M.A. Ray's Blog, page 9

Akeere Worship

Akeere’s Church is doctrinally quite open. They’ll accept anyone who comes, and offer prayers and as much charity as they can afford to anyone who asks. Church buildings tend to have high ceilings wherever possible, and structures built Before will also have many windows, occasionally of stained glass, but more often clear or translucent. Worship centers around prayers, communal singing, and the burning of incense. The Church of Vard the Brew-Lord is closely affiliated with Akeere’s, and Her symbol is displayed in all His taverns and temples, and His in Her places.

There are many splinter groups and offshoots from the official Church, but the largest are The Knights of the Air, who are connected with the Church, and The Liberated, who are not. The Knights are more free and easy, but slightly more ascetic; services must be held in the open air. However, many non-Knights happily attend service with the order, since these always include a story of the goddess.

The Liberated split from the Knights during the turmoil around magic’s fall, though nobody can point to the exact date. They believe the loss of magic to be the Lady’s punishment for poor governmental management, and have been known to commit acts of terrorism against any establishment one may name. However, as a group they are quite small and isolated, and the main trouble they’re able to cause stems from the fact that most of their membership wears the Knights’ leaf tattoo on their dominant hands.

The Knights of the Air also gave rise to the splinter group Knights of the Void, who a hundred years ago cobbled together space-faring ships made of wood and magic and went out to attempt to spread the Lady’s message to a wider audience. Nobody knows what happened to them, and they are presumed long dead.

Check in next week for a little story about the Wayfarer.

Spellcasters, Part 2: Sorcerers

Sorcerers were the most common sort of magic user in Rothganar. The sorcerer’s channeling was the simplest and most direct, with Words and gestures of power directing the flow of thaumaturgical energies through the caster’s aura. Sometimes a circle was drawn or otherwise laid out to help the mind focus on the proper pathway.

Certain Words could only be handled by more powerful auras. Nearly anyone, for example, could learn a Word or two, and how to combine them, but to attain any mastery of the arts required careful study and practice. Basically destructive spells were most common: fire, lightning, and other energies of the world.

Formal sorcerous training consisted of many levels, of which theory and practice were both a part; individual sorcerers were on different levels for each, so it wasn’t uncommon to find excellent theorists who weren’t powerful casters, for example, or vice versa.

Some famous sorcerers include Ceadda of the Gray, who invented many of his own spells, and whose research was nearly all lost with magic’s fall; Basil Gravemoss, who discovered how to make zombies semi-intelligent servitors; Ihab Darzi, inventor of the spell to change a person’s body from one sex to another; Rhuez Kinslayer, who discovered the Raining Fire; and Oriana Drago, known for her work with the unicorn Ambiorix.

Just for fun, the first spells a sorcerer was expected to master were:

detect other effects
produce an orb of light
clean their clothing
produce a spark sufficient to light a fire
cause a small breeze to blow, sufficient to freshen the air in a dank chamber
lubricate moving parts
purify a gallon of water
sharpen a blade

 

Check back next week to learn more about priestly magic!

Snippet Sunday #9

Today I have a little piece of The Brothers Mala, which I’m going to finish soon (and blog!). I hope you guys like it, and that it whets your appetites. It features Felix Mala, the brother of Aurelius.

*

When the laundry was done, they went inside and cleaned the house that was already clean. Mommy didn’t talk to Felix, not a lot anyways, just to tell him do this or do that. He wished Aurelius would come home like he did sometimes in the day, come home and smile and maybe play a game with Felix on the draughts board he had made from scrounged-up pieces of wood. He let Felix win sometimes. Felix knew that. But oftener and oftener he didn’t have to let Felix win, and he said he was so proud, and Felix knew he meant it.

Felix went through to the bedroom and sat down on his pallet, all stripped ’cause his blankets were hanging on the line. The wind came in through the open shutters, the wind and the sunshine, and even though it was high summer the little room was sort of cool. Next to him on his bed there was something he never saw before, a toy, a toy cat made out of red-and-black fabric. It had a pattern on it like a draughts board and scratched-up button eyes. He picked it up. It was so soft, shiny on the tail like somebody carried it that way.

He lay back on his pallet and felt the air stir over him, let the Bright Lady shine down on him. The cat was on his bed, but it wasn’t his. And he knew from how the eyes were scratched and the tail was shiny that somebody loved that cat, loved it a lot. He put it on his belly and looked into its eyes and asked it, “Where did you come from?” Of course it didn’t answer. “Who loves you?” he asked it, real quiet.

“Felix!” Mommy yelled. “Who are you talking to?”

“Nobody!” Felix yelled back, and he heard her coming and shoved the cat under his back so she wouldn’t see it.

Akeere Wayfarer

Akeere Wayfarer is one of the most popular goddesses among the common people of Rothganar. I hesitate to say “most popular” because most humans don’t choose to devote themselves to one god or goddess, but rather to the entire pantheon; however, among those who do choose that path, She’s close to most popular, if not the most.

Akeere is primarily a wind goddess. She also covers travel, and for some, She represents freedom as well. Her doctrine is minimal, friendly to the small, and favors charity, acts as well as monetary donations. She’s almost always depicted as a redheaded woman with wings on Her ankles, but some interpretations offer Her as a blonde. The white oak is Her most treasured tree, as the staff She carries is thought to be white oak wood.

As with any deity with minimal doctrine, Akeere’s church is every so often troubled by schisms, and Her worship is far from monolithic. Next week I’ll talk a bit about the Church itself and the order somewhat connected to it (the Knights of the Air), as well as a couple of offshoots and divides.

Spellcasters, Part 1: Rothganar’s Magic

This is the first of a six-part series. Since I don’t have any more shorts for the moment, I’ll post about Rothganar on Fridays, too — until I have another for you.

Really there were only three sorts of spellcasters in Rothganar, but I think the Magi of Dixon Forest warrant their own post, so I’ll do them by themselves; likewise, the witches, who are by definition outside the magic of Rothganar.

I’ve mentioned before that the planet Rothganar generates its own magical field, something like Earth produces a magnetic field. Each kind of spellcaster channels power from this field into their aura, which is sort of similar to the electromagnetic field people produce on Earth (except that some are more powerful than others, and a few are null and can’t use magic at all).

Each kind of caster collects magic from the world in a slightly different way, and that’s what this post series will be about. For more information in the meantime, check out this post from last year. I hope you’ll enjoy the rambling.

 

Snippet Sunday #8

Since I finished posting Rose’s short story on Friday, I thought I would share a little of the opening for her first novel with you today. The project is on the back burner for now, but I have lots of ideas for it and I’m looking forward to writing it.

*

It wasn’t until she bled, really started to bleed, that she got worried. She had to stop twice an hour to change out the clot of rags she was using to soak it up. Pretty soon she had a sack of bloody cloths and a dizzy head. She sat down on a rock and left a squish and when she nursed Cabhan she bled more. She was going to need help, that much was plain, but who and where? Rose adjusted the baby’s sling, got up from her spot, and walked the fuck on. She didn’t really know where she was, but if she could get far enough, she’d find people. She was sure of it.

By the time she saw the lights, she was ready to pass out or weep. Rose wasn’t sure which one. The night came down fast over the moor, and there, just there, was a place all lit up. She thought it was a place.

She stumbled toward it. There were a bunch of windows. Those were the light. When she squinted she could tell. So tight, she clutched that baby. She didn’t want him to slip. She’d sooner die than him, and if she should fall, she’d tuck herself around him; she already loved him that much.

Rose staggered into the yard, where the last of the merchants were pulling up and putting away for the night. They swore to see her draw herself in by the sign, which she didn’t read, only left thereon the prints of her bloody fingers. Blood soaked the seat of her pants, down the insides of her legs, and squished inside her boots.

“My baby,” was all she could whisper. This met with about as much success as she could’ve expected. She drew a rattling breath, opened her mouth, and howled with all her power, “My baby, you starin’ assholes!”

One of the merchants—she couldn’t make out face or form by now, what with the black sliding down over her vision, but she thought he was tall—took the baby from her arms. Relieved of the weight, Rose swayed in her squashy boots, blinked sluggishly, and went down into an unconscious bloody heap.

The Thread of Life, Part 3

The conclusion to the short story about Rose Daughter.

Sort of.

Five Dreamport Landmarks

Today I blather about Dreamport. It’s the biggest, most populous human kingdom in Rothganar, and throws its weight around pretty often when dealing with the others. By three thousand years Before, humans were well-established in the area, but before that, it was a hitul kingdom, and gradually the humans pushed the People out to the west.

I want to talk about some of the landmarks of Dreamport, both the ones attached to humans and the ones that still remain from the time of the People, so here we go.

The City Redwood. This massive sequoia blocks Old Town from the sun all day long. In the days Before the fall of magic, it was encased in a great glass greenhouse, but the panes have since been broken and the structure dismantled. Legend has it that if the tree dies, so will the city. For thousands of years, the tree has been guarded by a hitul shaman, who must be a female from the line of Rasang-Tala.
Ennis Falls. One of the unique features of Dreamport, which has helped to make it as rich as it is,  is the Ennis River. The river flows south to north out of the Dragon’s Spine and feeds into the Draumur Sea over the edge of an ages-dead volcano. The falls are the point of access for most of the freight that comes into the city from the south; a gigantic lift system runs at all hours of the day and night, carrying passengers and trade goods from New Town to Old Town, and vice versa. The lifts were never magical in nature, and thus presented no problems in terms of continuing operation. However, the passenger cars in particular were made with materials manufactured by magic, and some of the gloss has come off taking the lift as a result.
The Pit. This quarry outside the walls was the source for much of the stone for the Royal Palace complex, as well as many of the great houses in New Town. Two hundred years ago, it was abandoned by its owners. Slumlords and squatters quickly took over the empty hole, which today remains an insalubrious swarm of people with a pool of sludge at the bottom.
Temple Row. This is a street in Old Town lined with buildings on a massive scale. The human religions have great temples here, to house the numerous worshipers of their gods. While temples are also scattered throughout the city, on Longday and Longnight most will attend services here, in the spectacularly-appointed homes of their religions. The smallest building on Temple Row is the headquarters of the Knights of the Air; the front of their lot is an open-air chapel. Before the fall, each temple had its own enchanted decoration in keeping with the god or goddess; some of the decorations are still in place, but the enchantments are gone. The only religion that has no temple is the worship of Oda, King of Hell and Lord of the Moon.
Last Resort. Located on the farthest promontory out to sea, this black-granite castle is home to House Xavier and seat of the Duke of Dreamport, Guard of the Marches to the West.

Snippet Sunday #7

A little piece of The Witch under Mountain this week.

*

Eagle walked along a pebbly beach north of the Valley, a little beach nobody ever walked on but him. He could sit on top of the rocks here and watch the ships coming in and going out, flying their bright banners, but today he walked. The high chop wet his bare feet; the wind played through his hair. Lightning licked the surface of the sea, far away, and he stopped to watch it and heard a voice ringing out over the beach, so beautiful and sad the hearing rent his heart.

Instead of staying to watch the storm, he walked on a little more. A wonderful thing sat on the rocks where he would watch the ships pass.

Mermaids were never like that. Only beautiful from a distance… but the long, thick fish tail gleamed white and iridescent in the sun that broke through the clouds. That clean white was mottled with dark browns and deep oranges. And he saw that it was also Fox, from above the waist, it was Fox, with the wet weed of his hair partly dry and rippling back in the wind, away from his beautiful beloved face. It was Fox, and he knew he was dreaming.

His dream of Fox sang the frog song, and he let it draw him forward. The words were lonely; the frog sang because it was alone. He let it pull him to the base of the rocks, and he listened. Of its own accord his hand went up to rest on Fox’s spectacular tail. It was lightly slimed, like a fish, and a little cool.

“Are you here to save me?” the dream of Fox said, suddenly looking down at him with the great tenderness Fox turned on him in reality.

“Yes,” he said, feeling the scales warm under his hand. “I am. Do you want me to? I’ll do anything you want.”

“I want you to, Eagle Eye,” Fox said.

Eagle climbed the rocks, sat close, and took one chilly hand in both of his. “Anything,” he said, giving it the weight of an oath.

“I want you to,” Fox said, looking out to sea again. “But you can’t.”

The Thread of Life, Part 2

The continuation of Rose’s story.❤

*

Mouse still pulled at her. Little by little, though, she drew up out of her pain, unfolded from the tight bud she’d made of herself. Witold didn’t talk much. He didn’t need to, and he didn’t press her to either. Little by little Rose opened, and one night, she took Witold, pressed herself up to him in the dark of night and kissed him. He clasped her in big arms and told her he would love her as long as he lived.

She rode. His eyes were gray and gentle when he looked at her, and his rough hands ran up her, and he said she was beautiful. The next morning, after she’d taken care of the cow and the chickens and the shaggy horse, she took the rapier from the top of the cedar chest. In the yard, she showed him what she had been.

The dances came back to her limbs. The forms—she knew them in every inch of her body, muscle, bone, and joint. There was ache, from long disuse, and she needed to practice. But she knew them. And the no-mind was easier to touch, the uncarved block, the mirror without a speck of dust. She felt Mouse, but no mind, no pain. She was with him there, was him there. Tears ran down her smiling face while she danced, Pig to Snake to Puma, all the way from first to last, and her sword flashed in the rising sun. She wore a dead woman’s yellow dress, big on her, tiny pink flowers fairy-scattered, and it clung to her skin when she was through.

“I didn’t know,” he said, his hands knotted at his sides. “Rhi, forgive me.”

She clicked the rapier into its scabbard. “What for?”

“Everything.”

“Fuck it. Nothing.” She stripped off the dress and tossed it to the ground. Naked beneath. Feet bare and dirty from dancing in the yard. Muscle beginning to show again, beneath her tan been-outside skin. She knew she was beautiful when she looked down at herself. Muscle. Small breasts, nipped-in waist, open hips. When she felt his eyes on her, she thought goddesses didn’t get looked at this way. “Take your pants off.”

It was good after that. All through the crispy-aired autumn she came back to herself more and more. She started wearing pants and shirts again, even though they didn’t much care for it in town. People in town didn’t much care for her, on account of some religious nutcase said the People were demons of the forest born in the dark under the trees, and ate children and danced with the demons of Hell. If Witold had minded it, she might’ve given him the respect of a dress at least, but he never so much as looked at her breeches sidewise, nor her pointed ears. Each night, he’d hold her in his arms, and every so often he’d say, “Rhi, I’m so proud of you, just for being the way you are.” And it was a good harvest altogether, so forest demons were safe for the moment at least.

Every day, while the treetops turned to glorious flame, while the leaves turned brown on the ground, when snow dusted the yard, and when it heaped up in white mounds, she danced up through the forms and slipped into no-mind like an easy pair of old boots. She ached for Mouse, but he was there for a little while each day, and it was easier to bear, somehow, because she knew she would feel him again. The thread pulled tight, but she could live with it. And she had Witold, who loved her, who asked nothing of her. It made her want to give everything. She loved him too, with the quiet remnants of her heart.

By the time the yard turned to thick black mud, she thought she would stay with him until he died. It wouldn’t be so very long, by her way of thinking. Thirty years? Forty? It was nothing. By the time snowmelt soaked her boots every morning, she knew this time next year there would be a child, a baby with big blue eyes like hers and ears pointed slightly, just so, in between the two of them.

When the leaves poked the tips of their noses from every branch and twig, they loaded up the wagon with good butter and cheeses aged in the warm of the cellar and went into the town. She still didn’t know its name, any name but Witold’s, though she guessed she might’ve paid attention. Their faces all looked more or less the same to her, except for his sharp one, but she helped him sell cheeses and smiled as nice as she could.

They were packing up when she saw them. Rhulan and Tierney—Howling Wolf and Porcupine Quill—poking up and down the muddy main road, where she’d fallen last summer. Rose turned her face from the ruts and tucked deep into her hood. Before now she hadn’t thought of them following her, or of them finding her if they did, but now she realized how stupid that had been. “You don’t belong in this world, Rose.” Hadn’t Turtle himself said so to her the night before they’d burned Mouse’s body? “You should’ve gone with him.” And then, very calm, very smooth, Turtle had explained to her that she needed to lie down with Mouse and let his pyre eat her flesh.

Well. The agony Rose suffered made her a lot of things, but she was nobody’s sap. She lit out of there like her ass was on fire. It would’ve been if she stayed. She didn’t want a thing to do with the Musicians anymore. Best they didn’t know she was alive and using the dances. Best they didn’t know she went to Mouse in no-mind. Best they lost the trail here.

Next moment, they got close to her and Witold sitting on the wagon seat, and stopped Witold flicking the reins. “Good man,” Wolf said, “we’re looking for an old friend. Have you seen her?” And he sang a Word of power, stretching out his hand. An image of Rose formed above his palm, drizzling multicolored sparkles. The real Rose, on the seat, went cold and stiff as a dead cat.

“No sir, I don’t recall,” said Witold. “Maybe last summer she came through, but I don’t know for certain.”

“Think,” said Wolf, and there was power in his voice, but Witold slapped the reins and called to the mule, and they ground away. Rose felt eyes at the rear. Witold said not a word, and she was grateful. But she pressed her hand over the base of her belly all the rattling way home.

(to be concluded next week!)