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Posted on 08/04/2025 11:36:02 PM PDT by Windcatcher
This is a work in progress for a trilogy that is 60% written. I would very much value any questions, feedback, or criticism as I craft it!
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Prologue
A light breeze brought Rhora awake. She was lying in her bed in rich chambers in what used to be Pernil Manor, with a window cracked open to provide fresh, cool air. As she lay there, another breeze, sweet with the aroma of spring, wafted inside.
“Rhora.”
It was only the slightest whisper on the wind, so faint that she thought she imagined it.
“Rhora,” a woman’s whisper repeated.
Her eyes went wide. She turned her head toward the window and without knowing how, knew that a presence was calling to her.
She stood, her thick waist-length blonde braid swaying behind her. For an instant her gaze lingered on the vague outlines of sword and armor lying in a corner, but somehow she knew she wouldn’t need them. She put on a pair of sandals, gathered her nightgown, and slipped into the hall.
An unseen hand seemed to guide her, bright shafts of Daralon’s blue moonlight through the glass windows marking her ghostly passage as she slipped down the polished wooden corridors. She passed by rich wooden panels and elaborate tapestries, decorating a manor not hers but one she occupied, a gift of King William for saving his life and his throne.
Into a deserted part of the manor she went, emerging onto a wide balcony that faced east. Big, blue Daralon was high overhead, nearly full in its glory, illuminating the countryside.
A woman was waiting for her. She was tall and beautiful, with almond-colored hair that cascaded past her left shoulder. Her features bore a curious agelessness, and she appeared regal in her mien and pose. Her garb was simple yet distinguished, a dark blue scholar’s robe with matching velvet cap.
A faint golden aura surrounded her form and it was plain that Rhora faced no ordinary individual. A name came to mind: Bhala, goddess of knowledge and wisdom.
The sight took Rhora’s breath away and she froze. Bhala, like Felal, Cilla, and some others, was considered a lesser god, but a deity nonetheless. Her domain wasn’t ancient and primal, like those of Corana, Revenn, and the like, but she held great sway among men, perhaps because her domain was closer to their everyday concerns.
Bhala reached out to her. “Come, child,” she said in a dusky voice. “Stand with me if you would.”
Rhora approached yet words didn’t come, she was so thunderstruck. A stray thought skittered to the surface, but it offered no comfort. Bhala wasn’t a goddess she worshipped and she found herself feeling guilty.
Bhala reached up a hand to gently touch Rhora’s cheek. “Do not fear, child. I have not come to chide. There is knowledge I wish to impart unto you.”
It took a moment for Rhora to nod, out of humility more than desire. To be visited by Bhala and offered knowledge--she had trouble even grasping the enormity of the gesture and the amount of respect it demanded.
Bhala smiled sadly. “I thank you, child, but I must offer solace in advance. What I impart may disturb you, but know that I remain by your side.”
Bhala turned and gently held Rhora about the waist with her right arm. With the other, she motioned out over the balcony and everything facing them, the grassy hills, the moonlit farmsteads, even the distant mountains of the Western Reaches vanished. In their place appeared a scene of fiery ruin.
Rhora found herself standing atop a high balcony overlooking a city aflame in the night. Everywhere she looked, buildings below blazed. She didn’t recognize the city, for it looked unlike anything she had ever seen. The balcony belonged to a tall stone castle, but all around she spied towers whose make she couldn’t guess. Light and airy they were, shining and iridescent against the fires that raged below and within. Giant windows, some clear and some all manner of hues adorned them, glinting wildly in the firelight. The vista was utterly foreign, yet one thing seemed familiar. The two moons were high, and in the distance she could just pick out a body of water glistening through the smoke. It almost reminded her of--
“Cayre,” Bhala said, her voice sorrow.
Rhora turned to the goddess. Bhala was staring ahead, but her gaze appeared to span ages.
Rhora turned to the dying city and her breath caught. She had grown up in southern Fremoria and had been to its capital. When did Cayre ever look like this?
“Twenty-four hundred years ago,” Bhala said. “Witness the final hours of the Age of Magic.”
Rhora looked on and struggled to not weep as fire raged from district to district, precious lives and treasures lost with every foot consumed. Only with great effort could she force out the question. “Jahir?”
Bhala shook her head. “No, child. You see not the work of Jahir, but what followed. Jahir’s armies murdered millions, but his goal was not ruin. What you see would have horrified him. This was the consequence of his war, the course taken by those few who survived.”
Rhora made to voice a question but the vision changed before she could. Another flaming city appeared, also fantastic in its appearance yet somehow familiar.
“Lapis, City of Wonders,” Bhala said. “You know it as Bluestone.”
Rhora’s jaw dropped. The palace atop the northeast hill, a magnificent giant, was an inferno. As she watched, one of those majestic towers strewn about the city leaned and collapsed, followed by another, and another. Soon all was fire, smoke, and ash.
More cities—Ravenpost, Filantar, even faraway Bassinor appeared. All Rhora could do was look on in grief as each perished.
Bhala had lowered her head, overcome. It occurred to Rhora that the goddess had witnessed their end as it happened, two millennia ago. She fumbled for words. Why would anyone choose to do this?
“I swear unto you, this was the only course to take,” Bhala said, her voice breaking. “In our hearts we knew the truth, though only my sister Corana bore the will to see it through, even as it broke her heart. All control over magic had been lost. To prevent another Jahir from arising she helped the survivors of his war carry out a terrible deed. Their remaining armies set upon all wizards, everywhere. Magic’s destructiveness had gone too far. It had to be erased. To refrain would have led to the end of all life on this world.
She heaved a sigh. “Not a book was left unburned, lest magic be hidden. This is how it was lost, child, and so much more--so very much.”
As Rhora took in her words, the goddess covered her eyes and wept.
Slowly, the panorama of fire misted away and Maneste’s quaint, pastoral countryside returned. Rhora couldn’t help but gaze south toward the distant capital. She now saw Bluestone, Jewel of Maneste, in a new light. Beautiful as she found it, it was nothing compared to the wondrous city of old. She couldn’t even guess at what brilliant works had been stricken besides magic, and that ignorance vexed her most of all.
Bhala straightened and stared into the distance. “Even with what lay at stake, I could not allow it all to perish. It was my sin of pride, but I could not.”
The world faded and a different vision appeared. It showed a middle-aged man and woman sneaking along a moonlit riverbank. They looked haggard and dirty, wearing ragged clothing that might have been deemed rich, if long ago. They bore overloaded haversacks, but what followed them captured Rhora’s attention. Two ghostly individuals, their forms translucent and indistinct, bore a pallet between them. On it rested all manner of crates and boxes, far too many for two people to carry. As Rhora watched, the assemblage crept silently and disappeared into the night.
“I guided a handful of wizards to safety,” Bhala said. “In my pride and desperation I could not let their greatness vanish from the world. And now it may be all of your undoing. The flame of magic still flickers, but in hands unsuited to its purpose. And its fire is as untamed as ever. This is what I impart unto you, dear Rhora. My pride, my folly, must be undone. I do not merely revere knowledge, but wisdom. And wisdom demands that such a threat to life end.”
Rhora gazed at Bhala, who appeared both stern and sorrowful. She tried to think of something to say. The notion of eradicating knowledge must be killing the goddess. It was an affront to everything Bhala stood for.
“If you hadn’t,” Rhora offered, “magic would have been rediscovered eventually.”
“The child speaks truth,” came another woman’s voice from behind.
Both turned, and out of the shadows emerged a doe. An argent nimbus surrounded the creature, and Rhora’s eyes widened as she recognized it as Corana, goddess of animal life.
Before her eyes the doe’s form blurred and shifted, and in its place appeared a red-haired woman. Her long hair was held back by a ring of flowers, and more adorned each wrist. She wore a long, flowing dress, light green, covered with images of various creatures. Like Bhala, a faint golden aura surrounded her.
Corana moved to Bhala and hugged her tightly. “Sister, we have spoken of this,” Corana said. “You did as you thought best.”
Bhala turned her head to gaze at Rhora. “You are right, as always. But the cycle must end.”
Corana stroked Bhala’s back. “Agreed. It must. But please, no more tonight. You burden this child too much--and yourself.”
She approached Rhora and lightly touched her on the forehead. “Enough, child. Forget, for now, and rest.”
Rhora’s eyes suddenly felt heavy, and the world faded from view.
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Very vivid and quite beautiful.
I want to read more.
Well done.
I was in the zone with you.
When I wrote this, I asked myself, what if the works of Shakespeare, of Virgil, of Chaucer, of Mozart, of Strauss, of our greatest giants, had been erased, as if these great men had never lived, to protect the world? How would that make me feel?
without knowing how, knew that a presence was calling to her.
Eliminate the complementizer that. An editor would tell you that it is stylistic clutter.
Hear how much better your prose flows when you later leave it out:
but somehow she knew she wouldn’t need them.
How much of your elaborate description is necessary to the story? Eliminate everything that isn't. "Kill your darlings" (look it up).
I hesitate to comment since this isn’t my usual genre, but here are my thoughts:
The writing is beautiful and clearly crafted with care. That said, I’d suggest trimming anything not essential to the story and replacing passive voice—and passive tone—with something more active and direct.
One principle I’ve come to appreciate is that a stripped-down style often gives each word more weight. The effect is psychological—like the law of diminishing returns. The more we say, the less each phrase impacts the reader. But when we use fewer words, each one hits harder. It draws the reader in and invites deeper engagement.
There’s real power in what’s implied but left unsaid.
Well said.
Quite the tale you’ve laid out for us. Excellent!
The usual advice is “show don’t tell” (when appropriate)
For instance...
You said: A light breeze brought Rhora awake. She was lying in her bed in rich chambers in what used to be Pernil Manor, with a window cracked open to provide fresh, cool air. As she lay there, another breeze, sweet with the aroma of spring, wafted inside. (A lo5 of telling, the reader doesn’t need to know that a cracked open window is for the purpose of bringing fresh air into the room... try to remember as you write that the reader is smart and can figure out things on their own without being told)
Show/tell = A soft breeze nudged Rhora out of her sleep. She blinked, disoriented for a second, swaddled in ridiculous luxury. The window was cracked. Cool air snuck in and made the curtains move in an almost hypnotic little dance. Somewhere out there, spring was in full bloom, sending whiffs of flowers and new grass into the room.
You siad: Rhora gazed at Bhala, who appeared both stern and sorrowful. She tried to think of something to say. The notion of eradicating knowledge must be killing the goddess. It was an affront to everything Bhala stood for.
Show/tell= Rhora stared at Bhala, taking in that weird mix of strict teacher and heartbroken parent on her face. The idea of destroying knowledge was eating her alive. She stood there, eyes searching for answers, trying to figure out what to say.
[[. That said, I’d suggest trimming anything not essential to the story and replacing passive voice—and passive tone—with something more active and direct]]
Agreed. That would help a lot. And show don’t tell would help too- those two things will engage the reader much more.
[[Cool air snuck in and made the curtains move in an almost hypnotic little dance]]
Should be: Cool air snuck in and the curtains danced in an almost hypnotic fashion.
Rhora lay in her chambers—once Pernil Manor—a window cracked, inviting the cooling breeze. A whisper of air, sweet with the scent of spring, roused her slumber.
Correction:
Rhora lay in her chambers—once Pernil Manor—a window cracked, inviting the cooling breeze. A whisp of air, sweet with the scent of spring, roused her from her slumber.
More rewriting:
Rhora lay in her chambers—once Pernil Manor—a window cracked, inviting a whisp of cool air, sweet with the scent of spring, rousing her from her slumber.
I try to avoid having too many hard breaks as they can be jarring. I went with this for the first paragraph:
Rhora slept in her chambers in former Pernil Manor. Through a cracked window, a wisp of cool air, sweet with the aroma of spring, roused her from her slumber.
Very good, but I prefer “the scent of spring”. It rolls off the tongue.
Also, “scent of spring” is gently alliterative, lending a poetic feel.
I use this: https://www.amazon.com/Self-Editing-Fiction-Writers-Second-Yourself-dp-0060545690/dp/0060545690
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