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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.
Alliteration: sweet with the scent of spring
“The only kind of writing is rewriting.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
Can you add the Writers Guild to the keywords?
Done
It was Hemingway who wrote the shortest tragic story known to man:
For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.
I'd write something like this:
Once upon a time, the end.
Do you want a Writer’s Guild ping-list ping?
A ping would be great! Thank you! Jim
The Writers Guild of Free Republic ping list
I must agree. I rarely use the word myself. See what I did there? Tee-hee!!!
I thought it was perfectly written.
Some of the feedback got me to recognize some words I didn’t need. For example, I condensed this paragraph a bit:
The world faded and a different vision appeared. It showed a middle-aged man and woman sneaking along a moonlit riverbank. Haggard and dirty, they wore 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, translucent and indistinct, bore a pallet. 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.
Where did the curtains come from? I’ve visited several castles and not one had curtains in the windows. They had shutters and doors, but no curtains. If there were fabric hanging over the windows, they would be heavy draperies hung over the shutters to prevent cold air from getting in. There were light weight “curtains,” but they were used around the bed to keep bugs out and to disperse light.
I didn’t have curtains in my writing because it seemed out of place. Pernil Manor isn’t a castle, it’s a stone manor, but it is of that era. It’s actually newly built. (It features in the book I published before this one. Lord Arnoar Pernil tried overthrowing King William and failed.)
nicely written and descriptive. i felt overwhelmed with the amount of details and the gods not worshiped but actively seeking apostates...
not knowing the back story makes it difficult to follow the who’s who, but agree, showing is better than telling.
not sure a beckoning is better than a visit... in this case. since she isn’t a follower of the goddess.
ok well castles aren’t in my pea-brain repertoire lol- ‘the bed curtains danced in a frantic mesmerizing fashion while hurricane hillary blew through the village destroying everything in sight’ lol
ogden nash i think it was wrote the world’s shortest poem titled:
“Fleas: Adam Had’em”
Or...
“The bed curtains writhed and twisted as if possessed, thrashing violently in the storm’s breath while Hurricane Hillary tore through the village, ripping homes to shreds and leaving nothing but splinters and screams in her wake.”
lOL- i like that better-
“Then she bounced to New York, threw her hat in the ring for senator and out of nowhere won, much to the dismay of upstate residents.”
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