Barbarians and Elves Part 5

Belthaar General of Barrabas army and current ambassador/spy

My introduction to the High City was not at all as expected. The city itself was breathtakingly beautiful, rising from the river in waves of white broken by the green of trees and ivy. That wasn’t what surprised me, the reception I received did. I had expected cold looks, suspicion and barely veiled contempt. I was ready for rotten fruit to be thrown down on me, not flowers.

The long slender arms that stretched towards me were pale, tinted blue or pink, with silver nails. Their faces, their eyes, glowed with unnatural light not of this world, with smiles showing teeth made for ripping. And yet they smiled instead of ripped.

I forced a smile of my own, but knew it looked more like a grimace. I'd seen enough elves dripping silver blood off the end of my sword, watched the light fade from their eyes as they cursed me. I hadn't seen beauty in their features for a very long time. For a moment it seemed a woman gazed on me with eyes like amethyst, but instead, the purple fragmented into a pink gaze. I stared at her while she gazed back at me, warm and welcoming, an alien stranger.

I forced my heart to slow its beating. This mission may be my personal curse, but the Emperor's will was my own. I nodded to myself and straightened my shoulders, longing for the weight of my sword across my back. I had to use my long ago training as an acolyte to the Emperor before I'd taken up the sword. I could not think of these creatures as beauty, as anything other than those who would pass beneath the Emperor's way.  

I gave up smiling as I walked, ignoring the ladies that hung above me from their windows, tried to block out the sound of their greetings, the song of their voices intertwining into a complicated melody that made my chest ache.

I walked unarmed into the heart of the Elven city, where magic seeped through the cracks in the stones beneath my feet, magic that I knew more than a Barbarian should know. Some said the Barbarians ignorance was their greatest strength, but since I'd led the soldiers, it was my acceptance of the Elves and their twisting of the fabric that had helped me turn the tide against them.

I wanted to be there, on the field instead of involved in a complicated infiltration to discover their weak points for the offensive to come, tentatively, in spring. I disliked the welcoming creatures whose blood would flow into these stones, cursing me eternally.

I shrugged. I'd lived with a curse for a hundred years. My very age was its own curse. I sweated more than I should have been beneath the cool canopy of trees. It bothered me that anyone who brushed up near me would catch my scent of fear, bad enough to smell it on myself.

I’d fought enough of the tall ones to know that while you could dismiss their ‘magics’ they still had inhuman senses and could fill you with irrational fear if they got the chance to look in your eyes. To have spent most of a century with a sword on the field made the change to viceroy a bitter blow. It didn’t feel honorable. I liked to look at them as the enemy, as simplistic as that was.   

When we neared the house where I would reside, I looked back and realized that we were on the edge of the city. Most of my tall escort had abandoned me leaving only a few silent elves bearing my luggage, but their very silence seemed mocking.

I took a moment to grab the end of a trunk causing the bearer to raise an eyebrow in amusement at me. I grinned at him, nearly snarling. I was a barbarian after all. I'd be expected to have common manners like wanting to carry my own luggage. Of course, I couldn't carry it all, not the long train of trunks and cases, some filled with gifts, others with ridiculous outfits to wear in my performance as diplomat. I belonged on the field. I didn’t need a distraction like this at a time when my men would be preparing for the largest assault of their short lives; likely rendered shorter under someone else’s command.

I looked around the courtyard we finally entered, at the simple fountain tinkling musically, for the sight of the females so I could keep my distance. Oddly enough the only person was a gardener who didn’t look up for some time after I entered as the bearers stacked my luggage in piles behind me.

The gardener glanced at me then rose slowly only after the other elves had dispersed. I didn’t like the way he looked at me, like he knew me better than I knew myself. I gave him my most polite smile from my days as acolyte to the Emperor.

He didn’t act like a servant. He stood like a god, his silvery eyes giving me one last final look before he turned towards the house. The enormous, overpowering manse had a presence that demanded attention. I glanced up at the spiraling tower and elaborate stonework before I turned to the gardener.

He gestured me to follow him as he walked through a large passageway into the dim interior.

Inside it was darker, cool, and I felt myself sweating harder. They hadn't told me a great deal about my host, my interpreter, simply brought me to this ancient estate on the edge of the city. When my eyes adjusted and I walked towards the grand stairs, following  the gardener's lead.

I stood at attention for some time before the creature graced me with her presence. It was a she, probably, but none of the other ladies of the city had so much as their arms covered much less the entire face, head and body like this creature swathed in white.

She was covered like one of the ladies of my country as if she was trying to respect my customs, but my mouth twitched at how badly she’d carried it out. Her eyed were completely obscuredso I had no idea how she traversed the stairs in safety.

She moved like a dream. I stared, entranced each time her foot touched a step. She descended with the ethereal grace none of my people would ever come near. It reminded me of amethyst eyes.

I thought I could see purple reflected behind the billowy gauze when she reached a few steps from me before she tripped falling into my arms with a solidity that belied her apparent weightlessness. She felt cold, like a bird hanging onto the last of its life after striking glass, heart thumping delicately in its feeble frame. Her eyes, amethyst, stared at me, half veiled through the mists of gauze.

Barbarian and Elves Part 4

I blinked as the gardener pulled me upright, away from the Barbarian's warmth. I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself, barely noticing the throb in my ankle. The ludicrous idea that I should host Barbarians should never have occurred to the High Precept. Memories like that, memories that felt real enough to taste shouldn't happen to me. Maybe it hadn't been a memory but a fantasy. Of course that must have been it. I'd been an ambassador over a century ago. Everyone from that visit would be dead and buried by now. That knowledge should have filled me with satisfaction, but instead my heart throbbed with pain. The barbarians were many things; long lived wasn’t one of them.

“Lady Perr?” the Barbarian said, reaching for me with his sun darkened hands.

I took a breath that sounded more like a gasp, glad for the pain that shot through my ankle when it touched the ground. I trembled as I leaned heavily on the gardener. Who had told him my name?

“Welcome to the House of Perr, Belthaar. Pardon my clumsiness.” I hobbled off, but not quickly enough to miss the look of puzzlement and slight anger cross his face.

It wasn’t until I was sitting in the kitchen with my ankle wrapped and iced, no break, only a sprain, that the garden took my hand in his, squeezing my fingers painfully until I looked up at him.

"You called him Belthaar. Are you familiar with the Barbarian?"

I quickly shook my head, frowning to myself. "Of course not. All the Barbarians I knew would be dead by now. Why are you crushing my fingers?" I asked, looking closely at him. He seemed so familiar. A name trembled on the tip of my tongue before he relaxed his grip and turned away.

I frowned down at my bare foot, smeared with the brown potion the gardener had applied to my nearly blue pale skin. I touched the stuff, feeling the coarsely crushed herbs, grainy in my fingers. His dark skin had been close to that hue. The warm color matched his warm skin. Maybe if I painted myself pink or orange, I wouldn't be so cold all the time. Why had I called him Belthaar? It seemed a strangely elemental name for a Barbarian.

Maybe I'd only imagined the dusky smell of Cimmaron.

Barbarians and Elves Part 3

Last night I had such a great hot chocolate outing with my friend. She let me sketch her and out came this Elven madwoman.

This is starting to be a really fun series! Hello inspiration. 

Part 3

When he came in, he blinked thick lashes that framed large eyes, pretty eyes that seemed rational and considerate as he glanced around the room. He wasn’t as broad shouldered as most, a diplomat instead of a warrior.

I hesitated in my position atop the steps. Barbarians were bred to be alike in their brutality, their simpleness, except for the very elite, a few of which I'd met when I’d served my term. I swallowed and lifted my chin slightly. I started down the steps, lifting my skirt as I walked, dignity forced into each step.

It was three steps from the bottom where he waited as still as the statue of Callus when I looked up, and caught his gaze directly, or as directly as I could with my head swathed in clouds of net. His eyes caught and held me as surely as if he'd used a small magic on me. I stumbled as my shoe caught on the hem of my dead aunt's dress. Falling forwards, I reached up and caught him around the neck, while his hands circled my waist, arresting my fall.

He smelled of Cinamarron. Time stopped as I stared at him, into those eyes that didn't belong to a Barbarian.

***

We stood in the Capital's plaza, voicing the same argument we always came to. The sun shone on unwashed bodies filling the air with a raw flavor I'd taken time to adapt to. It added fervor to my voice.

“Being a slave is ennobling? Perhaps to nobles, but I don’t hear many slaves arguing your point.” My voice, passionate, slurred some of the Barrabas consonants.

He smiled at me, showing his even white teeth, brighter in his tan face. “The slave plays his part in the great order as does every other creature. We are all creatures with greater or lesser levels of development, but deep down we’re simple animals. Without society there is no meaning to the individual.”

 “I'd be more convinced of your sincerity if you did not occupy one of the highest levels of administration.”

He leaned close to me, closer than he'd ever come before, breaking the unspoken rules of etiquette. I could smell the Cinamarron on his bronze  skin as he whispered, “Unlike you? Daughter of an Empire? Ambassador of the High City?”

I turned away, fighting down the heat that rose to my cheeks that had nothing to do with the harsh sun or our heated argument. I plucked a plum from the pile of ripe fruit heaped in a cart, rolling the purple orb in my still pale hands. The seller looked at me smiling a gapped-tooth smile.

“As you know, we have no slaves. Each house has its order, but within the order there is choice. I chose diplomacy over the ranks of the Rasha. My interest in linguistics over small magics or armaments brought me to my current position.”

My smile matched his as he studied me until he covered the fruit in my palm with his own larger and darker hand.

“You speak of magic and choice in the same breath. Your magic, your religion would call your position destiny. Is relying on fate so much better than depending on state?” His smile widened as he held up his hand, and slid the plum in my open mouth, cutting off my response with the warm and sweet fruit. He took my arm and guided me away from the stall as he threw a coin to the seller.

I didn't think to resist, not with the taste of ripe plum and the smell of Cinamarron filling my senses.

More coming soon! 

Barbarians and Elves Part 2

This has been so much fun to dig out of one of my old notebooks. I don't usually do straight-up fantasy, and I'm sure you can see why. It is not my best genre. All the same, I enjoyed the reread.

Servants rushed around the house until I retreated to the library to get away, to focus and write a list, or at least stare at the paper and the words swirling around on the page. When I saw ‘death’ ‘ending’ and ‘nothing’ I crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it onto the rug, a rich amber and maroon pattern that would have meant something to me at another time. Or would it?

I retreated to my chambers to find something to wear. I came out dressed in clothing that made several servants giggle. Well I was glad someone was amused. I wore a combination of my long departed great Aunt Mathilda’s formerly white gown, long sleeved with billowing layers, and uncle Oldwell’s bee tending hat. It was the best I could do at short notice. It wouldn’t have been short notice, it had been weeks since Head Precinct had delivered his ‘honor’, but I’d been too busy trying not to think about it. 

My house, the formerly glorious house of Perr was one of the crumbling manses along the river, but outfitted with so many servants for this important occasion it was attaining an honorable visage, instead of simply a decrepit one. That should have made me happy, to see the old ruined garden pruned into order, the tattered drapes carefully cleaned and mended, but all I could do is wish I belonged to any other family. 

“Lady Perr,” the melodic voice of the now gardener interrupted my musings. I glared at him, but the irritation got lost beneath the billows of net. “Your gloves, left in the garden.”

I took them, quickly putting them on; one more layer couldn’t possibly hurt. The teal with brown trim wasn’t exactly a match for the rest of my yellowed white ensemble. What did it matter? Fashion was something young girls cared about. My duty to act the part of host to the barbarian warred with my instincts. If I had to host the viceroy, he'd get as little of me as possible.

I heard the trumpets blowing from the dock, only a few miles up the river, and wandered out to the patio that overlooked the water. I stepped carefully towards the edge although the stone balustrade looked quite sturdy after the masons had finished with it. As I leaned on my elbows, it felt almost like an apology the High Precept had offered. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

 I leaned over, relaxing against the sun warmed stone, idly watching the boat upriver tying at the dock, unloading its cargo. It felt like a world ago when I’d boarded a vessel so much like it, eager to find my fate in a new world. It was supposed to be an adventure like the stories my uncles would tell me after they’d returned from new lands. Of course one by one they hadn’t returned, but I had, stripped of the hopes and innocence I'd had when I'd left.

I’d been the finest linguist High City had ever seen. I’d mastered more than basics in most fields, so smart, so clever and passably beautiful. I’d been nearly as beautiful as the other noble daughters, none of whom ever bothered with tedium such as school.  They were busy preparing their dowries and learning the small mystics.

I couldn’t help but smile as I leaned against the stone and Called to the world below. The water felt cool as it slipped around me, the world growing darker as I sank. A fish slipped against me, a silver finned trout. It followed me and the song I sang as I rose towards the light, and burst into the sun as I opened my eyes and looked down at the beautiful fish where it danced on the surface of the water. One last spinning jump and it was gone. My smile faded as I glanced back to the boat and adjusted the still-dry gauze around my face. No more small mystics for as long as I hosted. The mystics appeared an illusion to the Barbarians. I hadn't actually been in the water with my skin, therefore to them, it hadn't happened. They did not understand the world that lay beyond the skin. The servants would not perform mystics either. No tricks, no games, for as long as a Barabas was under the roof. It had been years since any Barabas had been invited to the High City, considering how sincerely the Emperor wished us decimated. No mystics, large or small. Rules were rules. Most people were better at following rules than I was, but not even I would break or even bend this one, and not only because I couldn’t. 

I rubbed my chest absently as I listened to the wind, trying to lose myself, distract from the sound of the procession as the viceroy approached. It did no good. The wind, usually more than willing to transport me away from memories was adamant about bringing the sound of shouts as they neared.  It had been years since a Barbaras had walked through the streets of High City. He certainly caused a stir in a city that preferred to remain motionless, barely breathing as it passed through time.

I could almost see the ladies leaning out of windows, leaning far over to catch a glimpse of the stranger walking over the pale path below. Tan skinned, brown eyes and hair as well as the way he moved would make him different. Barbaric. Exciting, dangerous, and something they might not see again for another hundred years.

“One can hope,” I muttered, and shook my head. I’d spoken Arrabas out loud instead of the smooth cadences of High tongue. I shrugged and itched my neck where the lace came up tight under my chin. I may as well get used to it. I would have to serve as translator to the barbarian. The lace on my sleeves and neck got itchier as I heard the barbarian approach. I forced my hands to still and walked inside, down the hall to the top of the steps where I could watch his approach and look somewhat dignified as I welcomed him. It would force him to wait for me to welcome him instead of him doing all the moving. 

Barbarians disliked waiting. 

More to come! Read anything good lately? Tell me about it in the comments.

Barbarians and Elves: Fantasy with a twist of insanity

So, this is a story where the main character is mad. Yes, you always wanted to read something from a crazy person's POV, and now is your chance! Lucky you. Here you are.

  I ached, but I told myself it wasn’t too bad. I winced. Okay, too bad.  I had to stop thinking about it. I forced myself to focus on the whiny nasally voice of precinct head Claudius, and repeated every word over in my head.

“If there isn’t something done to stop them they’ll run right over us. As long as the barbarians are on the borders making threats to outlying towns, building schools,” his voice broke as he sputtered on the word, “to civilize us,” he was breathing hard from sheer revulsion. This was not a subject to divert my thoughts. I shifted my attention to the pear blossoms, the insects chasing the delectable notes floating through the air, lost myself for a few indefinable moments between the scent of the sun and the flowers. When someone jerked on my sleeve, I blinked blearily at the boy, sandy haired, destined to be something someday, but I couldn’t remember what.

“Head Precept requests your presence lady,” he said nervously. Funny, I couldn’t remember him being nervous before.

I bowed to the others; there were more than I remembered, and I followed him down the wide steps, marble, pale, golden veins sparkling under the sun.  The city was beautiful; it struck me, as it did every time. I forced myself to move more quickly after the boy who was nearly jogging down the path beneath the trees, studded with majestic statuary, well, now crumbling, but formerly majestic. The smell of rich hyacinths, slowed me down, and I watched the boy’s form retreat as I held back.

I was crouched in front of a flower, the hue particularly striking, a blue that fell straight from the sky, when a shadow threw the blue in darkness.

I knew at once who it was, the High Precept, he let off a smell like power that had burnt a long time and was coming near its end.

“Haedra,” the voice was still power and I stood so that I could perform my obeisance properly.

“How may I serve the people?” my voice came out thin, like a note played on a reed pipe improperly cured. I frowned and was going to ask again, but he started walking after grasping my arm firmly in his hand to keep up my pace.

“The people call you as host to the viceroy of Barbaras. It’s a high honor, and I know you must be wondering why such glory should be bestowed to the humble house of Perr.” His voice stopped at the same time my feet did. I didn’t mean to, it was a reflex for me to glare into his eyes while I bared my teeth at him. He studied me, and then nodded slightly. “I see you understand the honor.”

Oh yes. I understood perfectly what it meant, but I didn’t see why me. “Surely there are more worthy…” I bit my lip to keep it from trembling along with my voice. “I have served the people well in my time, surely…” Couldn’t I finish a sentence? “There must be someone else.” There. Not much I could do about the desperation in my voice.

“Haedra of Perr, who else shall I ask? You are the only soul with experience. The only others I could ask, the Perr elders…”

I didn’t mean to cut him off, but it was just as well. “I’m the last of my line for a reason. If it weren’t so devastating for my family to serve then there would be others of us. You ask too much.”

“I suppose I could take him with me to the temple, to stay in the heart of the city,”

“He could stay by himself in one of the crumbling manse along the river. Hopefully it would collapse on him as he slept.” My voice was loud this time, too loud, and bitter. The high precept looked at me with eyes that glowed a blue green that matched mine.

“Haedra, you are the best chance.” His voice was gentle, and for some reason I thought of all the other daughters of the city, as enticing and gentle as his voice. Who could resist those pearly pointed teeth, and soft pointed ears, the wrists, so thin and breakable? I glanced down at my own wrists, covered in my long sleeves the color of a robin’s egg. Unseen but not unfelt. The scars would never completely fade, the memory of the hands, made my eyes fill with tears.

“Then there is no chance.” I heard my voice, only a whisper, but it was a whisper of defeat. If I was what stood between my people and the barbarians, so be it. I would stand as well as I could.

More to come of this stunning tale. Have a great Monday! 

Wilds: House of Slide

I'm excited to announce a new baby, due soon, no not flesh and blood, but ink and parchment.

This is the pretty I placed in chapter on this site earlier this year, but couldn't keep up the fervor and speed.

I don't know about fervor and speed. I don't  know about writing at all sometimes. My baby fell asleep with his hand clutching my hair. Tangled with children, stuck, sticky, enthralling children, the writing fades into the background. But Lewis won't let me stop until his story is done. He keeps whispering to me, tipping his white top hat to the crowd while sending me a half smile. Fictional characters can do all those things at once. Me, I have a four hour delay from the time I leave out the chicken to when I remember to put it away. I blame Lewis and his whispers, his intent gaze before he glances furtively over his shoulder, ready for them when they come, the mob with their torches, or the pounding of the three-year-old on the bathroom door, whichever comes first.

I have so many interests, I don't think that I am very interesting. Writing a blog feels pretentious and overwhelming, that I have something to say about what I say, that my daily triviality is worth the space of words, even digital words take up space. Don't they? Even my struggles seem small. Except when they're too much and consume. Sometimes there are no words.

I am not verbal. I found this interesting. When I am emotionally overwrought, I have no words, only space and gesture. I need space to find words for the feeling. I cannot explain while I act. I must stop and explain then restart the motion. If only I were a fictional character with accompanying dialogue, wardrober, director.

Sometimes the freedom stifles. Fashion. The running around to find rules to follow because there's too much space, too much free fall without someone to yell when to pull the ripcord. No ripcord. I've decided on my personal style. It's traditional. I'm so bored by my own style statement. I don't have the beautiful extravagance of bright pink/purple/green hair. I'm practical. Efficient. Distracted. I mean, stable. I mean, I'm busy creating, I don't have time to fuss over impractical touch-ups. I see cute girls with pink hair and I think, "how often do they have to touch-up?" What percentage of their time is used in matching those vintage gems?

The movie about Steve Jobs left me less than enthusiastic about him as a person, but he knew how to focus. He created systems to support his work. He had dozens of the same exact thing that he wore every day. Mindless functionality. That's what your home should be, what your closet and refrigerator should be. Or mine, anyway. Sometimes boring is all you have time for, particularly when you're busy chasing too many butterflies.

About the baby. It's a prequel. Everyone is leery about prequels. It's not that kind of prequel. It's the kind of prequel that explains things I don't have room for in the Lewis/Dariana drama.

I'm presenting the prequel as three parts that I'll publish over time, hopefully ending the prequel at the same time I end the original Hotblood saga. Saga, drama, fictional characters are so pretentious. I love them all.

Writerly Wednesday: The Storm Prince, Author Interview and Book Review

Wow, ML, I'm so thrilled to have you here today for Writer's Wednesday. I have to say, I can't believe how great your story has become. I know that writing is a tough gig, but you make it look so easy. The characters are amazing and your prose flows effortlessly. 

I have a few questions that have nothing to do with your story, you know, to deepen your character with irrelevant trivialities that make you approachable and adorable. 

Q: If you could be a fictional character, who would you choose?

ML:I would like to be Heidi. Living in the Alps sounds awesome. Or maybe D'artagnan, because all the ladies love him and he kicks butt with a sword.

Q: (Not really a question) Also, you could wear laderhosen. Next question, Pastry or cake? 

ML: Pastry. Except on my birthday. Then I would like more pastry. Pastry means pie, right? Mmm, pie. 

Q: You are right. Pie is far superior to cake. Everyone who is a REAL WRITER knows this. Now, what is your favorite climate?

ML: The beach.

Q: Is there such a thing as an arctic beach? Not that it wouldn't be cool... What do you think is the world's best writing soundtrack?

ML:The Wreck of the Day, by Anna Nalick.

Q: As Beri would say in one of my favorite parts, "The music was good".  What species would you be if mystical creatures were available? 

ML: A Kryptonian. Does that count? Comics are American mythology, right?

Q: Definitely. What is the most annoying sound ever?

ML: Styrofoam touching anything, especially other Styrofoam.

Q: Shudder. Favorite part of your series either written or unwritten, or both- 

ML: The very ending. But you'll have to wait to see what happens.

Q: If it's better than the first two, I absolutely can't wait! 

Thanks so much for stopping by ML John. Now go write the next book so you avid fans can get their next fix. 

Now for my review of John's enchanting book. 

This story is the missing link from the first book, when he's lost from the heroine Karen. I cannot do justice to this story in a review. 

Anguish! Passion! Spells of death and silence! Beautiful description, convincing dialogue, and an elaborate and complicated world that formed its own spell, sucking me in until I'd consumed this lavish delight. All this and a plot. 

If you've read the first book, you know that he, the prince, Beri, is a bit dense, and if you haven't, do yourself a favor and pick it up at once because it's simply lovely. 

Our hero gets captured and taken to the Summer Court where the Summer Queen uses all her powers to bend him to her will. He steps deeper and deeper into the tangled web when he defends the helpless against a tyrannical noble and becomes part of a subversive group who strives to foil the Queen. 

Which side will win, and does he care with his neverending broken heart? 

The writing was even smoother than the first book. I expect great things from this author and can't wait for the next in the series.