The Third Soul, finally

And, at last, the final draft of “The Third Soul“ is finished. 94,000 words, five thousand less than the first draft, which is good. I went from the first page of the first draft to the final draft in six days under four months. Not bad, eh?

Now I just have to find some fool…er, I mean, some discerning publisher of taste who will buy the thing.

-JM

the day-to-day tedium of the mage’s life

Today’s post is an excerpt from “The Third Soul” that caught my eye while editing. It’s the flip side to “They Took My Daughter From Me And I Can’t Get Her Back“, the little piece about the man whose daughter was taken because she had magical talent.

Why did it catch my eye?

Fantasy fiction usually has wizards and mages and whatever, but what do they, you know, actually do? To pay the rent and buy groceries, I mean? Shooting fireballs out of your hands is all well and good, but it’s not exactly a marketable skill in a peacetime economy. I suppose you’d have a lot of mages working at OfficeMax or whatever during the day to support themselves while they practice casting Chain Lightning and Frost Armor at night. Kind of like writers!

Karl Marx was wrong. Not everything in life is determined by economics, but a whole bloody lot of things are governed by the question “who pays for this?” So in this excerpt, you have two Adepts (the mages) doing something not because they want to do it, but because they’re being paid to do it.

The screenings took place in a long stone basilica, built in the style of the Old Empire.

In other lands, Rachaelis supposed, the basilica would have been a Temple, devoted to the glory of the Divine and the Seeress.  In Araspan, the basilica served as a judgment hall.  Several times a year, either Arthain Kalarien or his appointed magistrates presided over criminal cases in a stone chair resting atop dais at one end of the hall.  From there Arthain issued his judgments, condemning criminals to death by hanging, beheading, or quartering, depending upon the offense.

At the moment, the throne sat empty.  Twenty of Marvane’s black-armored Swords stood in a line at the foot of the dais.  A mob of people filled the rest of the basilica: craftsmen, peddlers, artisans, freeborn laborers, and slaves.

All of them held children between six and twelve years old.  Some of the children cried, some slept, and some looked terrified, as did their parents.  From time to time some of the parents looked at Rachaelis.  They could not meet her gaze, but she saw the flashes of fear in their expressions.

And hatred.

“They don’t like us very much, do they?” she murmured to Marvane.

“No,” said Marvane.  “Hate our guts.  If they weren’t afraid of you, they’d kill us and run for it.  People get jittery when you threaten to take their children away.”

“Hard, but necessary,” said Rachaelis.  “At least that’s what Magister Arthain says.”

Marvane’s armored shoulders twitched in a tiny shrug.  “Too deep for me.  My job’s to bash anyone who shows you disrespect, and I will.”

“That’s good to know,” said Rachaelis.  And it did make her feel better, looking at all those angry faces.  She wished they could get this over with already.

But they couldn’t start without Thalia, and Thalia wasn’t here yet.

At last boot heels clicked against the stone floor, and Thalia appeared in the magistrate’s door behind the ostentatious stone chair.  Rachaelis sighed in relief.

Thalia stepped past Marvane and lifted her hand, and the crowd fell silent.  “Good people, hear me!  I am Thalia of House Kalarien, an Adept of the Conclave, and this is Rachaelis of House Morulan, also an Adept of the Conclave.  You have been summoned here today so that your children might be tested for the gift of magical talent.” An uneasy murmur went through the crowd, but Thalia rolled right over it.  “You might fear this, but I assure you that the test is harmless, even if it is a bit uncomfortable.  Furthermore, it is for the good of your own children, since untrained magical talent is dangerous.  Please form orderly lines, I said orderly, against either wall and we shall test you one by one.” She flashed a smile at the crowd.  “The Conclave honors tradition, and as is traditional, you shall receive a silver coin for each child you bring to test.  Now, cooperate, and we’ll have you home in time for supper.”

There was some grumbling, but not very much, and the crowds sorted themselves into neat lines.  Rachaelis watched with amazement.  One moment the crowd had been on the edge of a riot.  Now the atmosphere almost resembled a festival day, or a raucous carnival.

Thalia crossed to the right side of the basilica, and Rachaelis to the left.  The first family in the line awaited her.  A man who had the look of a craftsman, his wife, and a girl of seven who stood between them.  The child looked terrified.

“Go to the Adept, honey,” said the woman.

Rachaelis took a deep breath.  “This will only take a moment.”

The girl took a hesitant step forward.

Rachaelis stooped, put her hands on either side of the child’s head, and summoned the power.  The spell transformed her thoughts into fingers, and she reached into the child’s mind.  The girl’s emotions flooded into Rachaelis, a mixture of fear and confused incomprehension.  But there was no spark of power, no flare of magic.

The girl had no magical talent.

Rachaelis straightened up.  The girl shivered, her eyes wide, her mother’s face taut with strain.

“No,” said Rachaelis.  “She does not have the talent.”

The mother wilted in sudden relief.  Marvane gave them a silver coin, and bade them to go on their way.  They shuffled off, the mother holding the girl tight, and another family took their place.

And another.

And still another.

Some of the children stood impassive.  Others wept and struggled, held in place by their parents.  Marvane himself had to hold one shrieking boy in place as Rachaelis probed his mind.  Again and again Rachaelis saw into the minds of the children.  Some were terrified.  Some were indifferent.  Some secretly hoped to become Adepts and use the power to slay their parents.  Another enjoyed torturing her little brother when her parents were away.  Rachaelis probed child after child, until her head ached with the effort.

But she found no children with talent.  Much to her relief.

Thalia found two.  She handled it with her typical aplomb.  Most Adepts would have taken the child at once and astraljumped to the Ring.  Thalia pulled the parents aside and spoke to them at some length, offering to find work for them in the Ring, no doubt through the College Liberia.  As she talked, more of the testing load shifted to Rachaelis, but she didn’t mind, if Thalia was willing to deal with the parents.

But in the end, two of Marvane’s Swords took the children to the Ring, the worried parents trailing after.  Rachaelis watched them go, a lump in her throat.  The children would no doubt become Initiates.  Would they survive the Testing?

Rachaelis didn’t know.

The screenings filled the morning and dragged into the afternoon.  But at last the final family departed, the mother clutching her young son with relief, and the basilica was empty.  Rachaelis sighed in relief, crossed to the dais, and sat upon the steps.

Her head throbbed damnably.

“You seem tired,” said Thalia with a chuckle.  “It gets easier, the more you do it.”

“I find it hard to believe the College Novitia does nothing but this,” said Rachaelis.

“The very thought makes my head hurt,” said Rachaelis.  “Thank you for handling the families, by the way.”

“Luck of the draw,” said Thalia.  “I found two, and you found none.” She snorted.  “Some of our fellow Adepts are idiots, my dear.”

Rachaelis laughed.  “Really.”

“I’m quite serious,” said Thalia.  “Once they find a talented child, they simply take the child without a word to the family.  Can you expect the mother and father to react with anything but hostility?  Little wonder so many people hold the Conclave in ill-will.  All that is necessary is to explain that their child is in danger, but has a chance of a better life in the Conclave.”

“And also a chance of dying during the Testing,” said Rachaelis.

“True,” said Thalia.  “But a far greater chance of hurting themselves or pulling a demon into the world if they remain untrained.” She sighed.  “I don’t agree with my father about very much, but he’s right about this.  This is a hard task, but a necessary one.  Fortunately, it’s also a task that’s done for today.  Let’s head back to the Ring and get some dinner.”

Rachaelis nodded, got to her feet.

The the basilica doors boomed open…

-JM

the recipe for writing success

9 chapters of “The Third Soul” edited, and two new short stories written.

And how, you ask, have I been so productive? Well, I’ll tell you:

Simultaneous insomnia and constipation isn’t exactly a swell time, but it is most conducive to getting one’s work done.

So if you want to get a lot of writing finished, I recommend washing down a brick of cheese with two or three pots of coffee. Assuming you don’t have a psychotic break, you’ll get all kinds of work done!

-JM

7 chapters edited…

…and 27 chapters of “The Third Soul” to go.

-JM

this is why you edit

Working my way through Chapter 2 of “The Third Soul”, Corthain Kalarien describes his father Arthain Kalarien’s ancestral home as:

“a tower of a hundred feet, sheathed in white marble…”

Except three days later, Corthain actually returns to visit his father (despite his better judgment), and then describes his family’s home as:

“a tower of two hundred feet, all covered in blood-colored marble…”

Wow! That’s impressive! A major remodel and renovation completed entirely in three days! I guess the setting of “The Third Soul” is home to that rarest of creatures, the competent contractor. Cuz here on earth, if you hire a contractor, it takes six and a half freaking weeks to get, like, a faucet replaced. Because the parts are on backorder, you know. But in “The Third Soul”, the contractors are so competent they can completely renovate a centuries-old tower in three days.

Or the author screwed up.

Nah. That’s unpossible.

-JM

The Third Soul sucks! Rewrite it!

It’s been a little under a month since I finished the rough draft of “The Third Soul”, so it’s time to switch Microsoft Word to “Track Changes Mode” (which is the best editing tool ever) and get cracking:

Do you think I revise thoroughly enough? I don’t think I revise thoroughly enough. It’s never good enough, at least not for me.

If you’re curious as to what “The Third Soul” might be about, I have all sorts of little snippets compiled from the first draft here (scroll down to see ‘em):

http://jonathanmoeller.wordpress.com/category/the-third-soul/

-JM

The Third Soul, finished

Last night I finished the rough draft of “The Third Soul”. 99,000 words, 34 chapters.

Now I can rest a bit. Yeah. Relax, enjoy some mental peace & quiet…

I’m already restless.

Great.

-JM

the high demon at last

An excerpt from the climatic scene of “The Third Soul”:

He stood in the great hall of the Ring, where the Conclave held their formal ceremonies. His elder brother lay sprawled upon the steps, his throat torn open, eyes glassy and lifeless.

Corthain stared at the corpse and said nothing.

“You couldn’t save him, could you?” said the high demon, her beautiful voice sympathetic. “You tried to talk him out of the attack. You begged him to get reinforcements. But he wouldn’t listen to you. He wouldn’t budge. So he went to his death. And he led all your men to their deaths. You survived only by the merest chance. And you wished in your heart that you lay among the dead. Because you could have saved them all…but you failed.”

“I tried,” said Corthain.

“But you failed,” said the high demon. “And so you have tried, again and again, to save those who could not save themselves. Sometimes you failed. Very often you succeeded. But you always moved on, because the first failure…that was always with you, was it not? You could never erase it. You could have defeated an army ten times the size of the Jurgur horde…and still your elder brother would lie dead. And nothing you ever did would change that.”

Corthain said nothing, his eyes still on his brother’s corpse.

“But I can change that,” whispered the high demon, her lips close to his ear.

“How?” said Corthain.

“Power,” murmured the high demon. “Your brother is gone…but I can give you the power to save others. Your sister. Your retainers. Your freeholders. Rachaelis. Even your father, if you choose.”

“That’s…there’s something’s wrong,” said Corthain, shaking his head. If only he could think clearly.

“No,” said the high demon. Her hands closed on his shoulders. “Let me inside you, and I will give you power and strength unlike anything you’ve ever dreamed. You will have the power to make Moiria safe and secure. None of your people will ever go hungry again, none of them will ever suffer.” Her burning eyes drew closer to his face. “I can give you the power to do this.”

Corthain blinked. Something about those burning eyes frightened him, but her words…

“And once Moiria is safe,” said the high demon, “you can do more. The realm of Callia needs a strong king, a king to guarantee the safety and prosperity of its people. You can do this. You can bring order to chaos. And once Callia is strong and prosperous…why not the rest of the nations of the West? Why not create a new Old Empire, stronger, safer, and more prosperous than the first? You can do this. I can give you the power to make this a reality.” The burning eyes seemed to drill into his head. “Just let me inside you. Let me come with you, walk with you along this path. Let me give you the power you need, the strength that you require. All this can be yours. Just let me inside.”

“I…” Corthain closed his eyes, trying to think. It all sounded so right. He had seen so much suffering. So much unnecessary pain and bloodshed and death and destruction. What if he could avert it? What if he could keep it from happening again? Wasn’t that reasonable?

Didn’t he have an obligation to take the power?

If only he could think through the fog filling his head.

-JM

The Third Soul

33 of 34 chapters written. 95,000 words. Tomorrow I will write the climatic scene.

Almost done. So very, very close. And then, perhaps, I can have some peace. If only for a little while.

-JM

to be desired…

…is not always such a good thing, as today’s snippet from “The Third Soul” shows:

“Urmaaghsk,” said the smiling man, looking up from his examination of the two glowing crystals upon the table. His smile did not touch his eyes.

“That word is unknown to me,” said Nazim. “What is an…Urmaaghsk?”

“An Urthaag is what the Jurgurs call someone who voluntarily lets a demon into his or her body,” said Corthain. “It was what you faced this morning. They’re bad enough, but an Urmaaghsk is…much worse. An Urmaaghsk is what the Jurgurs call a sorcerer of the High Art who permits himself to become possessed by a high demon. They are incredibly dangerous. The high demon’s power augments the sorcerer’s, and usually drives the sorcerer insane in the process.”

“It’s like a prophecy for the Jurgurs,” said Luthair. “When an Urmaaghsk is created, it will lead them to glory and victory over their enemies. Or so their blood shamans claim.”

“So,” said Nazim. “You think an Urmaaghsk is behind these attacks?”

“No,” said Corthain. “I think the Jurgurs want to turn Rachaelis into one.”

Rachaelis’s stomach clenced.

“What?” she whispered, shuddering.

-JM

(Incidentally, the word ‘Urthaag’ did not appear in any Google searches before this post. So today I am making history!)