13 posts tagged “novel writing”

Yes, NaNoWriMo has started, and so far it's going really well. My plot is vaguely coherent, my characters are starting to find their voices and even though I'm not sure how it ends I've got some good ideas for conflicts coming up. Things are appearing that I didn't know about, like Weavers, apparently Seer religion is more complex than I realised, and I'm happy!

So, as usual, here's chapter one (super rough nano draft) for everyone, but for future updates you need to be my friend. You know you want to be my friend :)

Devon Davies' Destiny

Chapter One - The cards you're given
Devon had often dreamed of holding a sword like this, doing great deeds of daring, vanquishing the enemy, defending the innocent and having them all chant his name as their hero. Though at the age of 15 he'd often dreamt of a great many things, like being a famous adventurer exploring the lost reaches of the lands and finding hidden riches, or of some fairy good mother turning up and telling him there had been some mistake and he, Devon Davies was actually some lost prince from a distant kingdom where fame and glory was just waiting for him to reclaim his throne. But dreams were one thing. Destiny was another entirely, plus his mother would be mortified if she thought he secretly wished he was someone else's child. That wasn't true. He loved his parents deeply, he just thought there must be something...well, more.

“Devon! Stop daydreaming and give me my sword, boy!”

“Yes, your highness. Sorry.” Devon avoided the gaze of Prince Algernon's friends as he handed the glorious weapon to its rightful owner. They didn't even try to hide their laughter.

“Honestly, I don't know where your head is half the time, but you should keep it on your job, boy, or I'll be having words with your father about assigning me a new man servant!”

“I'm sorry, your highness. It won't happen again,” he quickly promised. His father would be devastated if he had to be redeployed in the household. As far as he was concerned serving one of the royal family was the greatest honour there was.

“Well it had better not. I need staff that I can rely on in order for me to realise my destiny.” The over muscled, flame-haired royal turned to his friends, all in various stages of training for their inevitable knight-hoods. “You see, my friends, it is important you get good help in order to achieve the greatness that we are all destined for. In my birth prophecy there was no doubt in the Seers' minds that I will become a great hero when the war comes, and you are all here because they saw such greatness ahead of you. We all have important parts to play in the great tapestry. Don't allow little threads to get in the path of your greatness. We have responsibilities that will shape the future.”

Devon felt his blood boiling. “Just because I'm not destined to be a war hero doesn't mean my life doesn't have any importance!”

“Oh, I'm sure you're right, Devon, you're very important. I mean, what would Algernon's horses do without you to muck them out,” said Percival. He wound Devon up more than any of them. He could almost understand it from the noble families, but Percival was a humble baker's son, but just because the Seers prophesied that he'd be a knight in the war he gets treated like a lord and Devon get treated like something a lord would scrape off their boot. Actually no, they'd get him to do the scraping. Birth prophecies just cut through all these pesky class barriers. If you were lucky enough to be destined for greatness you were automatically one of the elite.

“Thank you for reminding me, Percival. Boy, go and clean out the stables. Once we have complete our training you will sharpen my sword and clean my armour, then you should go and get yourself a suitable punishment from your father for your insolence today. That should put you in a less exuberant mood.”

Devon sighed inwardly. He knew a big, dramatic outward expression of his exasperation would only serve to get him into more trouble at the moment. “Yes, your highness,” he said, and headed towards the stables to fulfil his destiny.

* * *

As Hannah made her daily journey to the Temple of True Sight, she couldn't resist watching the young knights at practice on the way past the training yard. She'd never considered herself the kind of girl who'd stare whimsfully at strapping young men, though she was at the age where people seemed to expect it.

“Good grief, stop drooling, Hannah,” a voice from behind her said, and a moment later she felt the hood of her cloak get pulled back. She turned to see a thin, dark-haired girl that always put her in mind of a wisp of smoke: transparent and toxic. She glared down at Hannah, as she was a whole foot taller than her tiny 5'2” stature, though narrowed charcoal grey eyes, one thin eyebrow delicately arched into an expression of contempt that Hannah strong suspected she had spent hours practising in front of a mirror. She was flanked by her two shadows, Daria and Mather

“I wasn't drooling, Rhiannon, I was just watching. That's not a crime.”

“Well you should stop 'watching' and get to class, Hannah. The saints know you of all people can't afford to miss any lessons.” Her cronies giggled behind her, even Mather, who giggled so much like a girl Hannah didn't think he had any business teasing other people. Still, she couldn't help the blush she felt rising in her cheeks and wished Rhiannon hadn't pulled her hood down baring her pale cheeks.

“I'm a good student, Rhiannon,” she mumbled, knowing before she even started that had to be the most pathetic attempt at defending herself in the history of self defence.

“Oh please, your prophecies are an embarrasment. You'll be going to class until your 60. You're completely hopeless, Hannah.”

“My prophecies are accurate.”

“Well Benson the royal cartographer can draw maps, it doesn't make him an artist.” Mather and Daria made some approving noises, making Rhiannon smile even more at her own comparison. “I think that's enough encouragement for the terminally hopeless,” she said to them. “We'd better get to class, not that we need any more lessons before Assignment Day.”

She swept passed Hannah, flicking her sleek hair over her shoulder into her face as she passed. Hannah's nose twitched, but it wasn't from the irritation of the hair. She felt that familiar feeling wash over her, the sensation of being connected to something bigger for just one moment, then as quickly as it came the feeling was gone.

“I'd watch out for that donkey card if I were you,” she called after them.

“What?” Rhiannon stopped before crossing of the street and turned back, and just at that moment a cart rushed past them, kicking up dirty rain water from the side of the road and soaking the bottom half of the robes of all three of them. The noises of anger that Rhiannon made very quickly stopped sounding like anything that even vaguely resembled language.

Hannah was dignified enough to not smile until after she had passed them. They wouldn't thank her. There could be some case for the argument that she had saved their lives, that if she hadn't called out at that moment they would have stepped into the street and been hit by the cart, but Hannah had trained for her future as a Seer her who life. Destiny didn't work like that. The image that had been left in her head from that brief connection was the exact one she left behind her, with three people who couldn't deserve it more covered in mucky water, so no one would ever know what would have happened if she hadn't delivered her prophecy, an no one would ever question it. There was no other way it could have happened. Nothing went against the design. Nothing.

* * *

Devon set the prince's armour and weapons down on the table and sank slowly to the floor, taking a moment to catch his breath. He was tired, he smelled, and he was rapidly losing patience. He'd tried to wash after mucking out the horses, but some things just required a bath to get rid of, and he couldn't have one of those until the end of the day. There just wasn't one single part of his job that he didn't hate. He couldn't understand how it could possibly be his one true call in life. He'd been doing odd jobs in the palace for as long as he could remember, started serving Algernon at the age of 13, and despite his father's assurances that he would grow into the role, after 2 years it didn't seem to be getting any better.

His breath regained he grudgingly got to his feet and picked up the sword and started to clean it. It was ridiculous, those boys waved this bit of metal around and they were hailed as heroes. The kingdom wasn't even at war yet, but the fact the Seers had prophesied their greatness meant they could to reap all the benefits now. It didn't look that hard, jumping around poking people. Any idiot could do that.

He could be any idiot, he though. With the trepidation of a child doing something they knew they shouldn't, but had already resigned themselves to doing it anyway, he slowly placed the cleaning materials down on the table and pulled his hands back like he was afraid they might cling to him. Satisfied that they were in fact going to stay where he put them he equally cautiously picked up Algernon's sword. He'd held the weapon many times before. It's weight was certainly familiar to him. It looked like a very fine weapon indeed, though to be fair he hadn't seen many others up close. The one's in the palace armoury looked nice enough. There was a trend for making the weapons look pretty, with delicate etchings on the blades and elaborate paintings decorating the scabords, coloured ribbons sometimes wrapped around the hilt. Devon could never work out why this was. He didn't suppose that anyone being killed by one of these blade had an appreciation for the the ascetics of the weapon that had slain them.

Algernon's sword had a very finely crafted hilt with an elaborate basket of fine silver threads cascading around where the hand would go. Devon grasped it there firmly and held it before him. The weight did feel different when he was supporting it all with his wrist. It also quickly became apparent that the hilt had been moulded specifically to Algernon's hand as Devon found his didn't sit comfortably on it. Still, he wasn't going to let a little discomfort deter him.

He moved his right foot behind him as he had seen the knights-in-training do many times before, the stepped forward swinging the sword across his front. “Take that!” he told his imaginary foe, taking another jab, then the ill-fitting hilt slipped from his grasp. He jumped back as the royal sword hit the stone floor with a clatter that echoed around the room and probably down the corridors as well. “Oh oh,” he muttered, quickly retrieving it and inspecting it for damage. There were some minor scratches that he was sure would come out with enough polishing. Other than that it seemed fine. Dropping to couldn't possibly do more damage than hitting people in armour with it would. He breathed a loud sigh of relief and placed it carefully on the table before starting on cleaning the armour with the full intention of pleading ignorance should anyone come along to investigate the noise, whistling a casual tune as he worked so everyone was extra certain of his innocence.

What poor Devon didn't know at this point was someone had already seen him.

* * *

“Birth Prophecies,” Master Seer Nyree said in that firm tone of voice that was just close enough to the edge of angry to frighten the class into silence without actually revealing a temper. “Birth Prophecies are the most important predictions we can ever make as Seers. Every child born in the kingdom must have one done.”

“We know all this,” said Rhiannon. “We're not first years, you know.”

“I'm well aware of your levels and ability, and don't think that your aptitute or your connections give you the right to back chat in my class room. You haven't graduated yet Miss Aydin.” Rhiannon just rolled her eyes with the air of someone who clearly didn't care they'd been reprimanded, but wasn't will to push the point at that moment. “As I was saying,” Hannah's teacher continued, “Assignment Day is tomorrow and it's essential that you are all prepared for whatever you are given. This is the start of your careers, gaining experience with seasoned Seers before you graduate and get the title of Novice Seer. Birth Prophecies are the corner stone of our society. They reveal everyone's part in the great design. It is essential that these are done with sensitivity and care. We have a duty to ensure the pattern is formed as smoothy as possible. We do not go around telling people when and how they are going to die, Miss Morley,” she said with a glare at Hannah and made her retreat further into her cloak and wish that hoods were allowed in class.

“I just said what I saw,” she mumbled.

“Pardon, Miss Morley? You must enunciate if you wish to be heard. You really cannot mumble so when talking to the public.”

“I just said what I saw,” she repeated louder, invoking some sniggers from the class. Master Seer Nyree sighed and rubbed her temples for a moment.

“Miss Morley, the last thing in the world that you should do is 'say what you see'. We can't have people running around trying to avoid their fates just because they don't like them. It's inevitable that what we predict will come to pass and you're only making their lives more miserable by telling them what to expect. Self-fulfiling prophecies don't benefit anyone, people trying to go to the desert to avoid drowning then passing out from the heat in their bowl of soup. It's just messy. The design cannot be changed. The threads may take different paths but in the end the tapestry will always be the same.

“We also have a responsibility to protect the Temple. Leaving some room for interpretation, again, I'm looking at you, Miss Morley, allows for the natural waves in flow of the pattern.” Hannah decided to try and use her straight blonde hair as a shield from the looks of the class in the absence of her hood. “Do not predict absolutes under any circumstances, I cannot stress that enough. The last thing we want are the public Prophecitors actually making a case. No one in known history has made a successful claim against the temple for a false prophecy and if any of my students are the first I shall be so ashamed that I will quit teaching and dedicate myself to making that person's life a living nightmare, within the confines of their own birth prophecy of course,” she added. The teacher had not looked at her, but Hannah knew what everybody in the room was thinking. They were just waiting for her to make a mistake that would throw the reputation of the whole system into disrepute.

“Now, I'm putting you into groups to demonstrate your birth prophecies,” she said, and started walking around the tables randomly numbering people for their groups. Hannah gave a mental groan when she realised that she'd been given the same number as Rhiannon. Rhiannon on the other hand was no so subtle about her displeasure.

“I am not going with Hannah!” she yelled, folding her arms in the most severe why possible as she tossed her hair back and forth like an agitated pony. “Not a chance. I want Daira and Mather.”

“You'll go where I put you, Rhiannon, and I won't hear any arguments. It will be several years before you're advanced enough to select your own trio so I'd get used to it if I were you. Besides, perhaps your talent will give the group a boost.”

Rhiannon seemed mollified by what Hannah considered a very transparent ego manipulation, but if she was shallow enough to thrive on empty compliments that wasn't Hannah's problem. They were paired with a quiet girl called Gillian who Hannah understood got good marks in her work despite her non-participation in class, so she had long ago concluded that the girl was just naturally shy. Hannah herself had not started out as shy as she was, but repeatedly being put down in class had gradually knocked the confidence out of her and she learned to keep her theories to herself. She did make copious notes on them though.

Practising birth prophecies was a peculiar event for most students. They would have to do a repeat prophecy for a child born in the kingdom that day, so some other trio of seers had already been to visit the family and delivered their verdict. This allowed the student's prophecies to be checked against the professional ones for accuracy, but also meant doing them felt strange as they would never be used. It was more of a struggle for a seer to force a prophecy that was not meant for them, but it could be done. Master Seer Nyree had always insisted that the great Weavers had intended them to train somehow. There was no reason why they shouldn't catch some future glimpse of the pattern that had already been seen.

Hannah watched in silence as three groups took there turns. Her mouth felt dry. As their turn got closer she grew more and more apprehensive of what she knew would come. She didn't need a vision to tell her. It was the same with every practice.

“Rhiannon, Gillian and Hannah!” She gulped as they were called up, but allowed herself to be swept along in the ritual. She knew it backwards, but it wouldn't help. “Baby Thatcher of the hamlet of Rockford.”

The girls stood in a circle around the focus sphere and placed their palms against each others creating a link between them. Hannah bowed her head and closed her eyes, knowing the others would be doing the same. She found it helped to visualise it in her mind. She was a little thread of light in her favourite colour, the rich red of the roses that grew in the court yard. Her thread snaked to the sphere where it met with the others. Hannah always imagined Rhiannon as black, and for some reason she felt green would be appropriate for Gillian. She had no idea if they created the same kind of pictures in their minds for the ritual. She didn't really have any friends to ask about their techniques.

When they found each other in the crystal the snaked and twisted around each other forming a much stronger thread. They worked as one to manoeuvre it to pierce through the block between them and the pattern. Hannah figured if the connection was always open their minds would be flooded with visions constantly, an experience that she was certain would send anyone mad. Sometimes it opened on its own, but to make it open required at least three people joined together. It did tend to work better if they actually got on. This was proven by the fact it took them several attempts to get through. Hannah felt that they were slightly pulling against each other, but they finally managed to move their thread as one, then separated to hold the gap open.

The connection to the pattern was always a little overwhelming at first. Hannah took a second to adjust, seemingly random images swirling into her mind and instantly rushing out again to make room for new ones. She knew she wouldn't recall these when the door was closed again. She made herself focus on the name she had been given, and quickly the pattern came into focus. She could see this new baby's thread, their place in the design. It had been set out before he'd even been born.

“Into peace this child is born,” Rhiannon chanted. “But soon his childhood will be torn.”

“The call of war. His fathers fight, defending home will be his plight,” Gillian added.

“As he takes a job with the blacksmith and helps forge weapons for the home guard,” Hannah blurted out before she could help herself. She had a strong feeling that there was more, but the connection evaporated as she felt the hands of the others leave hers and the circle was broken.

“Hannah!” Rhiannon yelled. “Can't you do anything right? I'm not working with her, Master Nyree. I'm not having Bland Hannah ruin my chances of a good assignment. I mean, how difficult can it possibly be to us the correct form? She clearly doesn't channel properly.”

“I was just saying...”

“...What you see,” the teacher said, not even bothering to hide her exasperation. “But you simply cannot be so blunt with prophecies, Miss Morley. We've been over this a thousand times. Have you been practicing the meditations I gave you?”

“Yes, Master Nyree,” she promised, finding herself fiddling with the fabric of her too long sleeves.

“And you pray every day at Reverence?”

“Of course, Master Nyree.”

“And you still can't channel the holy word of the Weavers?”

“I just see these pictures...” she muttered, trailing off under the pressure of the looks from her peers.

“Hannah, what are we going to do with you?”

Hannah didn't answer, but the fact her teacher had just called her by her given name for the first time ever she wasn't filled with confidence about the future.

* * *

Devon tip-toed down the corridor towards the delicious smells of dinner cooking. So perhaps being a knight wasn't for him. He'd never seen himself as a violent person anyway. But he knew there had to be something he could do that was more satisfying than being Prince Pratt-a-lot's personal slave. That was when a marvellous realisation came upon Devon. There were more opportunities to serve in the royal household than what he did. He wasn't sure on the specifics of his birth prophecy having never read it himself, but there just had to be something better, and he had always been a fan of food, which led him to his next great idea.

“Good day to you, John,” he said casually from the door to the chef.

“Devon,” was all he said in acknowledgement, giving him a curt nod in between adding ingredients to a large pan of soup. “What do you want, lad? I'm busy.”

“I know, that's why I was wondering if I could help you?”

That made him stop for a moment. “You want to work in the kitchen?” Devon nodded enthusiastically. “That doesn't sound like something Prince Algernon would ask you to do,” John said, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

“It's not.” Devon should have known it wasn't going to be so easy. “Things aren't really working out with Prince Algernon, so I thought...”

“You thought you'd just come down here and bother me instead? You should know better than to think you can just go around swapping jobs just because you feel like it. Your father wouldn't like it one bit.”

“Ah yes, my father...” Surely a little white lie wouldn't hurt. Once he proved himself his father would see he was right and see reason. “...My father sent me. It was his idea. He would have come to tell you himself but there's this problem with the maids, they want equal holiday rights as the gardeners or something,” he rambled, hoping that wouldn't invite any more questions.

John stare at him carefully. Devon could almost see the cogs slowly turning in his head. “All right,” he said eventually, thrusting a wooden spoon into Devon's hand. “We'll give it a shot. Get your apron on. There's some hanging up on the storeroom wall.”

“Thanks for this, John. I won't let you down,” he promised, nearly tripping over a crate of vegetables in his eagerness to get to the aprons.

“Careful there, lad, this is a dangerous place to work. It's full of hot things and sharp things, and...hot things...and...”

“Sharp things?”

“Precisely!”

Of course fooling John was helped by the fact he wasn't the sharpest 'thing' in the knife box. He made the best food Devon had ever tasted though.

“Right, you can start by putting the bread in to bake.” He handed Devon a wooden palate with a doughy lump on it and point to the hearth. “Just be careful. That's one of them hot things, right?”

“Fire, hot, got it,” he said. As if it was that difficult a concept to grasp. It looked simple enough. There was a ledge over the hearth for the tray. All he had to do was slide it on, which he did. So far so good. The fire looked a little low though. Surely the bread would cook quicker if it was hotter.

“John?”

“Call me Chef when you're in my kitchen, lad.”

“Sorry. Chef?”

“Don't call me it now, you twit. I'm busy!”

Devon looked at the cooling embers again, and spied the bellows to the side. John would certainly be impressed by his initiative, give a glowing report to his father and all would be well. Someone else could serve at the pleasure of his highness.

He grabs the bellows and gave them a trial puff. The flames briefly flared up and licked the bottom of the shelf. That seemed to do the trick. He set about giving them a good old pump, feeling a growing sense of pride as the flames grew. Some ash blew back out of the fireplace but he could sweep that up later. The one thing he'd learnt in his last job was good sweeping techniques.

Devon watched in fascination as the bread started to rise right before his eyes. Strange though, it smelt like it was burning. It looked fine. That's when he noticed the smoke rising from below him. Looking down he realised a hot ember had attached itself to his apron and was starting to take hold.

“Drat!” he muttered, fumbling at the back to get the thing untied so he could take it off, but his nervous fingers couldn't make heads nor tails of the knot. He'd have to put it out. Searching desperately around he quickly spotted a large pan of water on the side. He flicked the bottom of the flaming apron into the pan with a sigh of relief, though his relief was short lived. The pan instantly lit up with a blue flame, making Devon just back in shock still attached to the burning cloth.

“What in the holy halls of Pethra?” Everything went dark as Devon felt a something heavy drop over his head. For a second he thought he'd lost consciousness before he realised he was still standing and very much aware of the sensation of being roughly beaten.

When the weight was lifted Devon saw John glaring at him, a large blanket which was covered in various burn marks in his hands. “What the bally do you think you were playing at!”

“I was just trying to put out the fire,” said Devon sheepishly.

“You tried to put it out in the brandy for the King's poached pears, you twonk. Now it's wasted!” Devon had never seen a person's face literally go red with rage before.

“Sorry. I'm fine by the way.”

“Aye, and you're lucky you are too. That's more than I can say for the bread and that apron. You should never have the hearth that hot for baking! It burns on the outside before it cooks in the middle!”

“Well, I'm sure these are things I'll pick up in time.”

“No, you won't! You're not working in my kitchen, lad. You've no nounce about you. Common sense, that’s what you need. I'm telling your father that Algernon can bloomin keep you,” yelled John, pushing Devon out of the door.

“But I...” he started to say before he realised he was just talking to the door. And with that Devon's career as a world renowned Chef to Kings was over before it started.

* * *

Hannah had been told to wait after class. She found this incredibly disagreeable, mostly because it invited everyone to stare at her like she was an idiot on their way out, and Rhiannon and her posse had another opportunity to make fun of her while Master Seer Nyree disappeared.

She was alone when the old teacher finally returned and told her to report to Grand Master Seer Aydin. Grand Master Seer Aydin who was not only the head teacher of the training facility and one of only nine grand masters who sat on the Enlightened Nonumvirate, the highest honour a prophet can ever hope to gain, but was also Rhiannon’s father. The only thing she was thankful for was that all the other students had gone home by the time she made the long walk to his office.

She left the training wing of the temple via the main hall that looked out onto the court yard. It was busy even at this time of the afternoon, mostly with members of the public coming for the various services the temple offered. As usual there was a small queue at the on-duty Prophecitor’s door. At that moment the door was wide open as quite a large family tried to squeeze into the room. “But his prophecy clearly stated that we would amass great riches, the crowing jewel of which would be be envy of all, and clearly that hasn't happened!” A middle aged-woman yelled.

“Well there's still time,” the prophecitor responded. “There's no time limit on prophecies you know.”

“He's dead.”

“Ah, I see.” There was a few moments of silence while he shuffled through some papers. The unsatisfied family members of the recently departed exchanged uneasy looks. “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “It says her your mother's name was Ruby.”

“Yes, and?”

“And I'd hazard a guess that she was an attractive woman in her youth.”

“What of it?”

“I'm sure she made a fine crowning jewel to his riches.”

“Haven't you been paying attention? There weren't any riches. That's why we're here.”

“Ah, but I'm afraid in the Sally Hunter case of the Year of the Willow it was firmly established that riches could refer metaphorically to anything the subject considered of value, including and most importantly, his family.”

Another moment's pause as they absorbed this. Hannah was almost out of earshot by the time they erupted, the last thing she heard being one of the sons complain that it was a load of poppycock and they could make anything mean anything if they wanted. That wasn't entirely true. There certainly was flexibility in how some prophecies came to pass, but the options were limited. The temple prophicitors never had too much difficulty defending any case.

She left the hall and entered the private area of the temple reserved for Seers. Her embarrassment was only shortly spared as everyone knew there was only one reason why a student would be in this area, unless of course they were there without permission.

Hannah found Grand Master Seer Aydin's chambers reasonably quickly. The Enlightened Nonumvirate apparently did not approve of walking up stairs, so had opted to have their chambers on the ground floor. Novice Seers were granted the pleasure of climbing the 5 levels to the top of the temple.

The Grand Masters' private corridor was guarded, resulting in her having to explain in full detail exactly why she needed to see Grand Master Aydin. The guards gave her a disapproving look suggesting they thought her a naughty child being sent for punishment. That irked her more than anyone else's reactions. She certainly hadn't done anything wrong. That said, she wondered why the Grand Master wanted to see her. They couldn't kick her out. It was foretold that she would be a Seer at the temple, that's how every Seers was selected. No one had ever been dismissed. It would go against the design. She would find out momentarily. The large mahogany door of Grand Master Aydin loomed before her. She knocked.

“Enter,” a voice from within bellowed. Hannah obeyed, gingerly pushing the heavy door inwards and peering into the room. “Come in, Miss Morley. Take a seat.”

She nodded and did as she was told. It seemed the best way to handle the situation. Whatever was going to happen couldn't be stopped now.

“Master Nyree has explained your situation to me. It is quite clear at this point that you're not ready to prothesis to the public. Your predictions are too raw, too rash, you leave us open to the risk of legislation.”

“May I speak, Grand Master?” she asked timidly, feeling that now she had to at least say something in her defence before he announced the rest of his conclusions. He nodded. “My prophecies are just as accurate as anyone else's in the class. Everything I have predicted has come true exactly as I saw.”

“But there is an etiquette to these things, Miss Morley. An expectation! When you have been doing this for as long as I have you'll understand that people don't want to hear exactly what the future holds. They just want a teaser, a gentle prod in the right direction. Everyone will take their proper place in time, Miss Morley, even you, but the illusion of having some choice is what gets many of them through the meagre existence, so we can't have someone like you just telling them what is going happen at the end. If I may be completely blunt, you're an embarrassment to this organisation.”

“An embarrassment?” Hannah repeated, hardly believing that the Grand Master was being so openly mean to her. She could see where Rhiannon got it from now.

“That's why I'm giving you your assignment now.” He handed her the scroll she had been expecting to receive tomorrow with her class mates. She broke the official wax seal of the temple and unrolled the paper.

“The Archives?” she read aloud.

“Nobody is willing to work with you, Miss Morley, and you know perfectly well that induced visions require a trio. Working in the archives will allow you to remain here at the temple without causing any unnecessary difficulty. It's a very important responsibility, I trust you will take it seriously.”

“Well of course, Grand Master, but...”

“We will review your position in due course. I suggest to spend your free time in meditation and pray daily that you somehow master the art of channelling before graduation if you wish to attain the title of Novice Seer. Report to the archiver in the morning. That will be all, Miss Morley. I have a lot to prepare for tomorrow.”

He turned is attention to papers on the desk and acted like Hannah was no longer in the room. At that moment she was more than happy to make his illusion a reality, and she silently left.

* * *

Devon navigated the palace like a wounded animal. His pride already hurt the last thing he wanted was to meet an other predator on the way, so he listened at corners before going round them and ran past open doors so people inside wouldn't notice him. So far he's managed to avoid any unwanted rendezvous, though sooner or later he was going to have to face someone.

Slipping down an empty corridor, Devon noticed that one of the doors was left open. He prepared himself to run past it and had a listen. It didn't sound like there was anyone in there. Peeking through the portal we quickly realised that it was the practice room for the official court minstrels. The colourful coats hanging on the walls and various instruments dotted around the room gave Devon his first clue. They'd probably slipped out to the nearest tavern for a couple of hours. Now that seemed like the life, entertaining foreign princesses in the evening, serenading local maidens by day, enjoying copious amounts of beer to release those creative juices. His father thought alcohol numbed the mind and never let him touch a drop unless is was a special occasion, he had the next day off, his father could be there to supervise and off course the planets were in alignment causing a purple moon. Devon was fairly certain the life of a mistral would involve a great deal more drinking than that.

He looked around and found the corridor still empty, so ducked into the room and shut the door behind him. Devon perused the selection of instruments and decided which would suit him best. Singing had never been his strong point. The flute looked interesting, but it had rather a lot of buttons on it and he wasn't sure how they worked. The lyre on the other hand, well Devon had heard a lot about lyre players. Actually, he hadn't managed to hear that much about lyre players as no one would tell him, but it seemed to him there was rather a lot a great things they did no one wanted him to know about so that was the instrument for him. He picked up the stringed instrument and slung it round his shoulder with the leather strap then gave it a good strum. The noise that was produced didn't sound anything like any chord Devon had heard played before, but despite the bad noise there was something strangely satisfying about strumming the strings. It was almost as if they could channel his aggressive feelings about Algernon. It felt good.

Devon spent several immensely therapeutic minutes jumping around the room making energetic, if entirely un-tuneful sounds. He was so engrossed in the carefree joy of it that it wasn't until he span to the face the door mid-chord that he realised his father was standing there staring at him solomly.

“Dad!” He instantly let go of the lyre, though it couldn't go anywhere because of the strap.

“Devon, would you care to explain what's going on here?”

“Well, I was just trying out some different things.”

“You were making a terrible noise.”

“I just need some practice,” he said.

“And what about cooking? Do you need practice at that too?”

“Well, I think that would help.”

“No, Devon,” his father said firmly. “What you need is to concentrate on your duty. You have a responsibility to Prince Algernon. You can't just go running around the palace making trouble for everyone else. I'm in charge of the staff and you make me look like a fool when my own son can't follow the rules. Do you know how many people would be honoured to serve a future war hero?”

“Then let them, Dad. It's not for me!” Devon insisted. “I can't stand him, I can't stand his friends, and I can't spend my whole life being the object of their contempt. There has to be something else that I can do! I'm better than that.”

He knew right away it was the wrong thing to say. His father suddenly looked away from him, a dark grimace on his face.

“I didn't mean...”

“I know what you meant. You think serving the royal family is beneath you? The service that I and your mother, and our parents before us performed with pride and honour our whole lives? I expect some rebelliousness from a boy your age but I'm ashamed that you have no respect for the work we do.”

“I do respect you, Dad” he insisted, desperately wishing he hadn't been so rash with his words. “It's just, don't you ever wonder if there's something more that you can be?”

“What I can be is the best master of staff this palace has ever seen, and what you can be is a support to Prince Algernon that will see him through the war and make me proud. That is what I need you to focus on, not chasing whimsical fancies. He knows his place and your old enough now to get used to yours.”

Devon considered arguing, but there was nothing more he could say they hadn't battled out a thousand times before. His father would never question that his pre-ordained position in life was the perfect place to be. As far as he was concern it was the only place to be. “Fine,” he said. “I'll try to be more patient with Algernon. Maybe I'll grow into it.”

His father smiled for the first time in the exchange. “That's my son. Remember, Prince Algernon is a young man too, with two very influential older brothers to content with. He's still growing into his role too, but you'll see. He's destined for greatness.”

“Right,” said Devon. “And we'll be there to cheer him when he comes home and clean his war-soaked boots.” Yes, that was exactly the future Devon had always dreamed of.

2nd post of the day, 2 weeks until NaNoWriMo. And no so long ago I was bragging that I had my plot all planned out so I would not be blogging my NaNo prep. Well I got bitten by a plot bunny and for the last couple of days I've be planning industriously. With 2 and a half weeks left I decided to *gasp* change my idea! I must have been too organised. I'm ready to start writing Blue Blood right now, but that's clearly not enough of a challenge in the eyes of the NaNo gods, so I'm running with this new thing for now and seeing where it takes me. There just something about going from idea conception to finished first draft in a couple of months that really appeals to me. Last year I started planning around 2 months, 1 week, 2 days before NaNo, as last year's blog post will testify, so 2 weeks will really be something of a challenge for me.

This year I'm writing my solution to the whole 'chosen one' plot line. We all know the drill. One boy/girl, preferably from humble background, is phophesised to be 'the chosen one' who will defeat the greatest evil in the land and be a great hero. I'm not sure why this plot is so appealing. Perhaps it's something to do with the reluctant hero who has this great destiny thrust upon him that he must rise to 'or else'. Anyway, I thought it might be nice for a change to have the hero of the story become a hero because he actually wants to, not because some old hag 1000 years ago wrote it in a scroll. So, my hero Devon is the only person with no destiny in a kingdom where the future of every child is prophesised at their birth, and in his story he's going to have to actually exercise some free-will and make choices for himself. As the one guy who can actually be anything that he wants to be what choices will he make? There's kind of a Willow 'which finger controls your destiny' thing going on, so it should be fun.

Last year I tried out the snowflake method of outlining. It's good, but time consuming and I've only got 2 weeks left, so this year it's Holly Lisle's notecard method . It looks fun. You basically write out ideas of scenes on index cards and kind of trust your brain to tie them together in a coherent plot. This seems good for me this year because at the moment all I've got are ideas for scenes, so I hope my brain works as well as Holly's, plus it gives me a good excuse to use up those coloured index cards I bought for my 2006 NaNo that never got planned.

So far it's going pretty well. I've plotted out most of Act I using this method so I've got at least the first couple of chapters. I managed to do this in about an hour yesterday, but I did have a better idea of the first part so we'll see how the rest goes. I'm going to start on Act II now. Wish me luck! I'm going to need it.

At least if it fails I've got Blue Blood ready to fall back on :)

It's NaNoWriMo! OK, not for another 2 months yet, but I'm so psyched up :). I'm normally be tempted to blog my prep journey, but I'll all really. 2 weeks in Scotland with a mini notepad from Venice and I have 24 glorious chapters of plot. That might be a little short, but I expect it to get longer as I go along. So now I'm faced with a decision. Edit Cold Spell (chapter 2 now available to neighbours only, might I add), iron the kinks out of this plan, or plan book 3! If I plan the last book I could be crazy and just write straight through from Nano until the series is finished. But that does have a risk of burn out.

So, here's the plan. I'm editing Cold Spell. The tentatively titled Blue Blood can stay in it's current form and get written start to finish Nov-Dec. Then I'll get beta readers for Cold Spell and plan book 3, Ice Age (gotta come up with some better titles!). Edit Blue Blood, write Ice Age, Beta test Blue Blood, re-edit Cold Spell, Edit Ice Age, Beta Ice Age, send Cold Spell to publishers, re-edit Blue Blood, re-edit Ice Age, get nasty letter from publisher about how crap Cold Spell is, cry, hide other books, crawl under rock, wait for NaNo, plan Shadowcaster trilogy, repeat until gibbering wreck.

How's that for a plan?!

Yes, here is it, for one time only, Cold Spell. The first chapter, in 'really not polished but at least all the major plot elements are there' form. After this draft I need beta readers, so I might be begging for volunteers! Anyway, chapter one is here for everyone, but because of copyright issues and first publishing rights regs all subsequent chapters will be friends and family only, so if you like what you read just add me as a friend :o).

So, without further delay, I give you my 2007 NaNo - Cold Spell:

Before the Veil, before time, before even the Spirits, there were the Forces. Four great beings, all the power of the universe within them. But they were lost, and alone. They wandered the emptiness, each unaware that there were others like themselves, until at last they found something they never dreamed existed. A new world. And there they found each other, and were joyous that their lonely journey had come to an end. The Forces settled together, and they called the new world Home.

 

"Before the Veil," said Mrs Tinker, smiling at the magical effect those words seemed to have on suddenly silent children, "a beautiful, enchanted kingdom sat upon the Frozen Mountains. And what was that kingdom called?"

     "Taleira," seven little voices chorused. Mrs Tinker thought this suspicious as eight children sat before her on the carpet.

    "Flora," she said sternly. Twenty years of caring for orphaned and unwanted children had taught her a few things. One was when a child snatches their hand back as quickly as the young red-head did when they hear their name they were doing something wrong. Actually seeing the crime was not always necessary. "Any monkey business from you during this story and there will be no treat for you tonight, young lady."

     Flora tightly folded her arms across her chest, sighing dramatically as she slumped heavily backwards into the child behind her. Luckily it was Bryn, and he usually took his younger sister's sulks with good spirit.

     "Yes, it was Taleira," Mrs Tinker went on. "And the people of Taleira were very happy, for they had a good and wise king and their land was prosperous. But that wasn't the only reason the people loved the king so much. The Frozen Mountains were a dangerous place to live, but the king had incredible powers over the ice, and used them to keep the kingdom safe from the constant blizzards. But though the king was kind, he grew sad. He and his wife were getting older, and they had no children of their own."

    "Aww," said a couple of the children.

    Flora simply pouted."They could have had one from here," she grumbled.

    "Sshh!" hissed Bryn. 

    "It was soon to be the queen's birthday." A quick glance at Flora didn't reveal any more interruptions brewing, but it was hard to tell with that one. "The people of the kingdom wished for her to be as happy as they were, so they each went to her and asked what gift she desired. 'A child,' was the only answer she would give. But the people loved their king and queen, so they all prayed to the spirits to bless the Queen with a baby. The spirits heard their pleas, and on the day of the Queen's celebration she discovered that she was with child.

    "That winter, the Queen gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, with hair dark as the moonless night and eyes as blue as the noon day sky, and the kingdom rejoiced. They named the child Issa, and as the young price grew the King taught him the ways of magic.

     "The years went by and Issa grew more skilled by the day, and the King and Queen were happy that he could protect the kingdom. But someone else was not so happy with the young prince's progress. The dark spirit of the north looked upon the kingdom with fury. For too long the King had flaunted his power, and now Prince Issa looked set to surpass his father in strength. The spirit would regain her reign over the mountain at any cost."

     The children stared up at her in expectation. Even Flora's best attempts to feign disinterest were let down by the way she sat perfectly still, listening carefully to each word.

    "When at last she could stand it no more the spirit sent a beast of ice and snow to destroy them all. The King heard the cries of his people and climbed to the highest turret of the royal palace, where he summoned all of his power to battle the monster.

    "The fight between man and demon went on long into the night, but the King was growing old and his strength was not what it once was. The beast dealt a fateful blow, and a shard of ice penetrated the chest of the King. He knew he was on the edge of death, so forced what was left of his life energy into a final devastating enchantment, and the ice demon crumbled. A cheer rang up from the people below as the remains of the creature fell like flakes of snow, but the Queen ran to the side of her husband. "Tell Issa that the duty is his now," he told her, before closing his eyes for the last time. Blinking away tears, she left the King and ran as fast as she could to her son's room.

     "The screams of the Queen halted the revelry of the people below the castle. The prince was gone, taken by the dark spirit while the castle was distracted. The spell of protection broken, the storms closed in on the kingdom. The Queen returned to the King's side on the highest tower and stood looking out in a vigil for her only child. She never moved from that place, even when the blizzards came and encompassed all that remained of her husband's domain. With the whole kingdom frozen, the spirit of the north returned the prince to the castle and encased him in ice in the throne room for all time."

     The children leaned forward in uneasy silence.

     "Then what happened?" Bryn finally asked.

    "Well, they say the prince is still there to this day, slumbering under the ice until the spirit has a use for him. I did warn you this was the last Taleira story before we began," Mrs Tinker reminded them on seeing the distress growing in their faces.

    "That's a stupid story," said Flora.    

    "I would have fought the spirit," said Bryn, leaping round fighting some invisible foe with a make believe sword. "Like this!"

     The general whining about the unsatisfactory conclusion to the tale quickly ebbed away when Rachel, the girl Mrs Tinker hired to help with the children, came in with the tray of warm milk and biscuits. She watched carefully as they each took their turn selecting their treat, making sure no one took extra.

     Just when they had settled down and she was sure that the rest of the evening would pass without incident, a pair of shrill cries broke the peace.

     "Flora!" The girl leapt sharply back from where Molly and Wendy stood huddled together in tears. "What did I tell you? Give me your biscuit and go straight to bed, miss," she commanded. Flora dragged herself over, purposefully crushing her treat into several pieces before dropping it back on the tray and skulking off upstairs to the girls' room.

     "What did she do this time?" Rachel asked, a half smile on her lips. Though they didn't condone them, the two ladies couldn't help but be amused by some of Flora's antics. It did keep things interesting.

    Keen to find out the answer herself, Mrs Tinker gave the girls a motherly cuddle. "Oh, there there, now. Dry those eyes. Whatever is the matter?"

     "Flora...*sniff*...gaved us invisidible bikket," Molly told her, holding out her empty hand as evidence.

     "Well that doesn't sound all that bad," Mrs Tinker told them.

     The girls shook their head. "No, she said they were magic. Traded them for our boring old biscuits," Wendy explained. "But she didn't say they had invisible flavour too."

     "Ahh," said Mrs Tinker as images of Flora gobbling up two biscuits under the covers while having a good giggle at them filled her mind. "What am I going to do with that girl?"

     "At least she's smart," said Rachel. "She'll probably grow out of the petty tricks."

     "I suppose you're right," she sighed. "The girl's bound to get tired of it sooner or later."

Twelve Years Later...

 

Flora gazed into the spirit sphere nestled in the silk scarf on the table. These mystical artefacts could supposedly see through the Veil into the Spirit Realm, allowing the spirits to show the seeker something important about their future. The only thing Flora could see in this one was the reflection of the candles surrounding it. Not that she'd ever seen one working before.

     "What do you see, wise one?" asked the girl sitting across the table. The thin blond looked hopefully into the glass ball, no doubt deluding herself that there were mysterious images that only a witch could see. Through the flickering candlelight and the heavy red hue of the sun shining through the coloured tent fabric the mind could easily play tricks.

     "I see love, my child," Flora said, squinting at the ball like she was trying to focus on something. "There's a man in your life." It was a fair enough guess, seeing half the population was male.

     "Well, there is someone I like," she said.

     "Of course there is, my dear," said Flora, grateful for the predictability of simpering young blonds seeking out spirit guidance. "And he can be yours, but if you do not act quickly he will slip from your grasp."

     The girl's face dropped. "But, what must I do?"

     "Fear not, little one," she said, speaking in a distant, floaty voice. "I have just what you need to win his heart." Flora drew a small vial of liquid from the folds of the black cape she wore. The woman peered at it eagerly.

     "What is it?" she asked.

     "This, my child, is a magic potion," Flora told her. "A few drops in the tea of your beloved and he'll be in your arms by the time he has finished the pot."

     The woman's eyes widened as she reached out to take the bottle. "Will it really work?"

     "Of course, my child. I guarantee it. That will be 10ems by the way," she added casually, as though the money was just an afterthought.

     Her customer nodded and handed over the coins, gazing at her purchase in wonder. "Thank you so much, oh wise one."

     Flora smiled sweetly. "Mention it not, my child. If you need me again you know where my tent is."

     Another satisfied customer left through the front flap. Flora took a moment to adjust the black hair that fell out from under her hood before called the next person looking for the guidance of a witch. She quite surprised when the next head through the flap belonged to Bryn.

     "Flora, we've got a problem," he said. "We have to leave."

     "What? Why?" she protested. "There's lots of people waiting to see the witch."

     "Yes, but the real witch is on her way back, and she's got the town guard!"

     Flora leapt to her feet and poked her head out to look. Sure enough, an irate looking middle aged woman wrapped up in a blanket practically dragged a guard down the street, animatedly waving her arms around and gesturing to the tent. She looked quite ill, and Flora suddenly realised why the tent had been empty that day. To make matters worse, some familiar faces from earlier in the day were shouting in his other ear, showing him little empty potion vials.

     "You're right, time to shut up shop!" She ran to the back of the tent, grabbing the spirit sphere and stuffing it in her bag on the way past. Bryn lifted the fabric at the back for them to get through.

     "I've moved the horses to behind the Silver Swan," Bryn told her. Flora heard yelling from inside the tent as their pursuers discovered they had come too late. It wouldn't take a genius to work out which way they had gone.

     "Quick," she said. "Down here." They ducked into the alleyway and Flora shed her cloak and black wig.

    Later, the guards would find the disguise and kick themselves. Everyone would swear blind that an elderly dark-haired woman with a hunch had impersonated a witch and sold them the dodgy love potions, and they would never be able to link the crime with the flame-haired girl that had ridden out of town with the muscular blond man at a heck of a pace earlier that day.  

The sun already hung low in the sky when they finally came to a stop. The roads twisted and turned between the hills through the valleys here, so they were shielded from the eyes of anyone on the road behind them. Bryn dismounted and got water for the horses.

     "Do you think we'll make it to the next coaching in before night?" he asked.

     "Should do," said Flora. "It's only another mile or so." She jumped off to stretch her legs for a spell. Riding always made her cramp up. "That was a close one. Worth it though. We made 70em off the potions and 13 from the readings. Witching isn't such a bad business."

     "Maybe it would be better if the potions actually worked," Bryn suggested.

     "I didn't make any false claims," Flora insisted, rubbing her face with her sleeve. "I said the potion would get their loved one in their arms and it does. Do I still have coal dust on my face, by the way?" she asked, looking at the dark streaks she'd transferred to her clothes. Normally some strategically placed dark lines wouldn't be enough to make her look older, but in the dim light of the tent it had worked a treat.

     "You forgot to tell them that their loved one would be throwing up half the time and unconscious in their arms for the rest of it," said Bryn. "And yes, you do."

     "They didn't ask," Flora said dismissively, giving her cheeks another hard rub. "How about now?"

     "You missed a spot, Flora," said a voice that definitely didn't belong to Bryn. A wall of a man stepped around the bend. He had a good foot on Bryn in height and probably another half in width. He wore a smart looking black suit, but the fabric stretched under the strain of his muscles. He stared at her impassively, but he wasn't the one that spoke. A much smaller man, that is he looked small in comparison to the Wall, emerged from behind him, waving a small flintlock pistol at Flora. She'd only seen him once before, and that had been enough.

    "You're never going to hit me from there with that little thing, Harvey," said Flora, slowly backing away. The crack from the Walls knuckles as he crunched his fist echoed down the valleys. The pistol may not fire that far, but she thought Harvey's backup could probably do a lot of damage by throwing it at her.

    "Where's the money, Flora?" asked Harvey.

    "Don't worry. Grady's going to get his money," she said, edging ever closer to Bryn. Her brother may not have gun but the sword at his belt put a lot of people off giving him any trouble. "I just need a bit more time. You know, I've got a couple of things going on and they're already paying off. I'll have the rest in a jiffy."

    "Really?" In unison both men strode towards them. "Mr Kole doesn't like to be kept waiting, Flora. I think we're going to need some assurance that your scheme is going to deliver, or we'll have to resort to alternative repayment schemes."
    Flora had heard stories of Grady Kole's 'alternative repayment schemes', but never from someone who had actually experienced them first hand. That suggested to her that the stories were probably true. "Look, I made 60ems already, just today, so if you'll just stand aside we'll hit a few more towns and Grady will have his money in a month. Six weeks tops," she said, her voice steadily getting higher as the Wall got closer, until they were both right on top of them.
    "Hand it over, Flora," Harvey said, holding the barrel of the pistol in front of her face. "Or do you think I can't hit you from here?"
    Flora heard the sliding of metal and Bryn's sword was out and in his hand. "Leave her alone," he said firmly.
    "I suggest you keep your lackey in order, Flora," said Harvey calmly, completely unfazed by the threat of Bryn's blade. This was a man used to getting what he wanted. This was Grady's man. Flora slammed the coin purse into his hand with much more force than was necessary and watched longingly as it disappeared from view into Harvey's pocket. "And the rest of it," he said.
    "Rest of what?" she asked, but he wasn't buying it. He gave the Wall some unspoken signal and before Flora could finish the sentence a pair of huge hands were running over her clothing. "Hey, don't get fresh, big guy. You're not my type," she said. The Wall smiled.
    "Are you going to get that out yourself or shall I do it for you?" Evidently the Wall did speak after all. Flora cursed loudly and pulled a smaller bag out from under her top.
    "Happy now? Or do you want blood too?"she said, throwing it at Harvey.
    "Don't tempt us, Flora," he said. "Load up the horses," he instructed the Wall.
    "Hey what are you doing?" Flora yelled.
    "Just a security deposit," said Harvey. "You can have them back when you pay Mr Kole his money." The Wall started to lead the horses away.
    "Wait, I need my bag! I can't make any more money without my supplies," she pointed out. They seemed to take this into consideration and threw the bag at her feet, which landed with a chorus of tinkles as the glass vials knocked into each other. Damn, she though. If the merchandise was broken they'd be in real trouble.
    They watched helplessly as their trusty steeds were tied to the men's horses. "You'd better get moving, said Harvey as he urged the horses into motion. "It's getting dark, and it's a long walk to the next inn. We'll be seeing you very soon, Flora."
    They disappeared around the bend long before their hoof beats echoed into nothingness.
    Now sure they were gone, Flora kicked a rock very hard, not realising it was actually attached to the hill. "Damn it!" she yelled in a hybrid of pain and frustration. "They must have been waiting her for us."

    Bryn sheathed his sword and picked up Flora's bag. "Some of them broke," he said, checking inside, "and I think the potion is trying to eat your bag. And we don't have any money now."

    "Oh, don't we?" said Flora, pulling her boot off. "You don't think I managed to keep hold of a little bit?" She tossed the boot to Bryn. It jingled. "We've still got 13ems."

    "At least we don't have to sleep outside then," said Bryn.

    "Well, if we find a place with some good games we might be able to lay a wager and get enough to replace..."

    "Don't you think gambling has got us into enough trouble already?" Bryn said.

    "All right, all right, don't panic," she said. "I know what I'm doing." Flora put her boot back on and started to walk. "So, we've still got some potions, and some cash. All we need is a really clever way to make a lot of money very quickly so we can pay Grady back."

    "Oh, if that's all we need then there's nothing to worry about," said Bryn, starting to walk down the road.

    "Have a little faith," she said, trotting along beside him. "Something will come along, you'll see."

 

    He tripped and fell again, exhausted from running all night. He didn't know where he was going, or even where he was running from, just that he didn't want to be there. He picked himself up again and crawled to the peak. Maybe over this one. Each time he climbed a hill he just saw another one beyond it, but it couldn't be hills all the way. It just couldn't. There had to be somewhere else. Home couldn't be far.

    He reached the top and his heart sank. Another hill. No. He sat on a rock, ready to sleep right there, when he heard a curious sound. Hoof beats. With renewed hope he searched for the source of the noise. Below him a road snaked between the hills. He saw a team of horses pulling a wheeled carriage behind them. He tried to call out for help, but his voice cracked and faltered, as though he had not used it in some time, and before long the carriage was just a dot far ahead on the road.

    He took a deep breath and picked himself up. that road had to go somewhere. He could follow it. Perhaps it went home. He began the careful climb down the hillside, not once looking back for what he ran from, so he did not see the frost trail that followed where he stepped.

The deadline for the Seventh Sanctum contest went rushing past and I didn't have anything even close to being finished. Oh well. I'm hoping the next one will be more of a single character thing. It really was the panic vampires that did me in at the end.

I am loving the new generator, though. It's called a Symbolitron and it comes up with story concepts that map to something symbolic. For example, I just got "The story about monster trainers where the characters map to the Ten Plagues of Egypt." Too much fun :o). I'm looking for something like that for my demon hunters in the new book I'm planning, 'The Diabolist's Debt'. I was thinking seven deadly sins, but maybe there's something better I can use. How about this: "The love story where the main character moods map to the Ten Sephiroth of the Kabbalah." Hmm, back to the drawing board, methinks.

This morning I had an idea on the bus. This is not unusual for me, which I why my filofax if full of random plot notes, but this one was interesting. This one finally sealed the fate of something that I have been internally debating since November. It's offical. Cold Spell is going to be Book 1 of a trilogy. Huzzah! So, I've been thinking about how to approach the task and what kind of structure makes a good trilogy. This is where Star Wars comes in. The original trilogy, that is :P.

The first thing we need is major story arc. What conflict is going to span all three of the books? We need an Empire and a Rebel Alliance. These guys need to be kicking off against each other from page 1 until the very end of the series when the good guys finally either win or are defeated by the overwhelming forces of evil that should have by all rights snubbed out our plucky heroes some time ago. Got that? Check. Now we have to give them something to do.

Book 1 - They win the battle, but not the war

We need A New Hope. In part 1 our plucky heroes will embark upon their small scale adventure which must be completely resolved within that volume. Rescue the Princess, destroy the Deathstar. That's it. Some forshadowing is good. If anyone is going to be revealed as anyone else's father in part 2 we might want to drop a few hints in here, but basically the point is to get a completely self contained story with scope while leaving plenty of scope of expansion. Why? Because practically we're much more likely to sell the book if we're not asking publishers to take a chance on a whole trilogy in the first instance. There's no reason why it shouldn't stand alone. Well, I've got one of these in the editing, so better work out what comes next.

Book 2 - Things get bad, then worse, then...

We need another plot arc and it needs to be tied into the big one. So our heroes are doing their thing, our bad guys are doing theirs, invariably they don't want the other doing whatever it is they're doing and mightly plot things on an even grander scale than last time follow. But now we're on part 2. We've already got people hooked. We don't need to fix everything right away. Potential romances from part 1 should blossom here, but it's very important that absolutely no one is happy at the end of part 2. So when putting lovers together we must instantly throw a horrid misunderstanding between them or drag them kicking and screaming away from each other. We want to pile on the pain and the big bad bearing down on them and just when we think all is lost and Luke's had his hand cut off and Han's been taken by the bounty hunter we roll credits. Ha ha, now you'll have to read the next one if you want to see how this mess is going to get worked out.

Book 3 - The final showdown

This is where we're wrapping up our major story arc, so although we do need a minor plot to span this story (where it involves Ewokes or not is really a matter of personal choice) the resolution of it should really end up in the same place as the big one - the heroes either win or lose once and for all. This is also sudden death mode! Anything can happen. People can switch sides, and should, secret weapons can be revealed, bad guys can be redeemed, good guys can be tempted, anyone can die because they're not going to be needed again in the next one, and for various reasons our lovers still can't get it together until the very end. Lets face it, everything that came before has led to this point, so we've got to make it one hell of a ride.

Um, I wonder what's going to happen to all of my characters when I get them to this part...

Most people who read this blog will by now already know the events following my last post. Anyone who doesn't know, well it's not going to take a genius to figure it out. I did consider doing a whole post about my feelings, experiences and stuff, but I don't really think that's going to do anyone any good. Suffice to say that we're both doing ok and we're looking to the future. Oh, and we got a cat. His name is Darwin.

In the spirit of moving on and getting back to normal, I decided to make my first post (on my first day back at work) the somewhat belated February roundup. So here's how I've been getting on with my goals for the past couple of weeks:

1) Get at least 1 rejection letter from a publisher for a short story (acceptance letter counts too!) 

I'll be honest, got nothing on this, so moving swiftly on...

2) Finish the last six chapters of Technomancer, my 2005 NaNo

I think the last six chapter is down to the last four chapters, but as we discussed before the whole thing kind of stalled, so I put it on hold and jumped right on to... 

3) Edit 1 novel of choice and actually let someone read it

Got Markie to print out Cold Spell for me and I read it through. There are some definite problems, but so far the editing is going well. Slowly, but well. I spent two days solid and only got through 39 pages, so I get the feeling this is going to be a long project, especially as I've now decided to completely rewrite a character and change is plot. Jack never did gel with me, but I'm feeling pretty confident that this new direction I'm going in with him could really give the book that extra something it needs to pull the whole thing together. Watch this space for more developments and possibly some extracts! 

4) Write new text for projectmonkey.me.uk

Still not done that. Not that project monkey seems to be up at the moment...

5) Continue learning to draw manga and put at least 3 original pieces of artwork on my deviantART page

My deviantART page is still empty, however... 

6) Enter 1 Seventh Sanctum Art Contest (why the hell not, sounds like a  laugh!)

I have got as far as doing a headshot of Charneldream for the Evil and Company contest, so it's a start. I'm not sure if I'll actually enter the contest. I'm thinking more of a single character thing would be more suited to my first try, but I'll post her when I'm finished with her either way, even if I don't manage to do her panic vampire minions at this point. 

7) Write and workshop 3 short stories, not counting the one I wrote yesterday. That was last year.

I haven't been on my workshop for a couple of weeks, and editing is taking up most of my creative energy at the moment. I'll get to it though.  

8) Read at least 1 fiction novel a month, with the exception of November when I'll be a bit busy

In February I read Thud! OK, I actually finished it in March, but I did finish it, and it's been a challenging month. This month I'm giving myself an easy job and reading "Where's my cow?".

No, I don't think that's cheating...

9) Actually read all the course books the OU are going to send me in a couple of weeks

I did let my reading slip, but I'm back in the game now. I've nearly finished Chapter 3, which I should have finished last week, but never mind. The next chapter is on consciousness, and I'm rather good with that if I do say so myself, so it shouldn't take to long to catch up.

10) Finish wedding scrapbook

Hmm, did I really agree to do that too? OK, I suck. This I have not started yet. At least it's on the list!

That's all for now, folks. TTFN!

Some times the urge to revisit long forgotten projects pounces upon the writer very suddenly. You'll be watching the news, or walking through town, and something will strike you from nowhere that just makes you go 'Wow, that would be great for that thing I was working on a few years ago!', and just like that you're all refreshed and ready to go again.

I'm not really a stranger to this feeling. My first book, Alpha, only made it to the end of the first draft because of this happening several times over the course of 7 years. To avoid the problem all together, for my last book I just didn't stop until I made it to the end. I'm never waiting 7 years to finish a first draft again. To write a final draft, well they take as long as they take, but I'm not dwelling on first drafts any longer, I say!

But what to do with a stalled first draft and no more inspiration? This is where I am with Technomancer. Started 2005, currently 5 chapters from the end. But I have lost all enthusiasm for the project. Jumping back in to write 5 chapters of something after dedicating months to another story is like pulling teeth. I can't remember what people were doing, I can get my characters' voices right, I suddenly hate my cliche ridden plot and I want it to die a horrible death and stop taking my time away from other things.

I'm told that these feelings are normal. As much as I want to just leave it until I get that burst of enthusiasm, I just can't. It doesn't bode well. I could spend 7 years on Alpha because I wasn't really writing anything else. Now I've got Cold Spell to edit, and before we know it NaNo will be back and I'll be pouring my heart and soul into a new world and giving what little attention I have left after Baby Boo and Markie have taken their fill to some new characters, and it could be years, maybe decades before I get that drive back for this one. I had the motivation to finish it. Then I stopped. Finishing without the motivation is my punishment. Hopefully when it's finished I'll be able to bond with my characters again, maybe re-find my lost love for this story. Or maybe I'll never look at it again. Either way, I'm going to finish it. Maybe this time I start first and the enthusiasm finds me later :o).  

November, along with NaNoWriMo, came and went, and though I got my 50,000 words as usual the novel went unfinished. But now I'm pleased to report that as of around 9pm last night, at 96,406 words, 30 chapters and 189 pages, 1 month and 23 days after I started, the first draft of 'Cold Spell' was completed.

Hooray!

Now to still back, enjoy Christmas, and maybe think about editing the thing.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Usually this is considered a bad thing, but I'm talking about moving the goal posts in your favour. Fearing that you're going to fail to achieve your targets, so just changing them and hoping no one will notice.

Basically, I set myself the goal of finishing my novel by Christmas, but with a little over 13K estimated to go, 5 days and a weekend family visit between me and the 25th, it's looking increasing unlikely. So I'm tempted to shift my goal to, say, finishing by the end of the year, thus cunningly sparing myself the trauma of actually failing at something.

However, I do wonder if it's OK to declare my personal challenge a success when I moved the goal posts half way through. Sure, either way I'll have a finished novel at the end of the year, and I'll be happy about that no matter what. Beats the pants off the 7 years it took to finish my first book. On the one hand, it's just a personal goal for motivation. What's the harm? But there a danger that the goal will just keep shifting and you'll never get that success you were hoping for. Case in point, since 2004 my New Years Resolution has been to submit something for publication and get at least 1 rejection letter. It will probably be my New Years Resolution again this year. *sigh*. Still haven't got round to that.

Maybe this year I'll have a different resolution. Next year I will not move my goal posts. I will set realistic targets and I will stick to them, by George! And to start with, I will finish my book by Christmas!