Poisoned Wells Update

Hey Everyone!

So good news, I have entered Poisoned Wells in a Novella Contest. Hopefully the publishers love what they read!

With that said, I’ll be holding on adding any new installments to the blog until I hear a yay or nay from the contest judges.

For those of you that have just joined the Scions of Magic world, read from the beginning. As I was editing the text for the contest, I realized how much Peter and Cara have grown, how much they’ve seen.

I’ll keep you all posted with any developments. As always, thank you for supporting my work and please continue to read and enjoy!

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 035)

This is a short installment. One could probably call it 34B, but I think it further develops the three travelers we are following. Ean is in disguise and desperately wants to get to the final destination. Cara and Peter, seem a bit more at peace with seeing themselves as adventurers, or maybe they know something that even I the write don’t. There is clearly a hesitancy, a desire to keep travelling, even though their destination is so close. Lots of questions to consider. So tra la la…*

They left the warm indulgences of the Crone’s Compass for the unexpected delights or disaster of the wild woods. The air smelled always of an impending storm. But Ean was glad to be out of the tavern. It was designed for comfort, which did not bode well for the creation of magic. The food was too good, the wood too oiled, the beds far too soft and the fires much too cozy. The books were too much about idle adventures. Hearty stews and decadent beds—these were the problems with hearth witches and hedge wizards. Oh, they could look imposing. They could even be very knowledgeable when it came to herbs and alchemic principles, but they lacked ambition. They lacked any desire aside from a good night’s sleep and a secure roof during the winter storms. A full belly was all they needed magic for.

It irritated Ean to have such cowardly mongrels as his subjects. But then again, the more they kept to their small fires, the less rivals he had for his crown. This was exactly why he needed access to Seinseyabo Library. He would not permit these humdrum mountain folk to challenge him. He would suffer no fool, witch or universe.

“Master Re’em? Are you all right?” Caragris asked. Was there amusement in the child’s voice? Ean frowned. The boy was far too smart. Far too inquisitive—too magician like.

“I’m fine. Just finding my bearings, is all. Cushioning my bones. We have a ways to walk. Once we’re free of magical interference, we can travel a bit faster. I’ve got spells for that.”

“Probably not as fast as Lord Dream,” Peter said.

Cara smiled at Peter. “Or Time.”

Through gritted teeth, Ean replied, “then perhaps you should find them to travel you about.”

“We meant no offense, Master Re’em. We just miss our friends. I’m sure your magic will be extraordinary,” Cara said in his most diplomatic tone.

“More magic than we have,” Peter said. “We have none.”

Ean went to say something but the boys pulled him along, asking questions about magic which was an obvious ploy to make Old Man Re’em feel good. And, begrudgingly, it worked.

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 034)

*In this installment, we here from the King Magician himself. As always, enjoy!*

For adventure. How Ean wanted to roll his eyes, but the persona he wore was not one to roll his eyes. So he nodded gently at the boy, Caragris, who excused himself to gather his things. Adventure. Is that what they saw this to be? Why was walking the length of this realm such an important milestone? Once, Saravia had talked endlessly about the two of them wandering, exploring, discovering and searching the Dali together. And she’d tried to show him what it could be like…but…

His has been such a dormant rule for so long. So many had forgotten their fealty. They forgot what it was to feel the King Magician’s wrath. He had no time to court Lady Death. And far too much to get done to go tramping about and across the realm. He had to regain, remind, rip to asunder so as to make anew.

For all her insanity and pomp, Queen Titania had understood him fully.

Who, he wondered had taken her head? After he found he could not summon the remains of power in her, he left it in the crumbling castle she once held her court. Had Fear or Time taken it? They seemed less adjusted than the other Sharus—or maybe they clearly understood their position, their rank and understood the stupidity of mingling in intimate ways.

“Old man?” The sandy-haired one, his puppet, called him. Peter. The boy was peering at him with a smile. “Cara said your hearing is bad, old man.”

“My hearing isn’t bad. It’s just not great.”

“Ohh, of course.” Peter nodded. “Well, old man, we’re ready to go. Cara is outside.”

“Don’t call me old,” Ean snapped, forgetting his disguise for a moment.

“Well that’s what you are! And it’s not like that’s bad, no? Living a long life.” Peter huffed. “Everyone should be allowed to reach old age.” His eyes were mournful but his face desperately clung to his smile. “If you don’t want me to call you old man, then what should I call you? Names are more important than age anyway.”

How diplomatic, Ean observed. Peter had learned how to deftly avoid conflict. This pleased Ean very much. He could always use someone good with words when his own failed. And right now, he was at a loss. Name. He hadn’t thought of this. He’d become far too entertained with the canvas, the wrinkles, the scars, the bony appearance under his oversized cloak of green rags.

“Call me Re’em,” he whispered hoping Peter hadn’t heard. Saravia had taught him the origin of the power animal. A crowned jewel for scholars when describing the universe. Would the boys be privy to this information? Would it give him away? The child, Caragris, was too young to be a scholar, no? Ean felt his heart grumble. Too many questions. This is what happened when words were used without logic. He went to speak again, to clarify, but Peter was already handing him his wide brimmed hat.

“Please to meet you, Master Re’em. Let’s get on our way.”

“Yes…let’s.”

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 033)

*In this installment, morning has come and the boys are awaiting the guide who will travel with them on the last leg of their journey. *

At Saravia’s advice, the cook made a large pot of layken porridge, had the the morning girl bring up jars of black jam from the cellar, paid for an extra bottle of milk, made fresh biscuits as well as an egg and kanif pie for breakfast. The morning hunger of child was hard enough to satiate, so the cook faced a challenge upon meeting Peter.

Cara drank snow twig tea and nibbled on a few spoons of porridge, while Peter finished his bowl and was already in the kitchen with the cook. In each hand he held a piece of pie and a biscuit. Cara laughed at the cook begging Peter to chew a bit slower and not to touch the lunch bread. The earth soldiers had allowed Peter to eat to his content and had always frowned on Cara’s plate never fully finished. But Peter’s hunger, Saravia had explained to Cara, was due to Peter having brought back with him the appetite of the dead. The desire to taste one last morsel, to fill up their bellies before moving to the next life, was what Peter carried.

He’d always be hungry and perhaps for a while be satiated but it would never last. He would become one of those marvels people astonished at: but’s he’s as thin as a pole—where does the food go?!

“To the wraiths and the waiting, of course,” Cara murmured to his empty mug. He picked up the pot to finish off the morning tea. He always let Peter finish the milk.

“Did you ask me something, boy?” A brittle voice barked, not meanly, but as a means to be heard by his own ears.

It startled Cara enough to spill his tea. As cleaned up the mess, he glanced behind him to find an old man hunched over a steaming mug of pine needle tea. How curious—Cara had thought only one morning tea was served. He would’ve loved pine needle to wake him.

The steam plumed and hid most of the old man’s face, but it was clear that the dark skin was stained by age and regrettable choices. The scars that ran across his nose and cheeks made it hard to tell what he truly looked like. Had he been in a fire? A terrible battle? A duel gone wrong? Perhaps all of the above. It was hard to tell…

“What’s that boy?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Cara said returning to his tea, returning his attention to watching Peter make the cook and morning girl sigh in exasperation and giggles at the same time. As he watched them, he toyed with his pencil but the papers would remain blank today.

“My ears, not so good anymore. So I think even birds chirping are for me, you know? But my eyes are still good. You’re a scholar. Your hands are smudged with ink. Don’t know how to end the story, no?

“I know the ending. But I’m not concerned with writing at the moment,” Cara said in his most regal tone. Then added, “I’m waiting for our guide to appear.”

“Guide?! You’re in luck. I’m one of the best guides in these parts. My treks are known to be fast and cheap and for no extra charge I can fill your pages with the most wondrous stories.” He smiled and to Cara’s surprise the old man had a beautiful mouth, perfect teeth, a coyote grin full of charm.

“Could you take us to see the Giants of Doray?” Peter asked as he sat unceremoniously at the old man’s table.

“Is that where you’re headed?”

“We’re going to Seinseyabo Library,” Peter said.

“I can take the two of you there.”

“But we’ll have to make the detour to Doray.” Peter smiled at Cara. “I want to see the giants.”

“But wouldn’t it be wise to get on with your journey? Detours only cause delays and delays cause trouble, no?”

Peter frowned, thinking about the trolloc horn and of the weight of Skala’s dying body…the smell of blood. He was about to acquiesce.

“Our end point is not so important that one delay would cause trouble. We’re adventurers. And seeing the giants is part of our journey. We’ve been through enough to know what can and cannot pause our trek.” Caragris stood up. “If you cannot help us, we will find another guide. Much thanks. Come on, Peter, we should do some scouting.”

The old man waved them back down. “Now wait. No, no. One stop does not matter, I suppose. It’s your time. Your coin. I’ll take you.”

“Okay, but Saravia gave us strict instructions to barter,” Peter said. “So don’t think you can cheat us.”

“Do I look like I’d steal coin from children?”

“To every child, every adult looks like they could,” Caragris replied. He didn’t sound much like a child anymore though.

Peter went off to collect provisions from the kitchen, leaving Cara to discuss payment. When it was the settled the old man asked again, “But what is so important about the giants?”

Cara was gathering his things and the question surprised him—it should’ve been a question he asked. But when Peter had asked about Doray, Cara hadn’t considered to ask why. Of course, it seemed like an unnecessary stop. But with Peter, nothing could ever be unnecessary—it was all important.

Instead of saying this, Cara merely shrugged. “To simply experience them, of course. For adventure.”

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 032)

*In this installment, Saravia says goodnight and leaves the boys. This marks the beginning of the final stretch of their journey. As always enjoy! *

That night Saravia made sure they were full, had bathed, and were tucked in; she’d rented the nicest room at the inn for them. It boasted to have the softest bed in all of Dali—she’d have to ask Snowpea, an expert on mattresses, about that.

“You’ve got water, and extra blankets…do you need anything else before Sorrel and I take our leave?”

Cara could feel Peter nervously plucking at the sheets of the bed. He didn’t want her to leave them but was pretending to be brave. Cara sat up and said what Peter wanted to say but couldn’t, “Will you sing to us?” It was what a good friend did, no?

Saravia smiled, knowing what Cara was up to, but played along. “Wouldn’t you rather a heroic story?”

“Your songs are stories.” Cara knew Peter had always been curious about the cradle songs he’d never been privy to.

Saravia hummed the first song she’d given to her little brother Coi at the day of his making. It was a soft tune that went up and down hills like a smooth traveler’s caravan. And then she sang the songs that had been Damian’s, the ones he sang to her when his heart was broken yet again. Next: the melodies that she welcomed Sleeping Echo into the world with. Songs for Ralph and his angels. Songs for the dragons and the soldiers.

In the next room, Ean leaned against the wall, listening to her voice move with ease, to the soft cooing of his daughter, to the gentle sleeping breaths of the boys. What magic was there to keep this moment from ending…to have a part in this moment?

Her songs, her scent, her presence so close, reminded him of the days he held no magic and she loved him. Even when he fought her, she loved him. And now? Did she only come around because of this game? If he kept the game going, she wouldn’t leave his side, no? Surely, she would keep loving him.

Pressing his face against the wall, he knew he had the power to walk through the brick and into the next room, to go to her. He could even open the door and meet her in the hall. Meet Sorrel. He shut his eyes tight. Ignored the chuckle coming from the mirror on the other side of the room. He would not allow the False King to look into his eyes.

Instead, he remained clawing the wall quietly. He listened as she left the room. Her voice was a whisper as she spoke to the serving girl about the morning. And then she paused at his door. Sometimes it is the unlocked doors that are the hardest to open.

After a few minutes, Saravia walked away and Ean turned to the small desk in the room away from the window so as to better attend to his magic.

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 031)

*In this installment, Saravia and the boys (and her newborn daughter) are continuing the journey the King Magician started. *

With a baby strapped to her back and with each boy at her side, the three companions trekked through the night towards Gan-vael. The sight they made wasn’t lost on Saravia. Three children much like she would have. Sleeping Echo, Sorrel and…who would be her last child. A boy. Like Peter? Like Caragris?

Time would know but would not tell her. And when it came to her possible futures, Destiny only gave her riddles that never carried a concrete answer. It made Saravia smirk—the universe did all that it could to gift her with a sense of surprise. How she wished Ean saw the unpredictability of the universe as a gift and not a weapon forged by a terrible enemy. Is that how he saw her now—an enemy? Most definitely an intrusion, an irritant, a troubling obstacle to his plans.

She stopped thinking about Ean…or rather tucked the thought of him in the secret place in her heart that she tucked all those that made themselves blind to her. Instead she looked at her companions. How the corners of their mouths fought back the desire to frown?! They missed each Eivyn, no? In the short time they’d all been together, the boys had reminded the women of a love that was ever present—that love could continue to grow on different soils. They had softened the women.

And softer soil yields better crops.

Saravia had seen, despite their grief of losing two of their warrior kin, a stronger magic taking root in each woman. They’d been a force before and now…they would be a cannonball in still water.

The rain seemed to have waited until the 3 travelers set foot under shelter before falling. First a drizzle, then toddlers’ tears, and finally in sheets. Peter stared fascinated at the wet weather and how everything bowed to it; even inside, shoulders sagged feeling the weight of the rain. Caragris’ eyes were on the inner workings of the Crone’s Compass and Tavern. In the stories, this place was one of rotted wood and air that smelled of spoiled milk. Dank. Foul. Thick with grime and grease. Riddled with fleas and mites and millipedes the size of deadly blades. And those that came to this tavern were either very much at home in the underbelly or were so lost they’d have to sell their hope of finding their way back so as to have a morsel to eat.

“Someone spins a good yarn,” Caragris said amazed at his reflection in the polished wood. The glass cases around the walls held beautiful rare bottles of the finest drinks available. Sumptuous meats and cheeses were brought to the table in lovely trays of silver. The tavern girls were polite and their dresses lovely. The patrons wore shabby clothes and worn out boots but only because no one ever worn their finest in the rain.

“Sometimes the best magic spells are a few words that can catch fire in the mind’s eye, no?” Saravia motioned at a vacant table.

As they took their seats, Caragris couldn’t help but ask, “But why? Why hide behind such grotesque lies?”

“Privacy. Safety. Avoidance. Why do any of us seek to camouflage?” She looked at Cara thoughtfully but he avoided her eyes, blushing fiercely.

Upon sitting, a woman brought over a tray of warm bread, sweet butter, sesame seeds and hot cinnamon milk. The boys ate, the baby slept and Saravia observed. She looked around at the motley crew of hearth witches and hedge wizards: all of them wore spells and formulas tattooed on their skins. Scars told of spells gone wrong. Under their stools tucked and wrapped were packages, ingredients for their next their next venture—a love spell, a glamour, an elixir to make one young, to make one appear feeble, a potion to gain the strength of a giant or the voice of an angel so as to cause an enemy to bleed from their ears, nose and mouth with a causal hello. Hello, Saravia waved at them. As much as they hid, Death saw them all quite clearly—none were ever capable of fooling her. Run they might, and hide a bit, but always she found them. Always she saw them. But she let them pretend. It was a game she allowed. Because in the end, she would not have to chase or find them. They always came to her willingly and if not willingly, they came begrudgingly, but still they came and would come always and forever. What a lover affair, maddening and predictable, no?

For her part, Saravia did not hide. In fact, she pulled the hood off her head and shook out her hair from its knot. How her curls had grown wilder and longer when she’d traversed the spaces without time. She let the fragrance of her magic penetrate the room until the magicians felt the grass under their boots and some even saw a lavender bush stretch from the cracks of the floorboards. The only ones oblivious to this were the children.

“Can I have your bread?” Peter asked.

“How can you ask now,  if you are halfway done with it?”

“At least I’m asking before It’s all gone.”

Saravia chuckled. “All right. Go on and finish it. Would you like some stew?”

They nodded and Saravia motioned for the dinner to be brought. Peter was content, but Cara’s eyes were clouded with worry.

“Pensive, young scribe?”

“You’re not staying. You won’t be travelling with us.”

“Correct. I can’t. I can only stay until you fall asleep. Brother Dream will keep you company and then when you wake, you’ll have a guide for the last foots of the journey.”

The universe had decreed: no more games or interferences. What would happen, would happen. Enough. Let it be. And Saravia would bow to this.

“But where are we going?!” Peter asked pitifully.

Saravia shrugged. “I can guess but I’m not sure.”

Peter shook his head. “Why was I picked and why do I follow?”

“Because you were enchanted,” Cara said quietly. He hated how it sounded, that some stupid magician held sway when it came to Peter’s heart and inner compass.

“I don’t want to be enchanted. I want…I want to go my own way. To form my own adventure.”

“Okay. We’ll go on countless adventures when we finish this one. You can’t start new adventures when you haven’t ended this one.” Cara gave Peter the rest of his milk.

“I know…but…are all adventures dangerous?” He asked, not Saravia, but Cara who frowned unable to answer. Why should he know?

“At least,” Saravia interrupted, “This journey has given the two of you the magic of thought. Thinking always lessens the danger, no?”

The serving girl brought over a pot of beef and root stew and Saravia began to pour it into bowls as she asked, “You have learned many arts. What will you do with all this knowledge?”

“Go exploring,” Peter exclaimed as Cara replied, “Go home to ponder.”

“To ponder?! What’s there to ponder?” Peter shook his head. “Isn’t it better to experience than—”

“If no one pondered, there’d be no stories,” Cara said firmly.

Saravia raised an eyebrow, “Please tell me what the two of you plan to solve by being loud with one another?” She cut more bread. “Do kings yell at one another?”

“Yes,” the boys replied.

“Neither of you are kings. And who ever respected two kings in a shouting match anyway?”

“We’re sorry, Sharu Death.” Cara lowered his head ashamed at how fast he forgot the presence of the most beloved of the universe.

Smiling she handed him bread, “Apologies are never needed between us. Just make sure you are kind to me in your stories.”

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 030)

*With the return of Poisoned Wells, I figured I’d post a few installments throughout the week. This installment picks up right were the last one left—we’re following Cara to meet the Sharu of Time. As always enjoy, comment, tell your friends! *

The simplest description that captured Saudade, Sharu of Time, was imposing. Like Destiny and Fear, he was not one that lived anywhere but the invisible places, the shadows, where eyes were not needed to see and hearing only made you go insane.

He held no affection for anyone that wasn’t Sharu and anything he knew about that which was not his, he learned from is kin. He had a tongue but no understanding of its use. He did not attend to empathy and was not one to be swayed.

But there were those lucky few given his magic and they were allowed to time jump, no? Cara’s mother believed it was Time’s way of rectifying his utter lack of interest in a world that revolved around him.

“Meela, meela, Lord Sharu.” Caragris fumbled with the honorifics.

Since his birth, he’d smelled the Sharu (like Death, he smelled of a wild lavender field—a mark that he was Death’s first born and only true Sharu child). He felt the Sharu in the shadows and plains of every time jump he made.

Standing before Time, he knew that he might be punished for not being in his proper time frame…but…it was for Peter…and if he was to be punished, well at least he’d taken the boon to make him a wanted offender. Cara bowed again, this time in apology. He was surprised that Saudade simply tilted his head in acknowledgement.

Seeing Death’s daughter grasping at Time’s robes sparked words in Cara again. “Sa—Lady Death will stay. She asked—”

Time unfurled, straightening to his full height and towered over Cara—surely towering over the nearby tree, no? Then he swaddled the child in smoke colored sheets before kissing her brow softly. Then he handed her to Caragris.

Time looked down at the boy for a few minutes as if pondering. He shrugged at his mental calculations and then kissed Caragris’ forehead before falling into the wind and disappearing.

Every nerve in Cara’s body tingled and without the weight of the baby in his arms, he would’ve fainted. But even in his stunned state, Cara knew it would not do him well to drop Death’s newborn.

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 029)

*Poisoned Wells is BACK! I would love to say that we return to our story on a happy note, but we find ourselves in the middle of goodbyes. Karfa and Inye have both died in battle. Peter is inconsolable. And Cara finds solace in stories. In this installment, we are solemn as we pay our respects to the Eivyns that have fallen.*

Zejiin happened 3 days after burial. In that time, Eivyn Karfa and Eivyn Inye were bathed, clothed in simple, white garments and placed in the ground with their weapons. The hashmal, Atuine Cauli, who had fought in the dust against the demi-liches, had been the one to collect the rocks and pebbles that were placed atop the fresh dirt. He did this task so that the rest of the earth soldiers could gather and grieve. For three days they cried, whispered, thought of their fallen comrades; they told stories, told Cara of the beginnings: the men and women that they had once called maisan.

Everyone took turns caring for Peter, who slept fitfully in Karfa’s bedroll. At night Cara, ink stained and body sore from longs hours of scribe work, would hold Peter tightly. He would tell his friend stories—not of the earth soldiers, but of simpler tales: of mouse, of the rabbit and lion, of the wise goats of Trelay, of the bear that searched for ingredients for the stew that would make him human.

Cara wasn’t sure if Peter was paying attention, but he hoped that his words would simply seep into his friend so that his dreams would be crowded with curious animals and not of Karfa’s death.

On the third day, Eivyn Meroc and Thea carried Peter to the river to bathe and dress for the last ceremony. Maeve adjusted the white linen shirt and pants she’d made for Cara, her deft fingers making sure not to prick his skin with pins.

At noon they all met by the graves, the women shedding their armor and coming in simple, white dresses. Thea held each boy by the hand, rubbing her thumb against their skin as a way of comfort. When a figure robed in many sheets of thick, black fabric appeared though, Peter let go and ran forward. Death and Peter embraced tightly and Cara watched how gently she wiped the tears off Peter’s face and kissed his temple lightly.

Saravia was no longer pregnant, though the baby was not far off—she was in the arms of Sharu Time, who stood atop the hill, observing blankly the ceremony and the interactions. She winked at the Sharu before turning away.

Holding Peter’s hand, Saravia made her way towards the group, embracing Thea Sun as she had Peter. Then turning to all the women, to the hashmal, to the boys, she said, “I want to hear from all of you. I’ll do my best to ease your grief but I think it’s only right we send Eivyn Karfa and Eivyn Inye to their next destination.”

Motioning everyone to be seated on the ground, she began to give gentle instructions. Breathe. Listen. Keep the weight of the quiet around the body. Throughout, she held Peter’s hand and Cara was grateful for this small kindness. He leaned against Eivyn Mari, who whispered, “Keep your eyes open, scribe. You’ll need to write even this faithfully, and in detail, no?” He nodded and she hugged him so tightly, he was suddenly homesick for his mother. Not the Matriarch but his mother—the woman she was when it was only him and his father watching.

Saravia whispered to the earth and to the sky, to the nearby trees and the animals hidden within the foliage. Only breaths. No more sound. Their world grew still. The clouds paused in their travels and even Time stopped to watch the final rights.

Her song came from the very ground and out of her mouth. The words she sang were dense and shadowy but also of the brightest light the sun could bestow. Her voice sang but Death herself flew. Past the waiting room, past the boats full of souls in travel, and to the gate of the great beyond where Skala Karfa and Tana Inye waited to pass completely.

Anya se rut, amas col nos

Anya se rut, amas cel tu

Co me Sa na, anya se rut

Through it all, the warriors kept their breaths in fluid rhythm with the chants, and wishing that they too could see their fighting kin once more.

Finally, in the distance, a baby’s joyous exclamation signaled the end of the ceremony.

Upon opening her eyes, Saravia grasped Thea’s elbow as she said, “Saën, bul setra?”

Cara had picked up enough of the warrior’s tongue to know she was asking if they wanted her to stay a day. “Yes,” he murmured louder than he intended, making the warriors giggle.

Thea nodded in agreement. “Cara is right in this decision.” She smirked as she added, “Skala did say these boys would outrank me one day.” The thought caused a bittersweet taste for everyone: their companion was not here to say it herself. She was no longer an eivyn. She was free from the burden of waged war. Beyond grief and, hopefully, with her beloved maisan. Without scars. Renewed.

Saravia smiled at those around her. There was mending to be seen to. She looked to Cara for help: “Would you go up to the hill and inform Saudade of my stay?”

“Yes, Lady Death.” He scrambled up and bowed politely. The warriors laughed a bit more openly this time.

“Be polite to Time. He likes being bowed to. I prefer laughter.”

“Yes, my lady.” He headed up the hill. If Saravia could bring the lightness to Peter’s heart again, he would do whatever Death dictated until every ember in the Dali grew cold.

Scions of Magic Novella News!

Hey everyone,

As many of you that follow my blog might know, I’m participating in a writing contest. Currently, my ranking is at 23, which is good but I’d like to get to reach the top. And for that, I need your help.

You are all my readers. You’ve read Poisoned Wells, read my book reviews, have supported my woes about Yans. You are a community of writers and readers, so you know what it is like to try at contests, to muddle through rejection emails…to write and hope and write some more.

I am asking that you all take a few minutes out of your busy schedules to help me attain a dream. If you can just vote for my work, I would appreciate it immensely. If you review my piece I will give a personal thanks on the blog.

The story I posted is a novella in the Scions of Magic universe. It is before Poisoned Wells. The whole thing is posted, so vote and then read at you leisure.

Here’s the link: http://www.inkitt.com/stories/64392

 

 

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 028)

*This installment is a continuation of the last section. I wanted these moments to have space and breath to truly feel the loss. I hope you all continue to read. *

Eivyn Maeve did not let Peter feel the emptiness of Karfa’s last breath. Instead, she grabbed the boy and held him in her arms. Tightly, she hid him from the world. His calls, which were frantic and full of rage for being abandoned, were muffled, yet still managed to cut the women worse than any steel in battle.

Arjun and Mari removed the sword from Inye’s body, then wiped the blood and dirt from her face. Meroc and Roeze did the same for Karfa.

Caragris stood trembling, barely registering Thea’s hands on his shoulders, but he managed to say, “What now?”

“We give them the honor of Zejiin. We mourn our warriors. We bury them. We sing their praises. We hope they are sent to their loved ones.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I mean what happens now to Peter? What do I…how do I…he’s broken and I’m a weakling. I couldn’t spare him from this pain. How do I fix him?” He asked through tears.

Thea hugged him and said into his hair, “Caragris, there is nothing for us to do but feel. We must face this. Do not deny my warriors their honor or pain. Don’t deny Peter his pain.”

“But how do I—”

“You just do it, Cara. The best you can. You simply make him as comfortable as possible. There is no written alchemical formula to this. You’re his best friend. You’ll make him smile again. Just love him.”

“But all I know how to do is read stories, Eivyn Sun. Love is—”

“Crying because your best friend is hurting?” She pulled away to look at Cara’s tear stained face. She smiled weakly. “So you are a reader. Then read to him. We’ll find stories that you can read to Peter. We will give you stories to read to him if that is what will help the two of you.”

“But that would mean…” Cara wiped the tears from his face. Then he wiped the tears off Eivyn Sun’s. Will all of you tell me how you all became earth soldiers?”

“Peter has been curious about that, no? I’ll find you ink and paper. Come.”