All posts by sonworshiper

Diffraction Chapter 4: Stormclouds Brewing

Then Diligence in work that wells up from a heart kept still.

4.   
Patrols on the Woodwall around Northridge glanced up at the cloaked Devoted perched in an oak at the town’s edge. Most said nothing. Some murmured snide comments to their partners. Lyllithe paid them no mind.

 Thick storm clouds slid across the night sky, obscuring the stars. In the west above the Snowtips, wisps and clusters of clouds flashed, their bolts of lightning shrouded in shadow. Each spark revealed hidden layers and depths within the storm. No thunder reached Lyllithe’s ears, which made the display even more captivating.

 A short rain at dusk brought damp leaves and cold, humid air. Strands of aera tangled with ripples of aqua floating in Lyllithe’s vision, but she ignored the elemental energies.

 Pebbles and pinpricks of light hung in the air around her, like tiny stars fallen to the earth. Combined, the brightness compared to two or three candles. But in the overcast night, an eerie glow filled the tree and cast long shadows on the ground.

Her heavy fur-lined cloak kept most of the chill at bay. Still, she shivered whenever she stopped straining to produce light.

 Lyllithe considered the inadequate cloak and welcomed some misery. One more thing that’s not quite good enough.

 Two of the seven twinkles faded, and Lyllithe sighed. She looked down at the Gracemark on her right hand. It gave no glow of its own.

 Lyllithe raised her fist and squeezed. Her teeth gritted and her muscles clenched. Ten seconds passed. A new pebble of light sprang from her palm.

 The sudden absence of crickets chirping followed by soft footsteps in the grass alerted Lyllithe to a new arrival.

 “Neat trick,” a woman’s voice called up from below.

 Josephine, fantastic. Lyllithe avoided looking down. The perfect Soulforged daughter of the Light-Shield himself. She’ll probably instruct me in what I’m doing wrong as a Devoted.

 “The stars are beauty enough, Lyl,” Josephine said with a chuckle. “You don’t need to make your own.”

 “Everyone needs to practice,” Lyllithe said. Another light faded. “I heard you had a bit today.” She concentrated again and created a new speck.

 “Some ne’er-do-wells from the Militia picked a fight,” Josephine said. “I picked back. If you come down, I’ll tell you all the bloody parts.”

 Lyllithe laughed but remained still. She studied the largest light-pebble with a frown. “Not sure I’m up for hearing about it tonight, Jo.”

 “Another fight with your Dad?”

 Lyllithe shrugged. “We don’t do much else anymore.” She heard Josephine’s feet shuffle in the grass below. “I’m not devoted enough to be a Devoted, according to him.”

 “But your Gracemark must—” Josephine stammered. “I mean, it’s not a mere Brand etched by the Abbey, it’s a blessing direct from Aulis. Light Himself. An Aspect of the Divine. Your devotion is obvious.”

 “Well, it’s obvious my father knows the mind of our Aspect better than I do,” Lyllithe said. “And what good is a Gracemark with no power?”

 “What do you mean?”

 “Nothing I do works, Jo,” Lyllithe cried out. Her self-control broke, like a person holding her breath as long as possible then finally gasping for air.

 “I try to heal, and I can’t. I know how to summon Light, how to mend wounds. But I cannot make it happen. Not when I have to perform and prove myself.

 “I tried to pass the Test. Five times, Jo.” Lyllithe stared at Josephine and ticked off fingers. “Couldn’t do it. Perfect marks on the academics every time, but I can’t demonstrate power except in a crisis. Then I tried to save my mother in a crisis, and I wasn’t strong enough.”

 Lyllithe waved her hand at the rest of the town. “I’ve tried to fit in, to make friends. No one’s interested in ‘the Ghostskin.’ But everyone thinks the world of Marten for taking me in as an infant. Yet he can’t find time to be a father because he’s so busy being the Eldest to the rest of the town.”

 She flipped her hand around to show Josephine the Gracemark. “Oh, but I got this, for all the good it’s done. It’s not only spontaneous, which sets me apart from all the other Devoted in Northridge, it’s also a double Mark, which I don’t even know what that means. The very thing that should mean I’m accepted is another barrier keeping me apart from everyone else. Twice.”

 Lyllithe pointed at Josephine. “You saw those soldiers making sport of Dabry today, and you intervened. Because you Glimpsed, right? Your Gracemark told you what was happening was wrong, or however that works for Soulforged. Am I right?”

 Josephine nodded, and fumbled for a response. “I did. I mean, yes, it’s like seeing a shadow, or a flash of a daydream that—”

 “Mine doesn’t do that,” Lyllithe said. “I can’t Glimpse. I should sense purity in others, but I never do . And I can’t Strain either. I should be able to heal through the Gracemark, drawing on my strength of devotion. But there’s no power.”

 Josephine tried to speak, but Lyllithe continued. “I would love to be in your position. To use the strength of the Divine to protect the weak, to prevent harm instead of merely healing the wounded. To fight for those—”

 She choked back tears at a memory of her mother’s caress. “To fight for those I love. But I have to remain pure, or I will be cut off from the Light.”

 Lyllithe clenched her fist again and struggled until a new pebble formed. “The Light that I can barely summon.”

 A gust of wind whipped through the tree branches, rustling the leaves. Lyllithe fell silent. Two more lights winked out.

 Josephine sat down next to the tree. “Lyl, I had no idea.”

 Lyllithe huffed. “Why should you? No one does.”

 They sat for a few minutes, watching clouds roll by in silence. All the light-pebbles faded. Lightning flashes continued in the west, inevitably drawing their gaze.

 “You can do nothing wrong,” Josephine mumbled, “and still end up doing nothing right.”

 “What was that?”

 “Oh, sorry.” Josephine looked up at Lyllithe and repeated the phrase. “It’s something my father said once when I asked about the Abbey.”

 Lyllithe let the words play in her mind. “I’ve been so worried all my life about losing the Light that I never learned to use it. Everything I’ve done has come to ruin, exactly as I feared.” She looked down at Josephine. “Maybe because of my fear?”

Josephine said nothing, and Lyllithe pieced together more thoughts. “The order is so focused on purity, so worried about avoiding any stain. We preach the power of Aulis and the strength of the Light. But we act like the only safe place in all the world is hiding in the Abbey.”

 “Strength is meant to be used,” Josephine said. “Used wisely, yes. But not hidden away.”

 Lyllithe looked back up at the flashing clouds in the distance. So much power there. So much light. Why couldn’t the Light of Aulis be used to fight evil?

 Her father’s voice echoed dire warnings in her mind, but she silenced them. I’ve heard them all my life, lived for so long to avoid any hint of darkness. Maybe it’s time to do something different, to see and embrace the Light instead of cowering from the darkness.

 I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to find a way. I may not have a plan for my life, but I won’t be caught up in someone else’s.

 Lyllithe smiled and watched the clouds. “A better light-show than an Arcanist’s display.”

 Josephine sprang to her feet. “Lyl, you just reminded me, come down quick. There’s something you’ve got to see.”

 “Jo, I need some time to think through all of this.”

 “Oh, I hope we’re not too late,” Josephine said, looking toward the town’s meeting hall. “Come on, let’s go. This is just what you need.”

 Lyllithe shook her head. “Tonight’s really not the best time. I appreciate you coming out to talk with me, but I want—“

 “Me to climb up there and drag you down, apparently. Moping all night in a tree isn’t going to make you feel any better.”

 Lyllithe opened her mouth to protest, then saw the stubborn glimmer in Josephine’s eyes.

 “You know I’ll do it.” Josephine threatened. “I know a Devoted who can heal you if you fall and break something.”

 With a heavy sigh, Lyllithe gradually worked her way down from branch to branch. “What in the Seven Hells are you so excited about?”

 An explosion of blue flames erupted over the village, illuminating the night with a soft glow akin to Lyllithe’s Gracemark. While she watched the display in awe, the spiraling energies swept through the air into a vortex of hues and colors.

 Her heritage opened her eyes to the interplay of elements that created the spectacle. Is that a touch of earth combined with fire, then Refocused into magelight?

 Soft cheers and applause reached Lyllithe’s ears across the short distance from the town’s central street.

“Race you there,” Josephine shouted, already three strides ahead and sprinting.

 Lyllithe yelped and took off. The weight of frustration vanished, and she chased Josephine into the maze of wooden buildings.

 Laughter filled her lungs and she stumbled as she ran. She turned a corner and saw Josephine ahead rushing toward a crowd. I’m so going to lose.

 Another burst of blue flame sprayed into the air above the crowd. Lyllithe stopped and stared. Actual magic. Refocused energy. I’ve only read about this.

 Snowflakes fell onto the heads below. Some landed on tongues of children on their fathers’ shoulders, to gasps and resounding applause.

 Aqua, Lyllithe realized, not chilled with aera like I would’ve expected, but slowed in motion until it solidified.

 Josephine jogged back to grab Lyllithe’s arm. “Why are you standing here?”

 Another spray of magic flew into the air, scattering embers high above the heads of the audience. Lyllithe grinned and fought the urge to analyze the spellcast.

 Josephine yanked on Lyllithe’s sleeve. “I want to get a better look.”

 A wild hope blossomed in Lyllithe’s heart. So do I, Jo.

Diffraction Chapter 3: Things that Matter

First Purity above all else, unwavering moral will.

 3.

 Wood practice swords cracked and shouts echoed from the training field of Northridge. A contingent of fighters and Arcanists arrived earlier in the week on their way to Glacierift. Though the faces in each group seemed either older or younger than they ought to be, the townsfolk seized a rare opportunity. Young men who often trained in the arts of combat with their fathers, uncles, or older brothers now stood against true soldiers of Aulivar. Several women practiced alongside the men.

 Sweat beaded on foreheads and glistened under the noonday sun. Gentle breezes swept away the odor of exertion. Three teens wearing the banner of Aulivar took turns swatting a portly youth with the thick wood shafts. Their laugher carried to the other side of the field, where a father and daughter squared off in mock combat, decked in padded armor.

 “Been a few months since your friend lost her mother,” Camden said. He swung with his quarterstaff. It made a sharp clack as it bounced off Josephine’s upraised shield.

 “Quit trying to distract me,” Josephine said. “And Lyllithe’s not my friend.” She sprung into the air over the sweeping arc of Camden’s staff. Then she came down into a spin, wooden hammer extended.

 “She ought to be.” He jabbed at her wrist. She pulled back and he advanced with a series of quick thrusts. “She needs a friend more than most.” A smirk cracked his firm demeanor. “You aren’t giving as much ground as before.”

 Josephine dodged left. “She’s got a Mark, she’s one of the Devoted. What does she need me for?” Then she lunged with an overhead strike.

 Camden spun out of the way, quarterstaff flying toward Josephine’s back.

She let her momentum carry her into a tuck-and-roll underneath his strikes.

“She has a double Gracemark,” Camden said, “not the typical Gracebrands the Abbey gives.” He paused, staff at the ready. “They don’t treat her like one of their own. Haven’t you noticed?”

 Maybe I’ve got him distracted. Josephine lowered her hammer and planned her next strike. Keep him talking. “I don’t pay much attention to how the Abbey does their business.”

 Camden tipped his staff up. “It’s not about the Abbey, Jo. A Soulforged needs to pay attention to the weak, the downtrodden, the outcasts.” He pointed a finger. “You’re to be strong, yes. Not for yourself, but for them.”

 She sprang into motion. Her hammer cut low under the point of Camden’s staff. He shifted back to dodge as she hoped. She swung her left arm, shield edge out. He brought his staff up to counter the attack. The edge of the shield smashed into the staff, and it shuddered in Camden’s hand.

 His grip held firm. He swept the staff behind Josephine’s leg. Wood thudded against padding, threatening to take Josephine down. She stumbled and jumped back to regain footing, only to find his staff point thrusting into her chest. Camden’s strike glanced off her armor, but it tipped her off-balance. She hit the earth hard and lay there gasping.

 Camden stood over her, his staff pointed down at her face. “Do you yield?”

 “Never.”

 “Good.” He laughed and extended a hand, helping her to her feet. “Then you’re acting like a Soulforged. Five years Marked, you should know something by now.”

 Josephine unbuckled her shield and turned toward the weapon racks. I am one of the Soulforged, father. Sealed with a Gracebrand of Justice on my thirteenth Markday. She glanced at the silvery metal etched on the back of her right hand as if for proof. A single vertical line with two downward arms extended, the symbol sparkled in the sun. I am Justice reaching out to bring Order to the world.

 “You tried some new tactics there,” Camden said.

 “Not sure I can call them tactics.” Josephine sighed. “More like mistakes.”

 Camden nodded with a smile. “Some of those were new too.” He placed his staff on the weapons rack. “What were you trying to accomplish swinging your shield like a blade?”

 “You taught me to use every resource available,” Josephine said. “I thought perhaps it might surprise you if I struck with my shield.”

 “Certainly. But remember, any moment not spent using your shield to defend, you leave yourself open.”

 Always a critique, Josephine thought even as she bowed her head in deference. Will you ever tell me when I do something right?

 “You’ve improved,” Camden said, hand clasped on her shoulder. “But you have much to learn yet.”

 He paused at the laughter from the teenage soldiers tormenting the chubby Northridge youth, a Markless boy named Dabry. Despite the odds, Dabry swung his sword in a weak defense. One teen knocked it aside while another rapped him on the rump. The third leaned on his own wood weapon and chuckled.

 “I meant what I said about Lyllithe,” Camden said, eyes on the boys. “She could use a friend right now.”

 Josephine set her shield on a stack, then ran her fingertips over her Gracebrand and looked at the teens. She took her shield up again and put her arm through the straps, buckling them tight. “She’s not the only one.”

 She jogged over to the teens. The first two were distracted by their sport. The third, a ruddy, hairy lump of muscle, turned narrow eyes her way. “You want no part of this.”

 Dabry looked up with a quivering lip but said nothing.

 “Maybe you boys want to see what Northridge folk are made of,” Josephine called out. Now all three faced her.

 “Then run and fetch one of the men, girl,” the third replied. “Not this bleating sheep.”

 “They’re attending to things that matter.” Josephine slipped her practice hammer from its belt loop. “I’ll handle this.”

 All three roared with laughter. “Brazen girls and blubbering boys,” the first said. “No wonder the Lord Mayor sent us up this way. I do like them feisty. They’re the sort that will slip behind a barn and—”

 A hammer thrown from ten paces smashed into his mouth. Teeth and blood flew, and he crumpled. Josephine rushed the other two, their eyes fixed on their injured friend. The Devoted can heal that. I hope they won’t.

 The muscular one looked back to Josephine in time to see a balled fist. It connected with a sickening crunch. Blood spurted from his nose. He flailed and lost his balance. The practice sword clattered to the ground.

 The second teen swung his sword at Josephine’s head. She let the momentum of her punch carry her into a counterclockwise spin, thrusting her shield out. The unexpected charge overpowered the teen’s attack. Josephine’s shield connected with his chest and cheek, knocking him back.

 To his credit, he kept his sword and flowed into a new form. Thrusts and jabs tested Josephine’s defenses, but she dodged or blocked each one.

 The mountain of meat is up. Behind her, the burly teen roared and lunged.

 Josephine ducked right to avoid another thrust, then spun again. Her shield slammed into the second teen’s back, sending him into the larger teen’s charge. They collided and fell in a heap.

 “Pardon me, Dabry,” Josephine said, plucking the shaft from his hand. He stared, slack-jawed, but managed to nod assent. A crowd of onlookers laughed and cheered.

 The big teen rose on shaky legs, hate in his eyes, blood running down his face. Josephine walked up and shoulder-checked him with her shield, laying him out on the packed dirt.

 She planted a foot on his chest and pointed the sword at his throat. “Do you yield?”

 He threw a weak fist into the air and cursed. “Scar you, wench, and your whole scarrin’ town! Shade-wrought take the lot of you!”

 Josephine clucked her tongue. “Manners, boy.” She rapped him in the groin with the weapon then returned the rounded point to his neck.

Wide wet eyes looked up at her as he wheezed.

 “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said and walked away. Applause erupted from the folk of Northridge, and from many of Aulivar’s soldiers. Josephine headed toward the weapon rack to return her gear.

Her father stood, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. Wonder what he thinks I did wrong this time?

 At that moment, Josephine realized she didn’t care.

Diffraction Chapter Two: The Light of Life

In darkness when the night surrounds, I bear the Light in me. 
“Quick,” Nyalesee shouted. “Lay her on a bench.”

Camden raced across the room and lowered Eledra’s body to the wood.

Nyalesee rushed to his side. Light sprang out of her palms and formed small, radiant spheres. Shadows danced on the edges of the sanctuary as Nyalesee moved..

Harra stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth agape. “Her light’s so dim…”

“Camden, what happened?” Nyalesee asked, her gaze fixed on the injured woman. “What sort of wounds are we dealing with?”

“Bandits on the road from Aulivar, Devoted.”

Lyllithe ran to Camden and grabbed his arm. “Where is my father? Is he—“

“Marten is coming,” Camden replied. He laid his hand over hers. “Wounded, but he will recover. They struck him hard, knocked him out. We drove them off, killed two. I left Josephine with Marten when we were in sight of the Woodwall. She will help him get here.”

At least Father is safe. Jo can handle herself.

The thought gave little comfort while Lyllithe looked down at her mother’s body.

Nyalesee examined Eledra’s wounds. The Devoted grimaced, and she glanced up at Lyllithe. “Harra, go see to Marten,” Nyalesee said over her shoulder.

The order jarred Harra into motion, but she moved instead to Nyalesee’s side. “Perhaps you need my help to heal Eledra’s—”

“I need you to obey,” Nyalesee cut in. “See to the Eldest. This woman is beyond our aid.”

Harra opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it shut at a withering glare from the senior Devoted. Her head dipped slightly. “As you wish.”

Camden hung back, hands folded, eyes cast down. Lyllithe thought she heard him praying. What can a Soulforged do in times like this, she wondered.

Nyalesee grabbed Lyllithe’s arm and pulled her close. “Child, I cannot heal her unassisted.”

Lyllithe choked. Hope and confusion swirled in her chest. “But you just sent Harra to—”

“She and I together could not treat these wounds,” Nyalesee said. “Not with the noonday sun shining down on us.”

“Then why do you need me? I’m not even Marked, I’m hardly—”

“Forget all that.” Nyalesee’s grip tightened on Lyllithe’s sleeve. “Forget the Test, the script—forget the rules. You are able. You’ve healed wounds before.”

Lyllithe shook her head, and Nyalesee continued. “Maybe it’s your elemental heritage, or maybe just the grace of Aulis. But you are stronger than any of the Devoted here, stronger I deem than any two combined.” Nyalesee’s eyes held Lyllithe’s gaze. “When properly moved.”

Lyllithe fumbled for words, but none seemed right.

The Devoted reached out. “Take my hand. Perhaps I can spark your ability to minister.”

Nyalesee guided Lyllithe’s hand toward Eledra. Her palm rested on her mother’s chest. The fabric felt damp and cold like mud in winter. So much blood. She’s not breathing.

“Close your eyes,” Nyalesee said.

Lyllithe obeyed. There’s no heartbeat.

“The Light is life, and your light is pure,” the Devoted whispered. “There is strength in purity. There is brilliance. See it, draw it in and release it. Like breathing.”

Part of Lyllithe’s mind followed the calming instructions. But her fears conjured up an image of the dim sanctuary during the Test, and Harra’s smug sneer. Lyllithe saw her father’s downcast face last year when she failed. She heard the laughter of younger girls who were Marked on their first attempt.

“There’s a faint ember left,” Nyalesee said. Lyllithe opened her eyes.

“Do you feel that, child? I can breathe on it, and keep Eledra alive. But I haven’t the strength to restore her.”

A soft orange light appeared underneath Eledra’s skin. It flickered and waned.

“Now, girl! Heal her.”

Her mind fought doubts and despair. But Lyllithe grasped for the Light and took hold. Her hands glowed white on Eledra’s robes. Breathe. Live. Be healed.

Nyalesee gasped. “That’s it, dear,” she said, then whispered, “so much power.”

 Unreliable potential is useless, the doubting voice insisted.

Lyllithe gritted her teeth with the effort. More of the Light. Mother, you have to live.

The doors of the sanctuary opened. A slender blonde woman in armor slipped in with Marten, his arm draped over her shoulder. She helped him to a bench, then stood beside her father Camden.

 Father is well, Lyllithe thought. Josephine, my friend, I owe you once again.

Harra entered last and stormed toward the healers. Her voice bellowed in the dim chamber. “What is the meaning of this, Nyalesee?”

Lyllithe ignored the stares between the two Devoted. Eledra lay still. No pulse. No movement. No breathing. Nyalesee’s words repeated in Lyllithe’s mind: She is beyond our aid.

The Devoted’s hand squeezed Lyllithe’s arm once more. “Do not doubt. Light shines brightest in darkest night.”

At that, Lyllithe cast down fear and focused her complete attention on healing.

 Mother, you have to breathe. She strained as she pulled on more Light. I’ll help you breathe. Lyllithe pushed air into Eledra’s lungs with the Light’s power. She drew the air out through the mouth, then forced fresh air back in.

Marten cried out, “She’s breathing!”

 The heart has to beat. Lyllithe redirected some of her power and reached with it into Eledra’s chest. The energy wrapped around Eledra’s heart and squeezed every few seconds. Lyllithe sensed blood flow throughout the body. You’re going to have to take over from me here, Mother. Live.

Nyalesee said something, but Lyllithe paid no heed. Open your eyes, get up, be whole once more. Eledra remained still, though her chest rose and fell as Lyllithe pushed in breaths.

 Open your eyes, Mother. Lyllithe directed two wisps of power toward Eledra’s eyelids. They snapped open, but the eyes stared blank at the ceiling.

Muscles strained in Lyllithe’s neck and arms. In her eyes, a web of rainbow strands connected her outstretched hands to Eledra’s body. Lyllithe drew even more on the source of power. Get up. You can’t die. With the Light at her disposal, she tugged at muscles and tendons in Eledra’s arms and legs, commanding motion.

Eledra’s body jerked. Rough movements brought her upright. No light shone in her eyes. The orange glow behind her skin vanished.

Marten stood and collapsed. Lyllithe heard him weeping.

Nyalesee yelled for Lyllithe to stop.

 This is not the end, Aulis grant me grace. Blinding light burst from her hands. Purple spots filled her vision. There’s more power out there. I can almost reach it.

 Child, let me go.

Not Nyalesee’s voice. Not Lyllithe’s own thought.

 Mother?

The faint voice answered. You cannot heal an empty shell. Let me pass.

Lyllithe looked again at the body before her. Eledra’s corpse shook and shuddered. Air hissed in and out of cold lungs, forced by Lyllithe’s efforts. Eledra’s disheveled brown hair hung limp, matted with blood that oozed from wounds whenever Lyllithe squeezed the heart with her power. The body turned so that the faded green eyes faced her.

 Oh Light, I’m going to be sick. What have I done?

The brilliance Lyllithe summoned vanished, and darkness conquered the sanctuary in a snap. Lyllithe fell to the ground and retched beside the body of her mother.

Marten sobbed in the shadows.

Nyalesee knelt and put a hand on Lyllithe’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, child, so very sorry. I hoped, I dared to believe that maybe—”

She snatched the loose sleeve of Lyllithe’s robe and yanked her right arm from the ground. A soft blue light pierced the shadows around the dais.

Lyllithe looked at the back of her hand. A symbol shone like a rune etched in the skin: a sunrise above a vertical line with two branches holding up the horizon. The churning sea of shock and turmoil in her mind threatened to drown her. A Gracemark? Now? With both Light and Strength?

Lyllithe’s hands grasped Nyalesee’s shoulders in desperation.

Nyalesee only stared at the Mark.

Harra watched, brow furrowed.

“What is this,” Lyllithe demanded. “What does this mean?”

Diffraction Chapter One: Markday

Over the next few weeks, I will be posting the first ten chapters of my fantasy novel, Diffraction, here on WordPress and on WattPad. The goal is to have the book available on Amazon and CreateSpace by Christmas.

 

Bright enough light will bend around what it cannot shine through.
 
—————-

From daybreak ‘til the sun goes down, Devoted shall I be.

Celebration filled the central street of Northridge. A bonfire sprang to life, and cheers rang out under clouds streaked orange and red in the setting sun. The sweet aroma of smoked meats and sugary cakes filled the air. Men and women danced barefoot in circles on the packed earth to the trilling of a flute. Many sang. All smiled.

 All but one.

 A slim figure darted between clusters and pockets of revelers. Her gold-trimmed white hood concealed most of her features, though wisps of black hair slipped out with each hurried step. She dodged offers to join a dance and ducked under extended pints of ale.

 Someone recognized her robe and called out with a grin, “Are you new-Marked this day, Devoted?” Two men beside him raised hands ready to praise her.

 She glared at them, revealing a face white as her garment. The men blanched, and she continued on her way. Lyllithe, the Ghostskin. The Eldest’s so-called daughter. She could not make out their whispers, but she knew the words they spoke. Lyllithe had heard them all her life.

 Laughter from the crowd echoed. Only the Markday festival, she reasoned. But a doubtful voice spoke in her mind. They laugh because they saw your face. 

Past conversations replayed in her memory unbidden:

 “Still no Mark on her? What a shame for the Eldest. His own daughter cannot pass the Test. Is this her fourth year trying?”

 “Well she’s not really his daughter. She’s got elemental blood in her. So…”

 “Of course, yes, that probably has something to do with it. Who knows what the Divine thinks about ghostskins and duns and such…”

 “I know what I think of them.”

 Lyllithe reached the end of the street, and she pushed away her fears. The Abbey tower rose high over her head. The tallest building in Northridge looked peach in the setting sun. The smaller moon twinkled and the larger shone full in the twilight sky.

She rushed up the steps and flung open the door. Two Devoted in white stood when Lyllithe entered.

 “Am I too late?” she asked, half hoping the Testing had ended.

 Mistress Nyalesee, the older of the two, smiled wide and beckoned. “No, dear, of course not. Light yet shines, so it is still Markday.” Cheeks brushed by auburn curls, she pulled back her hood, then gestured for Lyllithe to follow into the sanctuary.

 Their footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as they walked between simple benches to the dais at the center of the circular room. The last touches of sunlight peeked through the windows near the ceiling. A serving girl started lighting rows of candles for the Night Watch. Fragrant incense filled Lyllithe’s nose.

 Lyllithe pulled back her hood and ran fingers through her hair. The collar-length black strands covered the pointed tips of her ears to hide the physical proof of her mixed blood. She caught herself hiding her features and stopped. It doesn’t matter. Everyone here knows what I am already.

 Nyalesee took one of the two stools and turned to her companion, a stately woman with a perpetual scowl. “Harra, do you require Lyllithe to complete the interview, or will her demonstration suffice?”

 Harra pursed her lips. “She does it correctly or she doesn’t Test at all.”

 Nyalesee rolled her eyes. “We have the past four results on record. Exceptional marks, every year.”

 “And yet she struggles to manifest the Light each time,” Harra replied. She cocked her head and smiled. “Complete failure, every year.”

 “Sister, we waste time. Outside of Testing, she has potential we’ve not seen in decades.”

 Harra shrugged. “Unreliable potential is useless in a crisis. Do you think the Eldest would have us show favoritism toward his adopted daughter or treat her any different than the normal supplicants? I think not.”

 Lyllithe bristled and fought to maintain a serene expression. Do I think you phrased that just to comment on my heritage? Yes.

 Nyalesee grimaced. “Marten would have us exercise sound judgment.”

 “Marten’s not here to ask,” Harra countered. “So I say we do things right.”

 Nyalesee gave in, and began reciting questions in a monotone voice.

 “To what are you Devoted, supplicant?”

 Lyllithe replied in the same bored tone. “To purity in the Light, which gives me the grace to heal. To the path of peace with all men, which keeps me pure. To the truth, which guards my steps on the path of peace.”

 Harra fumed at the seeming irreverence, but said nothing.

 I don’t know what you expected, Sister. I’ve had this memorized since the first year, with three extra chances to practice it since.

 “And will you remain faithful to that truth?”

 “Until my light fades or the Final Dawn breaks.”

 “Tell me, supplicant, of Aulis and His light.”

 While questions and answers flowed without error, part of Lyllithe’s mind focused on the demonstration to follow. Her stomach fluttered and she felt queasy. The steps are clear, and I understand the doctrine. But every time I stand to be Tested, I fail to produce the Light of Life.

 Memories of past attempts filled her with dread. What’s the point? This year will be like the rest. If I don’t pass, I can’t be a Devoted, can’t get my Gracemark.

 She pictured her father and mother on the road returning from Aulivar. Couldn’t even stay here to support me, could you, Father? I’m such an embarrassment that you ran to the city on a “sudden errand” rather than see me fail again?

 “The Gracemark is the visible reminder of the presence of a particular Aspect of the Divine,” Lyllithe recited. “It is a sign of power bestowed upon the believer.”

 Nyalesee nodded and said, “By what two methods can one receive their Mark?”

 “Most adherents receive from their order what is properly called a Gracebrand, after passing the Test. But an Aspect may also bless the faithful with a spontaneous Gracemark instead.”

 And now we come to it. Lyllithe’s heart thumped in her chest like a hammer. Four attempts already. Four failures. Why should today be different?

 “Correct,” Nyalesee said. She rose to her feet. “Now are you prepared to demonstrate your faith, and receive the Gracebrand of Aulis, the Aspect of Light?”

 “As ready as ever,” Lyllithe muttered.

Harra raised an eyebrow.

 Nyalesee rose, and her demeanor softened. She took Lyllithe’s hand and squeezed. “Five is the number of Grace, dear. This should give you hope.”

 Harra chuckled and stood. “Show us, supplicant. Invoke the Light of life.”

 Lyllithe closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Breath is life. Life, fill me. She raised her hands to chest height, palms out. Light reveals truth. Truth guards my steps. My path and past are pure. Light shines on the pure.

 She exhaled and pictured orbs of light cupped in her palms. Life and Light are in me. Let them flow forth. Her hands came together, combining the twin suns in her mind into one bright sphere.

 Harra snickered.

 Lyllithe’s eyes opened. Her empty fingers clasped together before her in the dim sanctuary. There was no Light.

Nyalesee’s hands covered her mouth and her brow furrowed, like a mother whose toddler falls while trying to walk.

 In the silence, Lyllithe could hear the commotion of the Markday festival. Muffled trumpet blasts and soft shouts disturbed the calm of the Abbey. Each one jabbed Lyllithe with pangs of defeat.

 Harra’s lips turned up at the edges. “Would you like to try again, child?” She chuckled. “There’s still time before sundown—if you’re certain it’s worth the attempt.”

 Lyllithe’s shoulders sagged. She raised the hood over her face to conceal the tears forming. “No, Devoted,” she whispered. “I’ll waste no more of your time.” She turned toward the entrance of the sanctuary. Her feet weighed a hundred stone as she took the first steps.

Nyalesee breathed out a sympathetic sigh. The clamor outside grew more obvious, impossible to ignore.

 How many Marks were given this day? Lyllithe’s emotions churned with the increasing noise. Scar the Markday and Gracemarks anyway!

 She felt a wave of guilt at once, and whispered a repentant prayer.

The door to the sanctuary burst open. “Help! Aid, now!” A man in armor filled the doorframe, a bloody cloaked mass cradled in his hands. Camden, the town’s lone Soulforged protector eased his burden into the sanctuary.

 He’s carrying a wounded woman. Lyllithe recognized the pattern and colors of the fabric. She sprinted to the door as Camden carried the body in. It can’t be.

 The man rushed past Lyllithe to the two Devoted at the dais. Metal clinked with each step.

 The emblem of Aulis woven into the cloak—now stained red—and the bloody brown hair could have belonged to several residents of Northridge.

 But the Gracemarked hand that Lyllithe had clung to for years as a child could belong to no one else.

 Lyllithe fell to her knees with a scream. “Mother!”

Christmas Present to Me

So NaNoWriMo is over, and I have another 50,000 words down on my future military / psychic reconnaissance novel. A few middle and ending scenes need to be filled in, and it’s all a disordered jumble in one document at the moment. But I’m happy to have completed my 2nd NaNoWriMo event.

  
I learned (or re-learned) a few things along the way, which I’ll post over the next month. 

But more importantly (to me), this frees me up to focus on revising and publishing my fantasy novel that I finished in late Spring. Thanks to several very helpful and thoughtful first readers, I have some solid suggestions on fixes and changes.

I’m going to start posting the first few chapters as a lead-up to the book being publically available online–which should happen by Christmas. It’s my present to me… and maybe to some of my friends who are already after me to work on book 2. 

If all goes well, this year’s group of Okinawa NaNo participants will also form a monthly writers’ group–something we wanted to do last year but couldn’t due to various military commitments and obligations. I’m ecstatic, since I maintain that’s the absolute best way to grow as a writer. I enjoy it so much I wrote a book about it, called Elements of Critique

And sadly, when I look at the news out of my hometown Chicago and other places around the States, I see very little has changed from the stories dominating the headlines last year. When I completed my first NaNoWriMo, racial tensions and community relations occupied my mind. More importantly, I could not ignore the wide gulf of animosity I saw on social media between people holding opposing viewpoints. And I wondered if anyone really considered the hurting families and broken lives in the aftermath of Ferguson and other flare-ups of racial tension. My book, Not to the Swift, is my effort to understand and empathize as a fellow father, husband, human. Seeing or considering what others go through reminded me how much I have to be thankful for. 

I hope Thanksgiving and the oncoming holiday season find you well and give you the chance to count your blessings. Maybe that can be another Christmas present we give ourselves. Gratitude and contentment seem truly counter-cultural in the West, so this is our chance to be ironic hipsters and go against the flow.

Grateful always for your time and attention,

Dave

In the Shadows – Blog Battle

This is my last Blog Battle entry (probably) until December, since NaNoWriMo beckons and will demand my attention. The genre is sci-fi.

 Clouds blanketed the sky, but the third moon’s violet glow pierced the veil with dim but unwavering light.
Dressed in clothing like dingy, tattered rags, a mother and her son huddled in the shadow of volcanic stone jutting from a nearby vent. Thick ash fluttered through air corrupted by sulfur’s stench.
 “I may not always be here to guide you to a new refuge.” She choked on the words, and not from the fumes. No one traveled at night, when the creatures swarmed across the barren landscape. But her last refuge lay in ruins. Her love most likely lay among the slain. Scattered and pursued, the survivors fled in every direction. 
 The sense of loss hounded her, hammered at her wavering strength, screamed in her ears to give up and die. Her son’s wide, innocent eyes kept her anchored, kept her from wailing and running into the night toward certain death.

 Squatting in the darkness, she looked her son in the eye. “You must be most cautious at night,” she said in a terse whisper.

 “Because Stoneskins hide in the shadows?” he asked, barely audible. He’d learned well.

 “No, because they’re nocturnal. Do you know what that word means?”

 The boy looked around, struggling for an answer. His eyes lit up with insight. “The knocking noise they make when they talk to each other?”

 She chuckled and kissed his soot-stained head. “No, sweetie. It means they only move around after sunset. But the good news is they stay out of the shadows. I don’t think they like the darkness either.”

 A gout of steam released from the vent behind them, and the ground shook. 

 The boy clapped his hand over his nose. “Ew,” he said with a giggle. “It stinks like Dad after dinner.”

 His mother shushed him and tried to keep composure, but the boy’s infectious delight could not be stopped. 

 Laughter felt foreign, alien, after so many years on the run since the colony ship landed on Beta Kaali Two. Sensors set for organic life offered no warning that the very stones of the planet might be alive. 

 A thought struck home and swept her joy away. “We might not see Dad again.” She patted the youngster, and put a finger to her lips.

 But the crack-crack of stones slamming together on the other side of the vent silenced them both at once. A Stoneskin drew near.

 She charged her nano-pistol and checked its settings. The gun’s nanites could disassemble the creatures on a molecular level. The devices proved the colonists’ only defense against the aliens. But supplies had long since dwindled. 

 If any of the Stoneskins attacked, she’d have three shots–maybe four.

 With one arm, she clutched her son to her chest and they became still as the rocky ground. No matter what, she thought, I will protect you. With my life, if I must.

 She closed her eyes and focused on the only sound that brought her peace, the too-fast beating of his heart.

 The rhythmic knocking of his brood mother soothed Ko-Kakrik and he clawed across the ground eager to follow her voice.

 “Do not wander into the shadows, little gravel-shell,” she said with fondness. 

 Ko-Kakrik sensed the vibrations around him and felt nothing apart from his mother’s movements and voice. He clacked his mandible stones together and asked, “Does the darkness deafen us to the sounds of the earth?” 

 “No, my spawnling,” she replied, with a stuttering clack that indicated amusement. 

 The mirth vanished and she cracked out a warning. “That is where the humans often hide. If they see you, they will spit venom from their claws to eat you alive.”

 Ko-Kakrik paused and listened again. For a moment he thought he felt another sound, a pair of thumping drumbeats nearby. 

 His stones beat together in a panic. “Mother?” 

 His mother’s claw rested upon his back and she guided him away. “Come along, and fear not. I will protect you. Even with my life, if I must.”

Helpful Reminder

i’ve been crushed with “real life” to the point that the best I can do sometimes is stare at the screen during my set-aside time for writing.

NaNo is coming up, and I have a sort-of outline. 

That Chicken Soup entry won’t edit and submit itself.

My WattPad book experiment is languishing even though I enjoy it when I get to it.

Revising a 130K fantasy epic takes so much time and effort! (Protip for you, Dave: maybe write better the first time.)

A Blog Battle participant frequently posts humorous and painfully accurate lists about writing and life. She posted 10 emotional hurdles for the newbie writer and I could so relate. 

It helps to know this is common and others deal with the same struggles. Maybe it will help you if you’re in the same boat.

At the very least, it captures a glimpse of what’s going on in my life right now.

NaNo Swag!

I’ve got mail!

 

Supplies are limited!
 
An exciting batch of “swag” arrived from the organizers of National Novel Writing Month, a.k.a. NaNoWriMo… a stack of postcard-sized explanations of the event, and a small batch of stickers to give to participants. 

 

This year’s T-shirt design.
 
If you didn’t know, NaNoWriMo is an annual writing challenge where participants attempt to write a novel of at least 50,000 words between November 1st and November 30th.

It was the driving force behind me finishing my first book, Not to the Swift.

I’m a Municipal Liaison this year, which means I get to help organize events and tell people what’s going on so that interested writers can get together to share in the joy and misery. 

Also I got a sweet T-shirt.

 

I always thought NaNoWriMo sounded like the old Batman theme…
 
It’s one month away, and it costs nothing but effort and commitment. Whether you outline and plan every detail in a story, or loose wild characters into a fun setting to see what happens, it’s an exciting time to hone your craft.

And especially if you think, “Well, I can’t do that,” know that plenty of us said the same thing for years. Then we sat down and did it. So you can too, and we’d love to cheer you on along the way. 

There’s plenty of time to sign up.

Your imagination is waiting.

The Ghost Watchers

Here’s a Blog Battle entry for the word, “Train.” I want to call the genre Western, but supernatural is probably a good fit.

Heh, so… This week’s word is actually “Ride.” Well, this is pretty clearly a story of a ride on a train, so maybe it’s not too much of a stretch?

We all love creative writing… Maybe I was practicing my creative reading skills this week.

Hope you enjoy the ride…

UPDATE: And apparently enough people did that this scored a win for this week’s challenge. Thanks to all who voted for my Old West ghost watchers, Tommy and Jake!

Thanks, Rachael!
Thanks, Rachael!

Heavy silence hung over everything like a church sanctuary at midnight. Darkness stretched forever like a moonless sky.

Thomas had only been to one funeral in his eight years, when a cholera outbreak on the frontier took his little cousin Annabelle. The whole McMillan clan gathered in one place for the first time in years, but no one had the heart to say a word.

The dream always felt like that.

“Tommy, wake up.” Eagerness gave his brother’s deep voice an edge. “We’re almost there.”

Thomas blinked a few times and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. The gentle swaying of the southbound Union Pacific train and the clacka-clack of the tracks below threatened to lull Thomas to sleep.

Jake poked Thomas several times. “You’re gonna miss the ghosts.”

“I don’t believe in no ghosts, Jake. That’s little kid stuff.”

Jake laughed and tousled his brother’s hair. “You’re still young yet.” He turned to the window and gazed into the night. “Folk say they always appear on the hillside before we cross Clark Canyon.”

Thomas yawned and stretched. “Think we’ll spot some Injuns? I hear the Shoshoni attacked some wagons an’ such.” His eyes lit with glee, even if a few drowsy passengers shot him a stern glare. “Maybe train robbers! I hear Jesse James been spotted in these parts.”

“You never know,” Jake said, then grinned. “You’ll have to help me watch. We passed through Dillon a bit ago. Should be comin’ up on the river soon. We’re that much closer to home.”

Thomas squinted at the roiling clouds of mist curling across the flat landscape. “Too foggy out. Can’t see much of anything.” The sight brought a strange familiarity, though they’d never ridden this train before.

Jake nodded. “Rolled in a few minutes ago. That’s why I woke you. I really could use an extra pair of eyes, ghosts or no.”

A soft glow appeared in the mists ahead, and Thomas leaned toward the glass. The fog parted and revealed a brightly painted metal sign with a golden arrow pointing west, lit by the shiniest electric lamps Thomas had ever seen.

Except… he’d seen them before, hadn’t he? Those same bright lamps, that very sign?

Better with his letters than Thomas, Jake read aloud as the train lumbered past. “The historic ghost town of Bannack, Montana?”

He looked at Thomas with a furrowed brow. “Bannack’s just down the Montana trail from Dillon.”

“I knew that,” Thomas muttered, unsure why or how it was the case.

Jake ignored the comment. “They got a gold rush goin’ on, so the conductor claimed. You’re not gonna believe it, but people say a man can pull up a sagebrush–”

“–And shake out a pan full of gold,” both said in unison.

They stared at each other in wonder for a moment then settled back in the padded seats. A few minutes later the low, mournful wail of the train’s whistle broke the silent spell.

Jake turned toward his little brother. “How did you–”

“Look!” Thomas pressed his face against the window.

A cluster of bizzare carriages in a variety of odd shapes sat at the base of a small hill. Soft electric lanterns of some sort fastened to the carriages gleamed in the swirling mist, their beams pointed toward the tracks.

“No horses in sight,” Jake mumbled.

“The ghosts,” Thomas whispered.

Wispy figures gathered on the hilltop under the moonlight, watching the train. Someone had a looking device mounted on a tripod that made Thomas think of photographers back in town. But a camera needed daylight, and surely couldn’t be so small.

Jake squinted at the distant crowd. “What sort of attire is that? Not even tribeswomen are that immodest.”

Nearby passengers stirred at the commotion, and conversation about the spectacle swept through the railcar. A trick of the fog, some reasoned. Spirits from beyond, perhaps the victims of Shoshoni attacks, others said. A messenger of Satan meant to deceive, a preacher declared, then proclaimed everyone in imminent danger of hellfire.

“We’ve been here before,” Jake said. “More than once. Every word they’ve been saying, I knew it before they finished talking.” He glanced about the car and noticed similar reactions among the travelers.

“There’s another sign comin’ up, Jake.”

Jake shook off distraction and peered into the fog. “Clark Canyon Bridge,” he read, then gasped. “A. K. A. Ghost Bridge, site of the 1884 Union Pacific disaster–”

Screams resounded from the forward railcars. The passenger car angled straight down and plummeted toward the ground, passing through the metal structure and railroad ties. The rock wall of the canyon raced past the window with increasing speed.

Jake and Thomas lurched forward, smacking the seats in front of them. Thomas reached for his brother and clasped his hand, then squeezed his eyes shut.

Heavy silence hung over everything like a church sanctuary at midnight. Darkness stretched forever like a moonless sky.

The dream always felt like that.

“Tommy, wake up. We’re almost there.”

Ghost Orchid

Blog battle – Pages tells me it’s exactly 1000 words. 

Genre: Action? Near-future sci-fi?

—-

 

by Mick Fournier, found on Wikipedia, licensed for Creative Commons usage
 
   Rough hands shoved Abby Spangler from behind, and she tumbled into the dark cell. Her shoulder smashed into the cement floor and she grunted.

  “Don’t bruise her,” a man’s voice commanded in Vietnamese–they hadn’t discerned her understanding of their language yet.
   The door slammed shut. Muffled voices withdrew.
   The dank air reeked of mildew. Flies buzzed around the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Abby rolled onto her back and sat up with effort. She blew long blonde bangs out of her eyes and shook her head in a futile effort to manage her unruly mane.

   Her cellmate watched, head bowed. “You okay?” The voice came out as a sheepish whisper, its quivering pitch indicating recent tears.

   Tara hadn’t succumbed to the hopelessness of the other slaves Abby had seen. But she was on the verge.

   “Not too bad,” Abby answered with a forced smile. “Everybody needs some electro-shock now and then. Quiets the voices in my head.” She chuckled, hoping to lift Tara’s spirits. 

   But the teenager sniffed and kept her eyes on the floor.

   Abby groaned and slid into her corner. As planned, she whispered her callsign, briefed two months earlier before she let herself be abducted. “Ghost Orchid.” An image filled her mind–a white flower with long tendrils like frog legs hanging beneath a tree branch. Its roots blended so well into the tree that it seemed to float in mid-air, alone and unsupported.

   Like me. 

   Soft cries echoed through the thin walls of the holding cells–a former hostel near Cam Ranh Bay, judging by snippets of conversation in central Viet dialect and the few glimpses outside Abby managed thus far.

   Traffickers brought kidnapped girls from the airport, where they arrived on flights with handlers arranging passage and bribing security. The port city served the syndicate well, with vessels bound to all parts of the world.

   Here, at least, it would end today.

   “Why don’t you just shut up so they’ll leave you alone, Abby? When you mouth off, you’re just asking for it.” 

   Maybe Tara’s not doing as well as I thought.

   “No,” Abby said. “Nobody ‘asks for it.’ These are wicked men doing evil, preying on innocent victims. I don’t buy any logic that says it’s our fault we ended up here, no matter what led to this.” 

   She softened her tone. “Besides, they can’t afford to hurt us too much. They need pretty American girls–no bruises, no scars.”

   Tara sighed. “You sound so chipper. You realize you’re going to be sold as a sex slave to some dirty bastard in a third world country?”

   “Not today.”

   “Oh, yeah, take it one day at a time, right?” Tara rolled her eyes. “That’s not going to change how the story ends.”

   Abby felt a vibration in the wood at her back and looked at the ceiling. The lightbulb swayed. A distant rumble built into thunder, then dissipated in a loud rush of air.

   Tara glanced around the room in panic. “What’s happening?”

   Abby grinned. “‘Not today’ meant we’re not getting sold off. Not ever. None of these girls are. Relax, this will be over in about two minutes.”

   Or so the Colonel said.

   She fought sudden fear at the realization she had no idea what to expect. 

   Screams resounded throughout the building–shrill cries of terrified men instead of the young girls Abby had heard for the last week.

   Then the walls melted in slow motion, leaving soupy puddles covered in gray dust. Sunlight burst into the room, and both women blinked watery eyes to adjust.

   Abby stood and counted survivors. Within a minute of the initial impact, seventeen girls huddled together in the goopy remnants of the slave traders’ holding facility. No collateral damage, no civilian casualties… 

   Tara asked, “Where did the slavers go?” 

   Abby studied the wet mess and grimaced. “I think we’re standing in them. This looks like the results of weaponized nanotechnology. Uncle Sam has some new toys.” 

   The chop-chop of approaching helicopters caught Abby’s attention and quickly drowned out the sound of Tara retching behind her. 

   Abby shouted against the sound. “There’s our ride, girls! Gather up. We’re going home.”

   She helped the young ladies into open hatches where soldiers in active camoflauge scanned biometrics and guided them to seats. Finally, Abby took another look at the destruction and hopped aboard.

    Colonel Hunter Stephens shook her hand. “Got your signal, Agent. Great work.”

    Abby nodded and took her seat in a daze, struggling with confusing thoughts. 

   Stephens sat beside her and loosed a contented sigh. “Nice to do some good for a change.”

   “Colonel,” she said, “the Agency had no idea where we’d get dropped off. That’s why I got taken–finding where they operated.”

   “That’s right, Agent.”

   “So how could you plant listening devices advanced enough to pick up a whispered callsign?”

   Stephens said nothing, but his smile vanished. 

   Abby reviewed the preparation for her mission months earlier. Combat training, resistance techniques, a full medical check-up and thorough brainwave scan to set a baseline in case of traumatic brain injury…

   “Oh my God,” she whispered. “The picture of the orchid. You saw that somehow, picked up my thoughts, triangulated our position by tracking my brainwaves.” She glared at Hunter, who sat silent as a statue. “What the hell kind of system does the government have?”

    The picture of the orchid returned–a lone flower out in the open, seemingly unsupported yet held aloft and nourished by invisible roots, sustained by resources unseen at first glance.
   “Agent, Ghost Orchid was never your callsign,” Stephens said. “It’s the coverterm for a special access program you’re not cleared for. You’d do best to forget this and take comfort that we rescued these girls.”

   He flashed her a smile that any other day would seem charming. “Trust us, we’re the good guys.”

   She turned to stare out the chopper’s window, unsure what to think, but absolutely certain she didn’t want to think at all just then.