusion based on her logic and reason, not to mention her broad education into the various historical epochs of the galaxy.  It did not take her long to establish with reasonable accuracy the nature of her new surroundings.  It took a little more time for her to appreciate the nature of the host she now inhabited.

I found that Saram was intrigued by the male body she found herself in possession of.  Which is why I found myself, in the midmorning, joyfully taking a piss off the highest level of Spellgarden’s tower. Despite her impressive scholarly intellect, when she was fully in control the first thing she wanted to do was indulge her innate curiosity about the male phallus and its capabilities.  As droll as the action was, I could appreciate it – because I have a similarly low character, when it comes to such things.  If I ever found myself in possession of a clitoris, I hesitate to speculate on what I might do.

Eventually, however, Saram’s fascination in my anatomy waned and her intellect regained control.  I confess I did not strive too much to regain agency over this collection of long-dead memories; I was as fascinated by her perspective on the challenges I faced as she was in the golden arc that decorated Spellgarden’s sky, however briefly.

And I was gratified by that forbearance.  For as soon as she was done with her indulgence, Saram’s memories began to assess the political issues I faced within the context of a history of which I was ignorant.  Saram had studied thousands of worlds and their struggles.  I had but one to contend with.  Yet through her memory I saw that what Callidore faced was not unique.  Indeed, she had a myriad of examples of similar situations across time and space.  And I found her insights both subtle and valuable.

The historian’s perspective granted me insight into the cycle the Five Duchies was presently enduring.  Saram’s experience saw the rise of Castalshar and the reaction of the eastern duchies in a context that I had little experience of.  But, over the millennia, Galactic History was replete with such conflicts.  The rise of new, reformational power centers naturally led to the growth of an opposing center of power.  It was as predictable as natural law.  The sudden resurgence of moribund Merwyn in the face of Rard’s political gambit was echoed in a thousand other instances across history. 

My mind swam at the examples Saram was eagerly providing.  Merwyn could not stand the new politics of the Five Duchies, despite the historical connection it had with the three western sovereignties.  An opportunistic reaction, my ancient historian insisted, was inevitable.  Merwyn (and its client, Vore) could not abide uncontested a rival such that Rard had constructed.  After Merwyn, Castal and Alshar were the two most powerful entities on the continent.  To see them combined (however imperfectly) created a political colossus that Merwyn could not abide.

Indeed, Saram’s memory assured me that the Duke of Merwyn would challenge Rard’s claim to the Three-Fifths Throne (as she styled his regime) rather robustly out of necessity.  There were a hundred examples of similar moves in her memories, and she was not hesitant about sharing them.

Similarly, the inevitability of the rise of internal dissent was assured, in her mind.  The kingdom had overturned an order that had endured for four hundred years.  It had, to her mind, combined the robust attitudes of the Narasi barbarians with the vestiges of the Magocracy’s rule.  Rard had unleashed the power of the magi in his ambitions.  That was a kettle that, once spilled, could never be regained.  Nor was there any guarantee he would survive long enough to pass along his achievements to his son, Tavard.  Indeed, history suggested that such bold and impetuous political moves invited a counter from the interior of the state.  From Saram’s perspective, Tavard’s future as king of Castalshar was far from being assured.

It was fascinating, regarding the present moment in context of Saram’s knowledge.  Indeed, nothing of contemporary affairs seemed to surprise the scholar; it was as if everything that had developed since Timberwatch was expected and predictable.  Rard’s rise, Grendine’s treachery, Rardine’s rebellion against her dam, Castalshar’s prominence, and Merwyn’s treachery seemed to fall neatly into a pattern long-established amongst far-away stars. 

Each development that had arisen afresh in my eyes seemed inevitable in hers.  Establishment of order, rebellion, and resolution all seemed to occur within her expectations.  In light of the great effort that had been expended by so many to establish and preserve the kingdom, it was more than a little disconcerting to understand just how transitory Castalshar could become. .

Saram’s perspective revolved around the concept of power: who had it, who would lose it, and what they would do to fight against that loss.  She understood implicitly the role the aristocracy enjoyed, and what they would do to preserve their privileges.  Hundreds of examples from dozens of worlds were presented to me as her memories dominated my own.  There was nothing new, I quickly realized, when it came to matters of politics and power.

Saram knew not the intricacies of magic or its potential effects.   It was an odd variable, compared to the armed aristocracy and the unarmed common man who strove against each other.  Well-understood rules of power were skewed by magic’s prominence in the emerging order.  Wealth, she knew, and political authority were easy to quantify and appreciate in the scope of history.  Developments in craft and technology could quickly affect a society.  Small changes in simple matters could have catastrophic effects on a culture unprepared for revolutionary advances.  But there was always an element of predictability involved, even when those predictions were wrong.

But magic?  Magic turned those carefully conceived ideas on their head.  That troubled her, and undermined the security of her knowledge of the sweep of history.  From her perspective many of the advances enchantment had achieved in the last few years had parallels to innovations in engineering or scientific understanding . . . but then many of them did not.  Worse, to her memory, was the presence of the gods and their unstable and unpredictable displays of power and their impact on humanity.

While she understood implicitly the threat of Merwyn to the kingdom and the destabilizing nature of Farise on commerce, considering the possibility that some seemingly-benign craft deity popping up and demolishing the social order through a fit of whimsy was just too drastic a thing for her to appreciate.  To add in the subtle influence of the Alka Alon, the malign impact of Korbal and his minions, and the existential threat of angering the Vundel, Saram’s memory found itself . . . perplexed.

As I experienced her reaction to the politics and statecraft I presented her with, I was naturally sympathetic – and a bit relieved.  I’d considered these matters myself with no less a feeling of confusion and trepidation.  I had managed to keep the gods from interfering overmuch largely through bluff and threat; the Alka Alon I’d alternatively wooed and confronted, Korbal I’d fought with tenacity and guile, and I’d been able to avoid the possibly catastrophic confrontation with the Vundel thus far.  But I knew all too well how easily each of those conflicts could lead to doom.

Magic belied reasonable assumptions, I knew from my own experience.  History can account for novelty in science, engineering, or social transformation.  It could not predict the inherently unpredictable or give much guidance on how to contend with it.  Magic was a sudden flame, a secret fire that could burn down all we knew in an instant . . . and there was nothing either of us could do to prepare for that.

I go to bed with Saram’s memory slowly fading, her sense of wonder and despair at my predicament both disappointing and oddly comforting.  If a great scholar of history like her was perplexed at the Matter of Callidore, then my attempts to control the uncontrollable brought me some solace.  It was a consolation, nothing more, but it provided me with at least a hint of satisfaction.

Preorder is live and merch is HERE!

 

August 2022

No flowery garden crap this month. I’m on a deadline.

It’s been raining a lot anyway, which means my garden is overgrown with weeds after most of the harvest came in, so screw it. I’ve canned squash, pickles, beets, pickles, tomato sauce, pickles, and harvested a gallon of blackberries. But I’m on deadline for Marshal Arcane.

I have even secured an off-site writing studio in an undisclosed location to work literally every day of August to hit my deadline. No phones, no lights, no motorcars, not a single luxury except my laptop and basic supplies. Phone will be OFF. Internet will be OFF except for twice a day.

I bring this up because I recently saw an interview between George R.R. Martin and Stephen King, and the subject of writing speed came up. It is of interest.

GRRM asked SK how he wrote so much and then revealed that if he wrote three chapters in six months he considered it a productive period. Which explains quite a lot about how long it is taking to do Winds of Winter.

Then SK explained how he writes about 4 hours a day (8 pages or so, which is about 4000 words, give or take), but he does it several times a week. He puts out a lot of books that way.

Just so you know what a value you’re getting with Spellmonger, I frequently write 4000 words before breakfast, literally. A good day is 15,000 words, and if I push it, I can do 20k. The rest of my life falls apart, but when you’re on deadline, you’re on deadline. As of this writing, I’m on track to hit my deadline (YEA!) but only if I excise one unwieldy plot line and shove it into the next book. This has a few consequences: first, this book won’t be the 60-chapter monstrosity I originally planned, which means it will be a somewhat shorter book (BOO!). Still robust and well within my typical Spellmonger series, but shorter than I had originally planned. Secondly, this allows me to make this book more cohesive and focus on the main themes instead of diverting into another plotline two thirds of the way through and confusing the narrative.

That’s an important consideration. Writing series fiction is a craft, as much as an art, and part of that craft is not writing a series like a long continuation of one story but ensuring that every installment is its own complete story within itself. Sure, you can visit particular plotlines that are stretching the length, but you want your reader to generally feel satisfied with what they’ve read even if you end on a cliffhanger. Which I do. Because that’s part of the craft of writing serial fiction, too. When you’ve plotted out 30 books plus extras, you need to keep things interesting, keep your readers engaged, and ensure a good reading experience—not just churn words out on a page.

So I’m happy with this editorial choice, even if it means that I have to re-arrange future releases to encompass this plot/character arc now. That’s fine. The book is as long as the book needs to be to tell the story and shouldn’t be longer than it needs to be to tell the story.

But you want release dates, not musings about the craft of writing. Here’s a few:

I finished the final edits for Spellmonger Book 14.5: The Mad Mage of Sevendor just hours ahead of my deadline to submit it to Podium for pre-production. Release date for the audiobookand Kindle edition is 9/27/22. Preorder is here. John Lee will be doing the narration, of course. I eagerly anticipate listening to his masterful talent taking on Minalan’s chronicle of madness.

That said, there are a few things you need to know about the book. Firstly, remember that this is a NOVELLA (loosely defined as a work between 50k and 90k words). It is not a full novel, but it’s longer than a short story. Some of you might balk at blowing a whole Audible credit on it, and I understand that; in these difficult economic times you might want to be more cautious with your entertainment dollar. That’s your call, and I respect that.

Secondly, this is a very different type of book—an experiment, of sorts. It’s told as an actual journal, which changes both the tone and the perspective of Minalan’s regular voice. It covers a lot of territory (without, I hope, spoiling too much of Marshal Arcane, with which it overlaps) and introduces a LOT of lore, as Minalan’s ancient memories influence his writing. This is going to bore the hell out of some of you, and for that, I apologize. This is going to excite the hell out of some of you, and for that, I am gratified.

Preorder Now

Shadowheist will be released in both audiobook and Kindle on 10/25/22! This is the second book of the Gatina trilogy (Spellmonger: Legacies and Secrets), which I co-wrote with my long-time editor Emily Burch Harris (SMOOCH! Luvya, Babe!), who did incredible work in pre-production process. We’re already preparing to start the third book, Shadowblade, for release sometime next year.

I’m very excited about Shadowheist. The reactions from my beta readers have been extremely positive. At 130k words, it’s not as long as a normal Spellmonger novel, but it’s pretty hefty for a YA novel. And it was a lot of fun to write.

SPELLMONGER MERCHANDISE! You wanted merch, we’re getting you merch. Thanks to the delightful folks at Podium Audio, I now have a MERCH STORE! We’ve got a few starter items available (modeled below) including t-shirts, coffee mugs, pint glasses, and the Hawkmaiden’s of Sevendor map. There will be much, much, more, but we wanted to get y’all something since the demand has been so strong. Just remember that these newfangled smartphones add 20 lbs. to photos. I read that on the internet.

Order Here!

Last, but by no means least, I am proud to announce that the Spellmonger TTFRP sourcebook is now in full beta release from Battlefield Press! This Kickstarter was amazing, and I think those of you who funded this effort will be pleased. I am very impressed with the job that Jonathan at Battlefield and his team have done. While there are still a few minor elements to be added to the work before it is in its final form, the majority of the book is complete enough to play. I am eagerly looking forward to releasing the final product.

As for those “final elements,” you can blame me for that. My writing schedule has been so brutal that I’ve barely had time to devote to promotion or side projects from the main series in the last six months, so Jonathan has largely been awaiting my input. I plan to make it up to you for waiting by putting in a little additional content after Marshal Arcane is done. Because that’s what wizards do.

Composition of Marshal Arcane is in full progress (see above). Now that I’ve decided against doing too much, I’m feeling pretty happy with this book, its themes, its perspectives, and the writing. I’m doing 10–12 hours a day on it and only checking email twice a day. I only answer phone calls from family. Being out of the house writing is actually nice because I can’t look around and be distracted about all the stuff I really need to be doing at home instead of writing (always an issue), and I can’t be bothered by news, unexpected problems, or other distractions.

So let me get back to it. I’m on deadline.

- Terry

P.S.: Due to the constraints of deadlines it is with great regret that I must inform everyone that I WILL NOT be in attendance at DragonCon in Atlanta on Sept 1st. I am deeply sorry about this, but if I am to get Book 15 finished and turned in on time I will not be able to make it. I apologize to anyone who made plans to go just to see me. I am still planning on attending Baltimore ComicCon later this year, but that will be safely after my deadlines. This sucks, as I love DragonCon and meeting my fans, but it is, alas, a professional necessity. I am so sorry.

For early access to future blog posts and all things Spellmonger, make sure to sign up for my newsletter here!

Kittens and donkeys and dogs (plus one horse), oh my!

June 2022 

Summer is a cumin’ in . . . and I’m buried in yellow squash.

I didn’t mean to plant that many. I thought half of it was zucchini. It was labeled zucchini when I bought it. So now I’m taking four or five big yellow squash from the garden every day. And the way the cucumbers and tomatoes are growing, it’s going to be a very veggie-heavy summer. I foresee a lot of salad in my future.  

And pickles. This year I will have grown the cucumbers, the dill, and the garlic for pickles. Everything except the vinegar, and I’m working on that.  

There are many reasons why I garden – it’s a reaction to living in the suburbs for so long, a reaction to the tenuous economics of our times, an attempt at appreciating the work and wisdom needed for someone to actually live off the land, and a kind of therapy for me. You gardeners know what I’m talking about. There’s nothing like yanking a weed out of the soil to release pent-up aggression. Or chasing deer away from the garden.  

A lot has happened since my last newsletter, and I want to assure everyone that I haven’t fallen into a deep depression or am off enjoying cocktails with supermodels – I’m writing. Every day. For hours.  

But since March, when I planted the first seeds in my garden, there have been many non-writing developments I should mention, because I’m egotistical like that.  

Firstly, my youngest son Hayden graduated from high school, and I’m extremely proud of the boy.  Lettered in lacrosse, passed the HSK Mandarin test (Level 3!) and won the state band/chorus competition with his school. (He plays bass). This is important for two reasons: not only is Hayden my literary heir, but he’s also been an enormous time sink. We live a half hour away from his school, he doesn’t drive yet, and I spent sometimes four hours a day on the road picking him up and dropping him off for school and various practices, performances, and matches. That’s a lot of productive writing time I clawed back after he graduated.

That’s important, because I have a LOT on my plate at the moment. Pray attend:

I just finished edits on the FRP game book (thanks to Jonathan at Battlefield Press!) and am in the process of remastering the last two maps he needs. My deadline for Shadowheist is mere days away (no worries; Emily and I are on the final edits), and then immediately afterwards, I have to plunge headfirst into Marshal Arcane and not come up until it’s finished. I’m writing The Mad Mage of Sevendor short story concurrently as well, and every now and then I work on the short stories for The Road To Vanador anthology.

And that’s just this year’s agenda.

This also explains why I don’t do a lot of social media or spend a lot of time doing promotional stuff. It’s not that I don’t love my fans and enjoy hanging out with them or introducing new people to the series. It’s that promotional stuff like social media takes a lot of time, and right now my time is valuable if I want to get the next few books out in a timely manner. There’s also a lot of social media these days, and each one takes time. It’s as simple as that. So, if it takes me a while to respond to your posts and questions, that’s why.  

Other news is largely critter-related, actually.  

If you recall, just days after the release of Shadowplay, my brother found a black female kitten with a broken leg at a local rural golf course. I paid for the vet to get her leg fixed, and after a few weeks, she was as spry as you could ask for.  She was adorable.  So, of course, I named her Gatina.

Well, Gatina proved to not only be as cute as a kitten can be, but she also proved to live up to her namesake’s character. No, really. Gatina is Adventure Kitty—absolutely bold, unapologetically fearless, and utterly uncaring about little things like general order or gravity. She pillaged the tops of my shelves, suddenly attacked all the other cats, persisted in hiding in shadows, tripping people, suddenly leaping onto my chest with all claws extended . . . that sort of thing. I thought it was adorable – my cute little kitten.

Then Ishi intervened.

One day Gatina went from lovable kitten to hormone poisoned harlot. My daughter couldn’t handle it – she kept grabbing the yowling kitten by the scruff of the neck, hoisting her in the air, and demanding, “You need Jesus in your life, you whore! Repent!” which is a lot from a nominally pagan girl who loves animals.  

But I could totally understand where she was coming from. Gatina did not adapt to sexual maturity with any amount of grace. She was awful—howling and writhing on the floor like she was at a feline rave with a dime bag of catnip. Even the dogs were unnerved. It was distracting.  We made the call to the vet the next day.

One would think that would be the end of it . . . but no. While the hypersexual howling was done, the vet saw fit to equip the kitten with a satellite dish like collar to keep her from licking her wound. Standard operating procedure. Gatina slept off her anesthetic, and I thought things would return to normal. And they did . . . only now Gatina, thanks to the cone of shame, had antlers. Hilarity ensued. 

She returned to the bookshelves and pillaged them to even greater effect. She ran across the room and rammed into table legs. Her balance was off – that didn’t deter her. For a week, we dealt with Adventure Kitty, Expert Mode. She laid waste to every room in Spellgarden. 

But at least the howling stopped. 

That wasn’t the only critter development, however. My sainted mother-in-law decided my life wasn’t interesting enough and gave my lovely daughter,  Ellie Mae Morrigan, not one but two rescue donkeys.

Donkeys. You read that right. 

These two young geldings (2 and 3 respectively) are named Henry and Holloway. They were rescued from a meat lot (!) and are a bit skittish. And since I live on a mountain, the long livestock trailer couldn’t make it up the driveway to the stable, so we had to walk them up the mountain.  

Have you ever taken two frightened, traumatized, untrained donkeys up a mountain they didn’t want to go up? I have.  They’re a bonded pair, so Holloway wouldn’t budge – at all – unless we could get Henry to go first. Henry really didn’t feel like cooperating, either.  

So, when I tell people “I’ve been dragging my ass up a mountain,” I really mean it.  

The donkeys are fun, but Morrigan compounded the zoo-like character of the estate by rescuing four feral kittens from a hollow log the next day, along with their wildly feral mother.  

We got Mama Cat fixed and returned to the wild, but now I have no less than eight cats at Spellgarden. And two dogs. And a rescue horse.

And two donkeys.

See why I garden?

Now, as exciting and interesting as the critters are, I’ve spent every moment I can creating new Spellmonger content (see above). And while I won’t be able to spare much time for anything else until Marshal Arcane is turned in, I am going to take a weekend off from composing and attend Heroes Con in Charlotte, NC June 23rd–26th, largely because it is local enough for me to do it and I haven’t done a single con since DragonCon last year. I will have an entire booth, complete with books to sign, as well as some posters and other cool Spellmongery stuff. And you can come by and talk to me, which is always pleasant. And it will also give me an opportunity to release the new Gatina Kitten of Night art I commissioned from Wes Flanary. Wes will also have a booth and will be selling prints of his delightful sci-fi/fantasy pop culture paintings. My business partner Lance Sawyers will also be there with his crew framing art for the masses at Frame Monkey.  

While I don’t have anything official planned as of yet, I’m probably going to have an informal Spellmongrel get-together somewhere on Friday night. I’ll post further details to my Facebook page as we get closer. If you’re interested in having a beer or cocktail with the author, that will be your chance.  

And here’s a look at the Gatina picture referenced above. There will be posters available for autograph by me and Wes as well.   

For early access to future blog posts and all things Spellmonger, make sure to sign up for my newsletter here!

- Terry Mancour

SPELLMONGER BOOK 15 TITLE REVEAL

 Spring is right around the corner. Promise.

That idea was a big deal to our medieval ancestors. The changing of the seasons wasn’t merely an excuse to change your wardrobe, it was often the most desperate times of the year. The food you put up last autumn was doubtlessly running low, and the winter supplies you gathered were nearly exhausted by this time of year. Most medieval peasants were making do with foraging in the forests, harvesting the last bit of leeks or kale or cabbage from the garden, some hunting and fishing, and a lot of belt-tightening. Getting in a garden wasn’t merely a pleasant pastime, it was the key to not starving in the next few months. Late winter was a desperate time. The promise of spring was the promise of the first crop of peas and beans sprouting, the first lettuces popping up, and the first shoots able to graze a goat or cow. Of course, one untimely frost or endless deluge of rain could wipe all that away in a day’s time, so hope was at a premium.  

I’m reminded of that as I watch the news and hear the dire reports of war and conflict, civil strife and struggle. It is all too easy to forget how only a few brief centuries ago, the common man had little time for such matters, being preoccupied with raising crops and getting the stock fed and tended. Attention to world affairs were a luxury only the wealthy could afford. It wasn’t until we achieved a semblance of food security and then literacy that the majority of the population managed to raise themselves to a state where larger forces were worth consideration.  

I try to keep that in mind as the news provides a constant distraction from writing. It’s not easy. My productivity has been in the chamberpot for the last week or so. Sorry.

It doesn’t help that I’m working on the short story “The Mad Mage of Sevendor,” an interstitial entry into the Spellmonger Series. It’s essentially Minalan’s private journal, chronicling a few weeks after Hedgewitch, as he contends with the chorus of strangers in his head while he’s trying to mount a rescue, plan a war, manage a dysfunctional royal court, and create entirely new kinds of magic and enchantment with his hard-won knowledge. Some of you will be interested to note that I am actually indulging in a little experiment as I write this by actually rolling a 10-sided die to see which character haunts Min’s memory each day. That’s made this a very interesting, not to mention challenging, kind of story to write. It’s also being written as Min would write it, and any good writer will tell you that people write much differently than they speak. The other challenge is to write it without completely spoiling the next book – Book 15. Which I have finally got a title for.

That’s important because I had to call it something, and the first few test titles I tried just didn’t fit the book. But I’ve managed to come up with something. 

The title of Book 15 will be (tah dah!) Marshal Arcane. 

It reflects the responsibilities and duties Minalan undertakes in the prosecution of the war against Darkfaller, among other challenges. 

Now that I have the title, I’m pretty much forced to write the rest of the book . . . which is slowly underway. Not George R.R. Martin slowly, but Mancour slowly, which means it will pick up speed as I go. While I don’t have a definite release date, I can pretty much guarantee that it will be done before the end of the year. While I know that’s not nearly fast enough for most of you, it’s a long book, and I don’t want it to suck. It’s going to take time, energy, and attention to do right.  

That said, you’ll most likely see it before you see Winds of Winter.  

I’m also doing the rewrite on the second Gatina novel, Shadowheist, which is slowly but surely moving along. I’m also reviewing new art that I’ve commissioned and waiting for reports back from beta readers of the German and Spanish translations. And other things that the world is trying to steal my attention away from. It seems that the more I try to invest myself in writing, the more world events try to jerk me away from it, mentally and emotionally.

Case in point: my adorable sister-in-law finally received and delivered to me a very special birthday present, pictured below. She’s been constantly supportive of my career and is a jewel of a sis-in-law. She also loves Etsy. She got me these cool Spellmonger coffee travel cups from there for Christmas. For my birthday she commissioned this beautiful wooden box from an Etsy artist featuring cut-outs of covers for four of my books. She ordered it back in December, but it has just arrived.

It’s a candle holder, and it’s extremely beautiful. But you can’t order one, unfortunately. It was created by an artist in Ukraine named Elena. She is not currently accepting new commissions. She’s struggling just to survive in a war zone.  

When the world hands you poignant coincidences like that, it’s hard to stay focused on fantasy.  

As we all struggle with these difficulties—the economic turmoil, the pandemic, and the uproar in our personal lives—it’s important to remember that most of these events are things we can do very little, if anything, about. Because if you don’t have that mindset you can find yourself going a bit nutty with anxiety and grief over your powerlessness. It’s vital to recall that most of what affects us in our lives is things we have little or no control over, like war, the cycles of life, politics, the economy, and such. We must cling to the parts that we can affect, focus on the bits we can manage, and try not to worry about the looming existential problems of the world. Things are difficult now.  

But spring is right around the corner. Promise.

- Terry Mancour

Spellmonger Shadowplay: Introducing Emily Burch Harris

 

Shadowplay is a special book for me for a number of reasons. Firstly, it’s the first time I’ve worked closely with another author – and my editor, at that – on a Spellmonger novel. That has been a wildly interesting and instructive process, as well as quite rewarding. Writing is an exercise of the ego, and sharing that position with someone else is always a delicate process.

For those who aren’t aware, Shadowplay is the start of my second YA or Cadet trilogy. It features the back story of one of the more popular characters from the Spellmonger universe, Gatina, Kitten of Night, professional thief and shadowmage, a scion of House Furitis. Like the Hawkmaiden trilogy before it, we get to know this important secondary characters through their own perspectives.

Unlike the Hawkmaiden trilogy, I didn’t compose this one by myself. I invited Emily Burch Harris, my longtime editor, to collaborate. That was a novelty for both of us, and a worthy experiment. Emily is the woman who has had the unenviable task of keeping my work from falling off a cliff; for every editing error you might see, know that Emily kept a score of them from erupting across the vast pages of the Spellmonger Series. She asks me questions about character, plot, setting and timing that have dramatically changed how I wrote. Emily was a natural for collaboration.

Shadowplay is the result: a full length novel about Gatina’s early years in Falas, the time that introduced her to the truth of her family and saw her initiation into their unique secret legacy unfold. The backdrop is in the early days of the Goblin War, just after the Duke and Duchess of Alshar are assassinated in the Wilderlands. The hereditary rival of the Duke, Count Vichetral of Rhemes, takes the opportunity to seize power with the help of a deadly criminal organization. The late Duke’s loyalists are being eliminated. It’s a dangerous time, a time for secrets.

Emily brought energy and perspective to the character, as we composed, and introduced some distinctive elements to both the world-building and the plotting of the series. And she has a sneaky mind. It was a very entertaining composition.

I won’t spoil it more than that, but I did want to give Emily the opportunity to introduce herself, and then answer some of my questions. In turn, I’m going to answer three of her questions about the process and the product of our labor.

Introducing Emily Burch Harris

Hi, I’m Emily. I have been telling stories for as long as I have been able to speak. I grew up reading everything I could get my hands on – mystery, fantasy, YA, literary, urban, paranormal, historical, cereal boxes, cookbooks, newspapers … you get the picture. Books took me out of my “now” and magically transported me to “there.” And sometimes “there” was much better than reality.

My interest in writing began in junior high language arts class with Mary Stewart’s “The Crystal Cave.” I was hooked on Merlin, Arthur, and the history and legends. By college and grad school, I would read the fun books as a reward for reading the textbooks. I remember asking my mom to ration my Anne Rice books so that I wouldn’t mess up schoolwork.

This love of storytelling led me to journalism, where my nosiness and ability to turn a phrase were assets. But something was always missing. Make believe. I wanted to write fiction. The world was scary enough. I wanted monsters that I could control. So, I took classes and workshops. I read more. And I procrastinated. Until one day, I realized that it was time for me to jump in and start building worlds. That realization was because Terry reminded me that words on a screen are just that: on a screen. If it’s not out there, in the world, nobody can read it.

Q&A with Terry & EmilyEmily’s questions for Terry

Q: How do you build a writing practice while managing three children? I only have one …?

You hit the nail on the head with your question: Practice. For me, writing started out as an escape, but I knew if I wanted it to be more than a hobby I had to dedicate some serious time and energy to it. You’re right, that’s hard with three small children (and it hasn’t gotten much easier now that they’re more or less grown). You have to want it badly enough to make the time to do it. And learn your own creative process well enough to know what you can and you can’t deal with. It’s not easy, but it’s a discipline – a practice – that has to be learned.

Q. What do you wish you had known about this collaboration process ahead of time?

That’s actually hard to answer. I tried to be outcome dependent when we started this book, because having high expectations leads to disappointment and having low expectations undermines your determination, so I tried to approach it as an experiment that could go either way. I think we navigated the potential issues quite well, actually, and I’m pleased with the result. I guess the hardest part was discussing plotting and character with you, because you have (of course) a quite different body of “favorites” than I do, and it was sometimes difficult to find a common area that we both understood certain things.

Q. Where do you find inspiration and ideas? Do the muses come to you or did you beat them into submission?

A little of both, actually. Inspiration for the big plot points often comes when I examine a common fantasy trope and twist it. But it’s the little flashes of inspiration that are just as important, because those are the things that really make your books interesting. Things usually go pretty smoothly, if you know what you’re going to write. And then you come to a point where you realize you’re getting boring or you get stuck on something, and you need a little of Briga’s Fire to help you over the hump.

There are means of beating your muse, if you need to. One of my favorites is to jerk myself entirely out of what I’m writing and indulge in something that COULDN’T POSSIBLY HELP YOU AT ALL, because it’s completely unrelated to what you’re doing in every possible way. You witnessed me do that yourself, at the beach, when I found and purchased a copy of Home Life in Holland, by D.S. Meldrum (1911) at a consignment shop and began to read it.

Now, an early 20th century Englishman’s perceptions of the Dutch culture at the brink of industrialization might seem poor soil in which to grow ideas; however, just seeing the author’s word usage and personal idiosyncrasies gave me hundreds of little ideas about how certain characters would talk, and their perspectives on things like class, gender, and family life. Seeing how they viewed servants and nobility. Seeing how their own opinions, in retrospective analysis, reveal things about them as a narrator. I’ve already lifted some things from it that I’ll use in future works, as well as ideas that will combine with other ideas in the dark and produce the magic. Or something like that.

Terry’s Questions for Emily

Q. I know you don’t come from a background of Epic Fantasy, although you’re familiar with the genre. What aspects of writing in the feudalistic world did you find most challenging?

The biggest challenge was my memory recall of medieval economies and socioeconomic systems. I had to revisit my history high school lessons. I also had to consider the proper turn of phrase and word choice, as modern words did not exist in those days – even in epic fantasy.

Q. What was the most important lesson you picked up from the collaboration, professionally speaking?

Man, that’s a tough question. I learned a lot. I’m coming to Epic Fantasy from writing journalism-style content. Of course, I had a bit of backstory, having worked as Terry’s editor for years, but this is totally different. The most important lesson was about pacing. In news, we get to the facts, fast. In fiction, you don’t do that.

Q. What element of Gatina’s character do you find the most intriguing?

As soon as I first met Gatina, I was intrigued. She’s a feminist, she’s smart, and she has a killer sense of humor (and comic timing). But developing her as a deeper character has been incredibly rewarding. I love her sense of social and civic justice – her strong sense of right or wrong – and given her profession, I find that to be ripe with storylines and possibilities.

Pre-Order Footwizard

Pre-Order Footwizard on Audible or Kindle

My editor, Emily Burch Harris, will be returning the last few notes on Footwizard tonight. That should be the last few corrections on the manuscript, and then the formatting process begins. But the book is in the can. The map is done. I’m just waiting on the covers to come in from Podium’s excellent cover artist, Alex.

I’m very happy with the result. Footwizard is the culmination of many, many plot lines, and the beginning of many, many more. A lot happens. Mostly without magic. If it’s any indication of quality, Emily says that it’s her favorite book in the series so far. It’s right at 240,000 words, 50 chapters. And an intermission.

I think most of you will like it. A few of you won’t. I’m expecting that, and I won’t take it personally. This book is as much sci-fi as it is fantasy. It’s part Disney, part Lovecraft, part Fallout and part Western, sort of. There are Easter Eggs galore. It’s certainly a departure from many of the other books. But don’t worry, after this one, we’ll be headed back to the real world and we’ll deal with the consequences.

And there will be consequences.

This is also the first of my novels that comes with a discography. Lilastien’s playlist, so to speak. I’ve released that list on the Discord server and I’ll release it here soon. The book is 50 chapters, and there are 50 songs on the list. Not every chapter is represented by a song, but many are mentioned and a few play key roles in the feel of the book. You might want to listen through a few of these to get the mood of the novel.

As far as a dedication goes, I’m dedicating this special book to my fans — y’all. I’ve gotten so much positive feedback from you it’s awe-inspiring. It’s certainly inspirational. Y’all have gotten Spellmonger tattoos, you’ve named your chickens after my characters, and the series has played a role in your lives and your relationships far beyond any expectation I ever had. Kids are doing book reports on the Hawkmaiden Trilogy. It’s nearly overwhelming, and I want you to know that if you keep buying ‘em, I’ll keep cranking ‘em out.

So, assuming I get the cover art in time, I think I’m going to release this book July 1. Pre-orders will be up shortly. More tidbits to come (particularly if you’re signed up to the newsletter hint, hint) but I wanted to go ahead and make the release announcement to everyone.

It’s been a full eighteen months — I’ve written four books in that time and worked on several others. I’m likely going to take most of June and July off, just to recuperate, recharge, and get ready to begin on Hedgewitch. That doesn’t mean I won’t work on other projects, but I do want to give Spellmonger a short break so that I can get my head right for the next one.

Also, I will definitely be going to DragonCon in Atlanta this year. More on this later. Indeed, there will be more promotional appearances and such, and I will announce them as soon as they’re confirmed. If you have suggestions or opportunities, please let me know below.

Thank you all for being the godsdamned best fans in the universe. You make it incredibly worthwhile and fulfilling to do this. I am grateful for each and every one of you. May Ishi grant you a joyful and lustful summer. After COVID, we both need it and deserve it.

- Terry Mancour

Pre-Order Footwizard on Audible or Kindle

A Search For Answers In The Lost Land Of Anghysbel!

After winning two wars against the Nemovorti in six months, Minalan plans an expedition over the summer to the Lost Valley of Anghysbel, in the far north of his realm, in the caldera of a supervolcano at the edge of the tundra. There, he suspects, many of the answers he so desperately need might be hidden. The only problem is that thanks to the anti-magical properties of the jevolar, there, his spells won’t work – he’ll be without magic for the first time since he came into his Talent. On this quest for the knowledge to save the world, however, the stakes are too high to be concerned about such things. Minalan seeks the knowledge he needs no matter the price.

The footwizard Fondaras the Wise has been to the realm of the jevolar four times in his long life and he knows the way – and the great dangers of the non-magical land. He warns that Anghysbel is filled with forgotten creatures and lost races that have hidden from the world for eons. That doesn’t dissuade the Spellmonger – it’s a challenge. So is the deadly poisonous alkali waste that is the only way to the fabled land. So is the fact that his wife, Alya, insists on going with the expedition. So is the company of goblins pursuing him to catch the greatest wizard in the world in a place without magic. And the passage through the alkali wastes is only open for the nine dry weeks of summer, so there is a time limit on his explorations.

But once he’s there, Minalan’s expedition discovers a unique land filled with forgotten secrets: an outpost of the Kasari, where the tribe sends its magically-Talented folk; a colony of Wilderlords existing in seclusion; the exiled clan of Kilnusk Alon, the former kings of the Dradrien and Karshak, alike; a community of Tal Alon left on their own for generations; and an old comrade who has fled the Five Duchies in fear of the Censorate.

That’s just where the mysteries begin. When he opens the Cave of the Ancients, a remnant of the original human colony on Callidore, Minalan starts on a path toward the answers he seeks. He is startled to find that the once-great human civilization once had an outpost in Anghysbel, as did many other races. Armed with new knowledge he braves the dangerous wilderness of Anghysbel with Lilastien and the rest of his friends in search of the ancient Alka Alon vault containing the arsenal he seeks. Along the way he discovers the scion of the Aronin, the half crazed Ameras; he encounters a dragon, learns about a forgotten group of the Forsaken, and is introduced to the mysterious Leshi in search of an immensely important, incredibly powerful artifact. Not even the threat of cyclopses and lizard men, renegade dragons and the pestilent Kurja can stand in the way of his exploration.

But that’s not all he discovers. When a beardless, half-mad Karshak outcast offers them an opportunity to learn the secrets they desperately seek, Minalan and Lilastien are tempted . . . but the price of that knowledge may well be madness, or even death. For dark powers more ancient than the world dwell in exotic Anghysbel, powers that would speed Callidore’s destruction, not work for its salvation. Minalan the Spellmonger has to consider carefully if he’s willing to pay the price to save the world . . . and the cost of that bargain may well be his life!

The Wizards of Sevendor is now available on Audible!

You can finally listen to the second Spellmonger anthology today. Enjoy. https://geni.us/Spellmonger-Anthology2

"What inspired you to write Spellmonger in the first plac...

"What inspired you to write Spellmonger in the first place, and did you make a lot of notes?" ( Discord Fan Question)
Funny story, that.
 
The original intent of writing Spellmonger was the desire to get some practice in after my first novel came out and hit the NYTBS list.  I was still trying to decide whether I wanted to focus on fantasy or sci-fi, as a genre, and my original goal was to try my hand at fantasy.  The first draft looks nothing like the final – I scrapped virtually everything in it, apart from some names I fancied.  But it was a useful exercise.  It taught me the necessities for fantasy literature through its failure. 
 
But by the time I was ready to begin again, I was working at a seafood restaurant/Oyster Bar on Main Street in Durham, called Fishmonger’s.  I did the double lunch-oyster special shift on Friday nights, which was the best time for tips, and when it was slow I would daydream (sorry, “plot”).  I was reading a lot of fantasy, at that time. 
 
One author’s minor character in a favorite shared-world anthology had caught my attention that day, especially the financial element of how a wizard makes his living.  I mean, who pays Gandalf’s salary?  That’s a pretty essential bit of detail, for most people.  And what kind of regulatory agency polices a wizard’s conduct?  Another intriguing detail.
 
So I started thinking of a character who ran his own shop, and naturally (because I was staring at a menu at the time) I called him a spellmonger.  I played around with other names, but ended up using Minalan as a placeholder until I could think of something better.  I’m still thinking.  So that’s where that came from.
 
It took about six months to struggle through the first draft of the new book, addressing the flaws in the first version as I went.  Most of it was dreamed up at work, at the bar.  I’d scribble some notes on my legal pad, knock out a few rough outlines, but I needed to think this one through more seriously than I had my first attempt.
 
Perhaps I over-addressed, in some cases, but remember, Spellmonger was to be my practice book.  My daydreaming at work was a series of questions I asked and answered for myself as I deconstructed Epic Fantasy.  My criteria was simple, for a practice book: how many stories could I get out of each decision I made?  With the example of every epic fantasy series I’d ever read for a template, I set it up as an intellectual exercise.  Just how many traditional fantasy tropes could I stick into this thing?  This was, after all, a practice book.
 
My main character was a wizard.  A learned man in a rural environment.  A country wizard.  A young man just starting his practice.  Might be a story there.
 
I needed to make him a little more action-oriented, so I made him a veteran, with a fine appreciation for the lousy life of the medieval mercenary at war.  After hanging out with a couple of dudes just back from Afghanistan and trying to hit on my sister-in-law, I gave him the cocky IDGAF attitude some men who have survived war convey.  I needed some institutional villains as motivation, so I decided an Inquisition/FBI-like militant order of wizards with distinctive clothing and a reputation for nastiness would be good – and a good thing for my main character to flee from.  Yeah.  Might be a story, there, too.
 
I didn’t want him to be of noble heritage, because that’s boring – and I was very familiar with bakeries.  Commoners are just more interesting, and even more class-conscious than the nobility, most of the time.  Bourgeois boy makes good?  Maybe on a scholarship?  There was a bit of story there.
 
I needed a local petty noble, because you just do, and a cast of supporting characters as rich and diverse as possible to compliment him.  I credit the wonderful character work of James Herriot’s  All Creatures  series for that – I read the novels in Middle school and enjoyed them tremendously.  The locals are always good for a few stories.  Maybe give one a dog.
 
Add a plucky but headstrong apprentice as sidekick – check.  Add a love interest.  Check.  Add an ex-girlfriend, just to be interesting.  Also check.  Make her a trusted professional colleague as well.  Check again.  Love triangle?  Maybe?  Easy story, there.
 
Now for the main bad guys . . . goblins, of course. I’m a traditionalist.  Good guys?  Elves, natch.  Magical elves.  Magical goblins.  How does that work?
 
That’s where things got interesting. 
 
When it comes to the essential world-building, I realized that fantasy comes in two flavors: realistic and mythic.  I enjoy the interplay of both of them, of course, but I wanted an element of realism that would transport the reader into a believable culture.  Most mythic fantasy doesn’t do that, although some (GoT, for instance) get close. 
 
When I analyzed which fantasy worlds felt the most believable in my experience, I kept coming back to Anne McAffery’s wonderful  Dragonriders of Pern  series . . . which isn’t fantasy.  It’s sci-fi, and arguably not a lick of magic in it that isn’t explainable under her basic premise.  In fact, the most fun part of the series, in my opinion, was this feudal civilization that just happened to have a lizardy air force protecting them from an existential threat was descended from a space colony.  Making that discovery and its eventual exploration was one of the highlights of the books for me. 
 
So . . . a sci-fi world that’s masquerading convincingly as an epic fantasy world.  This was a practice novel, after all.  I could experiment a little. 
 
That premise would make elves, dwarves, goblins and halflings all . . . aliens.   And the humans mere colonists.  So . . . what if I took a sci-fi alien/human relations perspective in examining the traditional fantasy tropes?  How would the native aliens react to a thoroughly-nonmagical humanity wanting to muscle in?  Might there be some resentment?  Some good reason?  A little bit of history, there?  And what does that say about the aliens in question?  That’s a story.  That’s a big story.
 
What if the aliens, themselves, were mere colonists?  And why would this world have “magic” when others do not?  Why did the elf-analogues want to come here in the first place?  What makes the magic work here, in this place, but not elsewhere?  Of course, the humans, after generations of decivilization, might forget to treat the aliens as alien, and more like co-inhabitants and neighbors.  Perhaps slotting them into traditional folkloric roles, instead of approaching them as colonial natives.  There’s a lot of good stories, there by definition.
 
I realized that I had to sort out how and why magic worked, from a scientific perspective.  Everything else would flow from that basic premise.  Once you know how magic works, the rest is exploration and discovery.  One deep dive down the astrophysics/quantum physics/paranormal rabbit hole later and I had my answer.  I knew how magic basically worked.  But then I had to come up with more answers for that.  How would aliens use magic, as humans see it?  That’s a story. 
 
Oh, wait – Ent-analogs.  That had to be another wave of alien colonization.  Weave that into the back story.  Not now, but maybe later.  Had to be a few good stories there.
 
Wait, what if the real magical power in the world, the real native species of this strange planet weren’t even on land?  What would a civilization of magical sea creatures look like?  How would they feel about all that sinking island stuff?  Thus, the Sea Folk.  And the Seamagi.  There’s at least a few good stories there.
 
That’s how it sort of snowballed.  I started including every classic fantasy I could reasonably weave into the story, in order to see how it could be explained in terms of a human colonization attempt.  I needed a fallen empire from which the feudal world arose – let’s make them wizards, since I’d decided this would be a very wizardy book, and stole the term Magocracy from the AD&D Dungeon Master’s Guide because I always wanted to know what a land ruled by wizards would look like.  Let’s add a sunken island in the mythic past because of fantasy writers’ union industry standards. 
 
In fact, the whole thing could kind of deconstruct the fantasy trope of the wizard as a character.  I mean, why not examine Gandalf’s early years, metaphorically speaking?  That was almost literature.  I could risk that.  This was a practice book. 
 
More, let’s make it a brutally medieval world, really lance-it-up, and If you have a real feudal world, you have to have some sort of religious authority.  I’m a polytheist.  What kind of medieval church would a polytheism produce?  Might be a story there.
 
Hey, if this place has magic, which is a manipulation of energy by conscious means, what happens to deeply spiritual sub-consciousness of humanity?  What if that produced the very entities they purported to worship?  How would that work, exactly?  That might cause problems.  And problems make stories. 
 
And, of course, castles.  If you have knights, you have castles.  It’s in the rules.  What if the castle is under siege?  By goblins?  How would that work out?  That’s a story.
 
Hey, let’s make it a siege at the beginning of an invasion!  Just to keep things interesting!  Veteran warmagi turned spellmonger leads defense of castle as feudal response to crisis proves untenable due to the goblin horde.  Let’s give them a revenge factor, somehow, and a good reason to be fighting. 
 
That brings us to the Big Bad, the Evil Dark Lord du joure.  Hey, how about an uber-powerful undead?  I’d seen Mystery Men at the time, and the Baby Bowler’s unique bowling ball was suggestive.  I cold stole that, and gave it a different back story.  But a glass-encased head just didn’t make sense, and was visually derivative. 
 
But what if I made it out of amber?  Magical amber?  From magical trees?  The kind of shit the elves would make for Yule?
 
Undead decomposing goblin head in a sphere of magical amber.  Really creepy.  It floats.  It’s got a traumatic brain injury because it was stuck on a pike and the parts of its brain that allowed it empathy and compassion were torn out in the process.  Soaked in a vat of tree sap while goblin shamans chanted around it for a hundred years.  Make that much magical amber stupid-powerful.
 
Let’s turn it green.  It looks cooler.
 
Evil dark lord has to have a reason to want to take the castle.  What could be so important about this place?  That’s a story. 
 
How do I run the climax of the book?  Desperate siege, impossible odds, unbeatable foe, mysterious magical thingy in the dungeon . . . how do they get out?  How do I manage the climax?
 
Oh.  Well, I could do that.  This is a practice book, after all.  No one is going to take it seriously, and it is a fun concept, if you like that sort of thing.  I like that sort of thing.  Oh, and let’s ramp up the tension of the moment – let’s knock up the main character’s girlfriend!  Sex has consequences, after all.  No one talks about the bastards Aragorn left here and there around Middle Earth after eighty years of rangering.  It gets lonely in the woods.  We all know it happened.  No one wants to talk about it.
 
Besides, being a new daddy has a special effect on a man.  It gives some a powerful motivation.  Might be a story, there.
 
As I was finishing the first draft, I could not help but consider where I could go with this temporary, off-the-shelf practice science fiction novel pretending to be a fantasy novel.  Mostly, I was interested in how I could spin the complicated backstory of how it went from Buck Rogers to Prince Valiant in just a few centuries.  There had to be good reasons for the way my pretend-culture got to be the way it was.  There had to be many tales, there.
 
Hey, what if in some future book my main character got married?  And got the attention of a god?  All good wizards have a brush with the divine, from time to time.  That’s a good story.  Especially if the god in question has a snarky sense of humor.  Hilarity.
 
Oh, yeah, this could get interesting.  For a practice book.
 
Spellmonger got rejected by most of the big publishers at the time with varying degrees of personal comment, and they were right to do so.  The economics of the time made it impractical, especially with a new writer.  Yes, the NYTBS got me a little more attention, but most publishers were too tied up with existing talent to take a shot on someone with a novel that derivative and mediocre.  Yes, it was witty.  Yes, it had merit.  But did it have a market in the age of evolving fantasy?  We hope you find a place for this, but it is inadequate for our needs at this time.
 
I kept every rejection letter.  They’re inspirational and motivational.  By the time I made it through the big guys, Publish On Demand was starting to be a thing, so I slapped it up on Lulu and more or less forgot about it for years.  I went on to other projects.  I struggled with writer’s block for a while.  But I’d written my second novel, and that was what was important.
 
Then Kindle happened.  I stuck it up there, hoping to catch a little attention.  I did.  A couple of insightful reviews, some hate because of prudes, and some recommendations to get an editor.  I gave it a relatively low price and let it cook.  And then it started to sell.
 
And sell.  And sell.  I joked with my wife that if I sold a thousand copies, I’d have to consider a sequel for my mediocre practice fantasy novel.  The first Amazon check I got was mere beer money.  The next was rent money.  Perhaps there’s something to this writing business, after all.  I hit a thousand sales.  People kind of liked it.  Other people hated it.  But I figured that all the tropes I put together for the background were enough for a sequel.  Maybe even a trilogy.
 
Yeah, a trilogy.  Well, only if the second novel doesn’t suck. 
 
And that’s where my inspiration for Spellmonger came from.