M.A. Ray's Blog, page 8

Naheel Queen of Heaven

Naheel is the Queen of Heaven and Queen of the Gods. She reigns from her Golden Throne in a palace of the Garden of Paradise and keeps the sun on its course through the sky. Her consort is the ascended mortal Ciregor, who was killed in Her service and elevated to stand at Her side.

Though She’s the Queen, Naheel isn’t regarded or worshiped as a mother goddess. She’s most strongly associated with purity and cleansing, with sanctification and holiness. Young virgins make offerings to Her. Traditionally She’s most popular in Muscoda (in conjuction with Reeda, the goddess of earth), where there are endless fields for Her to beat down upon, but humans call Her name wherever sunlight touches.

Her association with clean souls and bodies tends to lead Naheel’s churches into doctrinal rigidity and legalism. Many of Her religious orders lean toward the ascetic, and Her official church places an emphasis on maintaining a clear slate of sins. Atonement and penance are important throughout Her teachings.

She appears as a tall, beautiful woman, usually blonde, on a throne of gold, though some interpretations have Her as a redhead. She is almost always depicted in lush, fire-colored robes, sometimes wearing a wimple beneath Her crown, which is gold.

Father Krakus Bartowsky

Krakus is a major character in Saga of Menyoral. He’s one of the co-heads of the Order of Aurelius, and he’s provided the reader’s eyes and ears on Fort Rule, the seat of military power in Muscoda.

Originally, I’d planned for Krakus’s death in Hard Luck, but he kept shouting at me from the bench, tempting me with everything he could do. I’ve never been more pleased about deciding not to kill someone. Not only is Krakus charming, but his character arc has enriched the story of Menyoral as a whole, and he provides an excellent brake on his brother in the cloth, Lech Valitchka.

I don’t want to spoil too much, but when we first meet Krakus, he’s the very picture of a venal monk. He’s meant to be a warrior, but spends more time eating than training. Krakus starts out over fifty, overweight, and has to have his ceremonial armor constantly adjusted or remade to fit his gut. He doesn’t follow the proscriptions of his order’s Rule at all, and even has a mistress in spite of the celibacy requirement. When he begins to see Lech more honestly, he takes his first steps on a better path. I find his struggle for redemption immensely rewarding to write about.

Krakus is the first son of a farming family. He was born Before magic’s fall, but in the famines that followed soon After, the Bartowskys were faced with a choice. They took twelve-year-old Krakus to the Order of Aurelius, where he would at least be assured of food. He was immediately paired with orphaned Lech, and the rest is history.

No, literally his story. I’ve begun one about Krakus and Lech. It’ll probably be a little meatier, the length of Live Free or Die or longer, and I think I’ll have it ready early next year. In the meantime, if you haven’t met Krakus, I hope you will, and I hope you’ll love him like I do.

See you tomorrow!

 

Spellcasters, Part 6: Witches

A witch in Rothganar is a being apart, walking on the line between person and magical creature.

Witches generate their own magical energy fields, completely separate from that of the planet itself. As with spellcasters, they vary in degree of power, but cannot cast spells. Instead a witch must rely on her ability to manipulate other magical creatures drawn to her power. A witch draws in fairy creatures like sugar. The ones people would consider wicked desire to eat the witch, and the others simply want a taste of her aura. Spellcasters may also take power from the supply a witch generates (more about that in another post).

They’re vanishingly rare to begin with, and witches are almost always female. A male witch is considered a force of destruction and chaos. It’s the worst of luck for a male child to be born in the caul, which is the sign of a witch; those who are must be drowned. Ironically, children of a witch mother are more likely to be witches themselves.

A witch’s life is likely to be both nasty and short. Most witches who survive into adulthood are protected by powerful patrons, whether intelligent creatures who desire magic, or spellcasters seeking a boost.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this series on spellcasters. Soon I’ll be going into more detail on different characteristics of magic itself, so if you like hearing this stuff, stay tuned.

Tour Guide Tuesday: The Royal Menagerie of Brightwater

Tour Guide Tuesday is pretty self-explanatory. On Tuesdays I’m going to take you to a place inside my head playground, which is Rothganar, and let you climb around in it and get comfortable. Welcome to the column and welcome, this week, to the Royal Menagerie of Brightwater.

~*~

It’s bigger on the inside. Try to remember that when you’re crawling the halls, gazing through windows at the manticores and tigers. It’s bigger on the inside, and what seems to make sense from the outside doesn’t apply here. The entire Menagerie is housed within a fold in the Real, and if you’re expecting the layout of the place to make Real Sense, you’re out of luck. That said, if you can put up with a little nonsense and follow the signs, the Menagerie is well worth the visit.

Set in a square marble building on what appears to be a tiny island, the Menagerie is actually composed of the glade of Galbatorix the unicorn. Owing to an ancient pact with the royal family, Galbatorix will allow non-virgins to enter his glade; however, it is strongly advised that they do not attempt to approach the delicate, cloven-hoofed creature lying proudly on his crimson cushions in the very last hall. He is lit perfectly with mage-lanterns, as befits a fittingly vain fellow like he is, and white as snow except for his hooves and horn, which are purest gold.

The collection of magical creatures in the halls of Galbatorix’s glade is second to none. The more dangerous creatures must be viewed through magically-treated glass, and the intelligent ones are provided with black velvet curtains, which they may use to preserve their privacy. Cyprian the faun has not drawn his curtain back in eighty-eight years, and he would be presumed dead if not for the fact that his food disappears every day. The glade plays host to herds of fairies of many sorts, and they may often be seen swirling about the halls. Some may attempt to waylay visitors, but follow the untamperable signs and you’ll be perfectly fine.

The architecture within the glade is classic and lovely, featuring porticoes and porches open to the weather, which is always utterly perfect no matter the conditions outside; fine statuary donated by famous artists, the subject of which always somehow includes Galbatorix; and several well-appointed bedrooms in a price range best described as “out of your league.”

 

Spellcasters, Part 5: The Magi of Dixon Forest

Of all the spellcasters in Rothganar, the most revered were the Magi of Dixon Forest. Very few priests and almost no shamans ever took one of the six towers, two each for white, gray, and black. White represented good casters, black evil, and gray neutral.

Casters in white towers were traditionally chosen and educated by their predecessors. As one might imagine, this presented problems if the caster who owned the tower misjudged matters, and after three Magi in a row were killed by their apprentices, the others instituted a complex ritual by which prospective White Magi might be tested.The details of this ritual were shrouded in secrecy, particularly since it was impossible by magic to tell what any one person might do.

Casters inhabiting gray towers were called to their places when the previous Gray Magus died. The towers themselves would reach out to the nearest suitable candidate to come and take up residence; if the candidate chose to reject the calling, the tower would move to the next.

Casters of black magic were presented with perhaps the most difficult test. When a Black Magus died (or was killed), the tower would issue a general call, and wicked casters would converge on its location and fight for possession of the tower. As you can imagine, the towers of the black changed hands often, and only the exceedingly clever or powerful could hold one for long.

These six casters were considered the finest and most powerful in the world, particularly the two Gray Magi, who were chosen by their towers based on skill and dedication to study above all else. The magical libraries of the gray were famous all over the planet for their size and the breadth and depth of occult knowledge contained therein.

Spellcasters, Part 4: Shamans

The practice of shamanic magic was held in some disregard, since the method of channeling seemed so wild and uncouth, but in fact, the shaman’s power, especially in the area of healing, was unmatched by others. A shaman turned to destruction was one of the most terrible forces on the planet.

Most shamans bound to themselves one or more spirits of the land or water, as familiars and power sources in addition to the power provided by the planet itself. In addition, every shaman used a slightly different method of channeling, so formal training wasn’t formal at all. Most village wise-women, for example, attained some shamanic power, whether a little or a good deal.

Common accompaniments for channeling included bone rattles, drums, and other percussion instruments that could be played while the caster chanted or sang. As well, many shamans used scented or psychoactive smoke to force their minds into the pathways required for casting.

Famous shamans include: Missy Tremmeline, who coaxed the Pixie Army away from the city of Monmouth and bound them all to herself; Ayotunde, who cured a terrible plague of smallpox devastating the Moro Empire; Tatcheegan Kunu, the Great Red Shaman, who appears in Windish at many times, wearing many faces, to teach the Ish people a lesson they must learn; Dagan the Wildwoman, raised by wolves, who broke the Charnel-Brute’s power; and Aramazd, inventor of the vaccination spell for cholera.

Snippet Sunday #11

A little more from Hard Time this week. Some Knights of the Air arrive in Windish. I gotta issue a Vandis Warning.

*

“Hold still, dammit!”

Lukas blinked, turning away from the park to the bank of nice houses in neat trees. He knew that voice, he was sure of it. A thin shriek followed.

“If you held still, it wouldn’t—get back here!”

A tiny Ishling, dripping wet and buck naked, shot out from beneath a wide cypress just ahead and leapt into the road. Aunt Kirsten clutched her chest in alarm; the baby dodged wagons and walkers and pigs, squealing with mirth. Mud splattered, traffic ground to a halt, and Vandis Vail himself stood at the edge of the street with his sleeves rolled up and his jaw working.

“Oh, dear,” said Adeon. Maybe it was Lukas’s imagination, but he thought the tulon smiled a little. “Guthlaf, please help me catch that muddy baby.” There went Adeon, silver horsetail swinging, into the crowd of people and wagons. Guthlaf let loose a deep sigh and slouched behind him.

Vandis shouldered across too, until he simply gave up and blasted himself into the air, above the heads and tops. A few of the Ish scattered away from him, more from his flight, as he passed slowly over the street. His head went back and forth slowly as he scanned for the baby. “Tai!” he kept calling. “This is not fucking funny! Tai!”

Once she saw that nobody was likely to go anywhere, Aunt Kirsten simply stormed across a yard planted with maples and ferns along with the thick conifer that supported the house, beckoning to the rest of the Knights. Lukas followed right away. The rest trailed her over with varying degrees of deference for the foliage.

There were more important things than somebody’s ferns, no matter how pretty. It wasn’t like he was trying to crush them, but he wasn’t trying not to either. Luckily, it wasn’t far to the cypress the baby had come from, and by the time an enraged old lady came to the edge of the deck, squalling at the insult to her plantings, Lukas and Aunt Kirsten were just stepping off her lawn. The rest of the Knights hurried after, heads down.

The Golden Road

A brief story about Akeere, told by a grandmother to her small grandchild.

*

Long, long ago—so very long, my dear! you wouldn’t believe it if I told you—Lady Akeere was as small and weak as we are. Yes, it was that long ago, when people were still making tools out of stone and learning to call out the first Words. She used to be so small, as small as I am now, and much younger. Now She’s a great big goddess, isn’t She? But back then, She was human, and She was weak.

After She’d learned She was weak in every way, our Lady showed how strong She was, though. Didn’t She just? She took up Her oak staff, dear, and held it while it made Her a goddess, which is very hard to do, believe you me—terribly hard. Being made into something greater sort of… spreads you out a bit, and a bit more, until you’re all over at once, and then it lets you come back into your body and be you. Well, She took up Her oak staff, and when She was all finished turning, what do you suppose She saw?

Why, the Golden Road, of course! Like a shining ribbon over all that is, and was, and will be. The moment you were born is on that road, and the first tooth you lost, and the moment you’ll die, and everything in between. So it goes for me, and your da, and your sisters and brothers. Everyone there was and is and will be, and everything there was and is and will be. It’s all on that Road, and maybe She can’t watch it all at once, my dear, but that doesn’t stop Her checking in on you. It doesn’t stop Her hearing when you call Her name.

If you call, She’ll come, whether you feel her or you don’t. She’ll be there hearing you, and weighing your prayer, and if She can, why, She’ll blow the vane your way, so to speak. Just a puff of wind is all it takes.

Spellcasters, Part 3: Priests

Welcome back! Today I’m going to talk about priests and their magic.

While fundamentally priestly magic was the same as sorcerous magic, drawing on the power inherent in the world, it appeared different in a couple of ways. The priests almost never used materials in their spells, though at a higher degree of skill, circles were still required to help the caster focus his or her mind and perform the correct mental exercise.

The priests used chants to draw power into their auras. Most priests would also use a focus, such as a staff or a symbol of their religion, to increase their capacity, and the most powerful casters were often priests. However, their dedication to their gods’ agendas generally (though not always) kept them out of the Towers of the Magi and out in the world doing good as they saw it.

Study of priestly magic was either conducted at the local temple, or, for more insular faiths, under a single priest. In either case, study often progressed in neater forms than those of a sorcerer, and at each level students would be required to pass a relevant test. Priestly magic was noted for its superior abilities to summon, banish, bind, and loose, and most of the tests involved something of the sort. For example, the test for a priest of Naheel to pass from first form to second was the summoning of an aubade, a tiny spirit related to the sun goddess, which took the form of a tiny, bright ball and spoke in gibberish.

Famous priests include Marie Brodeur, priestess of Dareen, who cleansed the docks of Lightsbridge from the plague; Ethan Malone, priest of Kradon, whose killing spell wiped clean a battlefield; Talfryn, priest of Iunder Pelang, who bound the Spirit of Habbasi; Katya Thistlethorn, priestess of Akeere, who banished a cloud of wicked sprites who were eating the pumpkin crop of Runner’s End; and Elebeta Batoris, priestess of Oda, who personally escorted, in the space of one night, 103 people into the arms of her god on the dark side of the moon.

Snippet Sunday #10

Today I have a piece of another story I’m going to blog for you guys in the near future. It involves Beagar (Big Fox), the High King of Shirith, and Faralt (Falcon Eye), his huntsman, when they were Crown Prince and huntsman’s son. They’re on a ledge, and Big Fox is injured…

*

“Hey there, Bey-Bey.” The contempt in the little figure’s voice—no mistaking it. “Need some help?”

“Who are you? Movanar,” Big Fox made sure to add, a threat. The figure drew back its deep cowl, but he didn’t recognize the boy’s face.

“Faralt.” At Beagar’s blank look, the boy rolled his eyes dramatically. “You know Velalt? The huntsman?”

“Sure. It’s his fault I’m down here.”

“Pretty sure it’s your own dumb fault. Anyway I’m his son.”

That made him angry. “He didn’t even come after me himself? He sent his—”

“Funny thing,” said Faralt. “He didn’t see you fall, Bey-Bey.” He poked Big Fox’s leg and made him howl. The sound bounced, echoing, off the canyon walls. Someone must’ve heard.

“You’ve been here a while,” Faralt said, as if reading Big Fox’s mind. “Don’t think anybody’s missed you yet. Don’t think they will for a long time.” He grinned, wicked and boyish at the same moment. “If ever. Nobody likes you, you know?”

“I know,” said Big Fox, grinning right back, “but they have to pretend. It’s good enough for me.”

“Damn! You’re one fucked-up piece of shit, Bey-Bey. That’s all right, though. You’re just where I want you.” Faralt straightened to pace around Big Fox on the ledge, hands clasped behind his back—still grinning.

Took Big Fox a minute, but he realized Faralt was pretty much—all right, absolutely—correct. “So what is it you want?”

“I mean,” Faralt said, like he hadn’t even spoken, “all I’d have to do is push you a little. Nudge you with my foot.” He put a boot sole on Beagar’s shoulder and nudged playfully, laughing when Big Fox tensed.

He crossed in front, and Big Fox smelled his chance. He lashed out with his good leg, fouled Faralt’s feet, and sent him flying. He didn’t even scream, which was a bit of a disappointment, but not even Big Fox could have everything.