Tag Archives: Thyre

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Thyre Version 2.0

We’ve exciting news! We’ve just published our first novel, Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow.

Ok, this might sound a bit familiar. However, as with most firsts, the prior publication had a couple of problems. I’m proud to say that we’ve managed to figure out the formatting Amazon uses and have corrected them. Or, at the very least, we’ve corrected most of them! I’ve been told that a whole twenty-five pages have been saved through getting the sentences to print proper alone. That’s exciting, right?

Available for Kindle and Print at Amazon.ca and Amazon.com!

So to celebrate this great achievement in understanding web publishing, Kait has been so gracious to provide new cover art for the delightful little book. She has a digital tablet for drawing and everything!

This hasn’t changed anything on the customer’s end, of course. As such, you can find the book at all the old links and with the prior search keywords. In fact, you won’t find any evidence of the old book. So for those of you gracious early supporters, congratulations! You’re now the proud owners of a very limited release. Hold onto them – especially the autographed ones! I’m sure they’ll be worth something extra, someday. Maybe. Hopefully. One can dream.

Anyway, Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow is still available on Kindle or for online reading from all Amazon sites. The Canadian digital copy is here: Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow Kindle Edition

And the paperback version is still here: Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow Paperback Edition

If you haven’t had the chance to check the book out, there’s no better time than now with our beautiful artwork and realigned interior. It’ll feel like an entirely new experience!

Thanks for all your wonderful support, you beautiful people you.

Belles, Balls and Bad Intentions

Here at last is the final preview for Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow. Happy Victoria Day everyone!

Available for Kindle and Print at Amazon.ca and Amazon.com!

***

Chapter 2: Marcus ha Romonte, Smoke and Fog

The ballroom of the ha Romonte estate was a lavish space. Columned with exquisite pillars carved from imported marble and inlaid with delicate twisting ivy, the room was renowned amongst the socialites of Thyre for both exquisite artistry and almost magickal acoustics. While the band remained hidden behind a half-screen of stained rosewood on the second floor, the sound of their instruments carried to the furthest reaches of the chamber as crisp as if they were but mere feet away.

The pleasant atmosphere nearly compensated for the vivid murals and sculptures adorning the borders. Horrific depictions of the nightmarish untamed appeared twisted and engaged in a brutal conflict with the divine aspects of the Lord. Anointed priests in stylish embellishments displaying the Lord’s favour stood shoulder to shoulder with the devout hosts at the feet of the avatars. Each of the legendary figures depicted one of the divine aspects of the Lord incarnate in all his collected radiance.

The Marchioness ha Romonte held a very public devotion to the great Church and felt it stylish to adorn the manor in all manner of religious iconography. However, in the minds of the most discerning tastes, such vivid representations were best saved for the dated grottoes and niches that had been far more popular nearly a hundred years ago.

It was this decorative reason alone that marred the splendour of the Marchioness’ parties. There was an unsettling way the statues appeared to stare down upon the guests, wavering within the dim gas lamps as if they were alive. The untamed seemed to eye each visitor with hungry eyes, prepared to whisper their lies and damnations to tempt even the most pious from the Lord’s graces. The faces of the priests and host in turn were heavy with suspicion as if they drew bare the sin held in every man’s breast.

Despite the unsettling décor, all who received an invitation from the ha Romontes always accepted. For beneath the foot of the gargoyles hung thick brocade curtains over expansive bay windows, crystal chandeliers glittered from the great cathedral ceiling and carved mahogany divans stretched alongside the balcony wall. Above all the modern gaslights hissed softly like sibilant caged snakes.

The ha Romontes were rich and they were powerful. For that reason, every family with a daughter in Thyre hoped to catch the favour of the brooding Marquis. Now that the dashing heir to the title and fortune had returned, marriage was was on every great family’s mind.

Like the ringing of a crystal wind chime, Vivian’s voice twinkled through the air between the notes of the live band in their hooded balcony.   

“Did I not mention? I have a daughter who takes after me, if you catch my meaning.”

The lady addressed a crisply dressed military officer: an ageing man with great white whiskers and a number of military commendations pinned to his breast. He stood upright and proper, paying appropriate attention to the lady without presenting any interest for the direction the conversation steered. It seemed no coincidence that the one ornamentation he lacked was a wedding band upon his finger.

“And could you believe that she has still not posted the banns? I mean, a marvellous young woman, much as I was in my prime if I may, still unwed! Still unengaged! Such a travesty, is it not? General?”

The younger woman sighed at the sight of her mother’s poor attempts at subtlety.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Isabella said. “I would like to say mother is not always so forward, but my father told me I should never speak falsehoods.”

The lord looked upon her, unable to suppress his smile. His partner in this dance was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. Even now, though a hooked expression of annoyance pulled at the soft contours of her face, it failed to mar her perfect complexion.

“That is your mother?”

“Not by choice, I can assure you.”

He had heard of House Riviera’s reputation. His parents, the Marquis and Marchioness, were more concerned with pedigree than character. The Riveria’s southern origins were not favourable despite that country holding the seat of the holy charters. But now, clutching the dainty hand of his partner, he couldn’t help but grow curious about this little noble house.  

“This is absolutely marvellous stuff have you tried it, General?”

Once more, the lord’s attention was drawn back to the exchange of the senior Lady Riviera. Madame Vivian held the thin glass delicately in her fingers. The container was nearly drained, but the woman’s need to lean against the officer suggested where most of it had vanished.

“It’s Commissar, Madame. And that stuff would be wormwood.”

“That is not an answer,” Lady Riviera smiled, the glass shaking accusingly in his direction.

Isabella caught her partner’s curious gaze, drawing his attention back to the dance. She smiled as she directed – with the most discreet of touches – the pair back towards the centre of the room.

However, their passing caught the attention of the matron. Upon spotting her daughter and dance partner, her hand immediately relinquished the crystal. Fortunately, her escort was quick to snatch it before it clattered against the floor.

“Oh dear, now we’ve been discovered,” Isabella whispered. “Try and ignore her, else we’ll just make things worst.”

As one, the two dancers stepped gracefully amongst the sea of twirling pairs, two lone individuals gliding in a stream of rustling cloth and fabric. He looked resplendent in a swallow-tailed jacket, ruffled shirt and pressed cuffs. Gold buttons glimmered in the candle and gaslight while his polished shoes shone brighter than the beeswaxed floor they tread. A hale face emerged from the raised, embroidered collar. The clean shaved cheeks revealed a strong jaw punctuated by the famous ha Romonte chin. Two blue eyes, like tiny sapphires hidden beneath hooded lids, pierced the thick, manicured brows.

And while he looked remarkable, she was practically aglow. Her hair was bound up, and the unruly tanned curls had been straightened and gathered beneath a soft lace weave. A few strands had been strategically hung to frame her oval face, draping the immaculate skin. High cheekbones drew a soft line to thin, glistening lips. A small nose separated her eyes: a pair of soft emeralds that modestly followed just above her partner’s shoulder. She claimed heritage to the lavish Tuscien stock; a paragon of the race known for their bronzed skin and deep, captivating eyes. There was a reason she was known as the Gem of Tuscien.

At the strike of a chorus of horns, he released her hip and she followed his lead, stepping out as her dress flared in a whirl of cloth. Her free hand bent just slightly, touching the soft, exposed neckline that led to a modest amount of shimmering bosom.

Vivian Riviera looked up into the face of the man who held her. Taller and thinner, it was his green eyes that betrayed his relation to the stunning Isabella. Knowing well his wife, Lord Riviera produced a small fan with which the Madame immediately began to shake vigorously.

“Good sir, I do believe I may be full of the ether. Please tell me who that ravishing pair are?”

“You are being silly,” Lord Riviera said. He manoeuvred her glass upon a passing servant’s tray.  

“I always thought only a military man would tolerate her…”

“They are only dancing.”

“… tell me, good sir, what she is doing with that nobleman!”

“The two-step.”

“And not just a nobleman but Marcianus ha Romonte?”

“Shall I prepare your mausoleum? Has your life reached full expectancy?”

“I do believe it has!” Madame Riviera gasped.

Isabella rolled her eyes and shook her head with resignation. Her parent’s exchange was loud enough to be heard by every ear in Thyre and least not that of the highborn man holding her.

“You are going to deliver me much hassle.”

As the song concluded, the dancers slowed. With the last note, they joined their hands in respectful applause.

“I suppose it would be too great a burden should I request a second?” Marcus smiled.

“Indeed, it would,” Isabella replied, giving the Lord a courteous bow before turning and slipping into the crowd. Marcus watched her go, paralysed with shock. He was not accustomed to flippant dismissals, especially not at a ball thrown in his honour.

Already, a mass of young girls filled the void spreading between him and the beautiful Isabella Riviera, each one more than willing to take his hand next. But he only had eyes for that strong back as it pushed its way into the throng of partiers, never once turning.

He smiled politely as the boldest approached, quickly stepping around new couples eager for their turn as the band started their next performance. He took a passing servant by the arm, gently requesting a glass of brandy before edging his way to a darkened corner of the hall.

A lone lady stood amongst the shadows, batting thick lashes and coyly bowing her head as if she had been caught in the last moments of preparing a nefarious trap.

“Lord Marcianus, it is a pleasure to meet you. You may not know me, but I am Rosemarie and it is truly an honour to be here.”

He gave her a short smile, his eyes rolling over her meticulously designed ensemble with its calculated amount of bosom. She watched him, noting where his eyes went and how long they strayed. It reminded him of the dark creatures that stalked the eastern jungles. Those were deadly beasts – monsters born from the nightmares of man. Marcus had stared into their caliginous eyes and seen the cold cunning of its gloomy mind.

He saw the same cunning here. But instead of claws and fangs, this beast offered a far worst death: the merciless promise of obligation and restriction. It was a promise of chains with only the single-minded purpose of enslaving his soul.

“Save your appreciation, Madame. It was not my invitation that you received but my parents.”

“The ha Romonte’s are truly a generous and gracious family.”

“Generous enough to cut the allowance of their only son in order to force his return to a city he detests. All so they can try their hand at political arrangements.”

“I assure my Lord I do not know of what you speak,” the girl blushed, her hands suddenly searching her ruffles for a fan clearly forgotten.

“Then I shall speak it plainly. I have no interest in the holdings of your father nor the size of your dowry. No amount of prestige or power could persuade me to take an interest in a face so plain I would half-expect it no more on this floor than in the scullery.”

For a brief moment, confusion coloured the poor creature’s face as her mind reeled beneath the impropriety. Once she had recovered, and feeling the burn of the insult crawl slowly over her cheeks, the girl turned and ran for one of the powder rooms. With any luck she would spend the rest of the eve within, perhaps being consoled by a lady in waiting. For but a moment, Marcus felt for the poor creature.

But his sympathy was fleeting.

Marcus suddenly found the ball dreadfully dull and turned to excuse himself. This would no doubt earn him scorn from his father. But gone were the years when Marcus feared his wrath. He was a grown man now, and his parents’ expectations and punishments could be damned. He had no interest in these women here – these unremarkable girls whose only glowing qualities would be their connections to some ancient lineage or wealthy household.

Isabella had been the one bright moment of the entire drab evening.

Marcus stuck to the outside of the dance hall. No doubt this party would be a tremendous success for the Marchioness amongst the vultures of the elderly nobles. Women’s politics were so narrow-minded: focused more on public appearance and lavish dances than important matters. It was little wonder that men dominated the seats of the House of Parliament. Only the Queen herself appeared capable of rising above the weaknesses of her sex.

As Marcus approached the side exit, he caught a glimpse of a vaguely familiar dress. That young, brazen woman from the shadows looked quickly about her before slipping through the entrance to the west wing. Curiously, it should have been locked to prevent ladies mistaking it for an unoccupied powder room. Marcus moved to follow her when a hand fell upon his shoulder.

“Nature has not an inch of the savagery as that which resides in the heart of man.”

Marcus turned, a crooked smile breaking across his face at the sound of the deep voice.

“I knew my family had lowered their standards but not so much as to let in any riffraff.”

“It is the son to blame, I’m afraid. Without his disdain, they wouldn’t dare extend their charity below his own pedigree.”

“Kieler, it has been too long.”

“I’m sure, Marcus, that it has not been long enough.”

The two gentlemen embraced.

“What have you been up to, my friend? You’re not still attending the University are you?”

“I’m afraid my studies have… come to certain conclusions,” Kieler replied, shifting slightly. The man’s dark eyes darted uncomfortably about the busy hall, skittering over the flowered ladies and tapered gentlemen like twin flies unable to find peace enough to land.

Marcus’ serving lad arrived with his drink. The lordling took the glass, resting a steady hand on his friend’s shoulder and directing him to a small, private card room. He slid the connecting doors closed, shutting out the chatter and bustle of the party.

The dark gentleman seemed to relax slightly in the solitude, though he wandered the perimeter of the room with his finger slowly drawing over the rough backs of the thick volumes lining the walls. Marcus slipped into a large chair, crossing his legs and idly watching as his colleague completed his rounds until his nerves were brought to rein.

“I see you have not changed much over the last few years,” Marcus smiled, sipping his brandy.

“On the contrary, quite a bit has changed in your absence,” Kieler corrected. “It’s just the appearances that remain the same.”

Finally at rest, the gentleman slid into the chair opposite the lordling. He crossed his legs rather uncomfortably, revealing hemmed pants slightly too small for his tall frame and a shirt faded from extensive wash and reuse.

How he had managed to blend into the crowd gathered in the main room was more a testament to Kieler’s skill than to his appearance. He had the dark brooding look of the barbarian tribes of his ancestors. His hair was as dark as charcoal and poked unruly from beneath a slightly torn top hat. Matching dark eyes were half-concealed beneath equally dark and shaggy brows. His face showed the shadow of a beard that could never truly be shaved and a few nicks from an old razor’s edge suggesting the man tried, nevertheless.  

“I am glad that my family had the presence of mind to invite someone I like to my ball.”

“Well, their disapproval has not changed,” Kieler confessed. “But your estate still proves to be far too simple to penetrate.”

“How delightfully intriguing. May I, perhaps, muse over the method?”

“As you desire, my Lord.”

“Was it forgery? A clever ploy that involved intercepting the delivery of an invitation and mimicking the seal through arcane measures?”

Kieler sighed, his gaze drifting once more to the room’s interior. His eyes were piercingly cold but had a habit of wandering away from things which failed to stimulate his interest.

“Nothing so extravagant.”

“Perhaps, then, some wickedly deceitful glamour to bypass the wards? It would be quite the feat to surpass the skills of old Fraust but something I am sure lays within your calibre.”

“Sorcerers and their spells. Too many think their magicks are infallible and rely too greatly on their esoteric knowledge when vandals more often resort to simpler, mundane means.”

Kieler tapped impatiently against the chair as his eyes settled once more upon his host. There they lingered about his frame before returning to his face. A passing smile haunted his lips.

“I suppose I should ask about your travels. That would be the polite discourse?”

“I would hate to bore you with the details,” Marcus dismissed. Truth be told, he had received little interest in his wanderings. Once ascertaining his health, his family completely neglected his journey insisting on prattling about their own concerns.

“It would be polite,” Kieler said. “While you may wear the familiar clothes, you are not quite the man I once knew. Your journeys have changed you, for that I can plainly see. There is strength to your character and yet certain trepidation to re-enter the world which you once knew. More remarkable is that your eyes seem brighter.”

“Brighter?”

“The spark of life has been ignited within yourself. I dare say your very nature has been altered by your experiences. It is quite transparent for those trained in how to look.”

“You do say the most peculiar things.”

“Also, I see that the trip has done your anatomy some good.”

Marcus laughed.

“I know not how I could possibly relate the experiences I have gained,” the lordling said looking wistfully into his glass. Within the soft red spirit floated vision of the distant mystical lands.

But faced with actually speaking of his trip, he was at a sudden loss of words.

“I have felt the very measure of my worth tested beneath the harrowing breath of terrible storms. I have climbed mountains that seemed to anchor the very sky. I have stared in the eye creatures so alien as to be rendered from a madman’s ravings. I have touched the clouds, kissed the ocean and slept within the very bosom of the earth herself!”

“And you have returned.”

“And I have returned.” He made no effort to hide his resignation. The sorcerers say that the purview of the mystical experience lies in the few blessed souls born with the talent. However, Marcus swore that he had touched the power Kieler held in his own travels. There was a very special magick he experienced that could never be replicated in this city of smoke and steel.

“Tell me, old friend, how has the city treated you in my absence? Has any excitement occurred since my departure?”

“You have not missed much,” Kieler sighed. “The city continues to breathe its black breath. I am not good with gossip, you’d be better talking to one of those prettied ladies you so despise.”

“That life is my parent’s desire,” Marcus said. “Tonight, I am Lord Marcianus Pallero ha Romonte. But I know not how my family can expect me to return to that when I have been Marcus for over two years.”

“The trappings of the noble are easily re-adorned,” Kieler said. “Much like putting on an old housecoat, I imagine.”

“Exactly. It is a trap. If I had my heart’s desire, I would still be out in those wilds.”

“Might as well try catching lightning with your hands,” Kieler quoted. “But do you not fear the dangers of the wilderness? It is said that once man is freed from responsibility he descends to the level of his darker urges.”

“I feel that the darker urges are here in the city,” Marcus said. “I felt I belonged more out there in those strange lands than I do in the comfort of my own home.”

“That is just Marcus speaking. I’ve already seen the old Lord Marcianus tonight.”

“If only we could trade places. You could be the lavished lordling and I the mysterious gentleman.”

“You would not wish to trade,” Kieler smiled. “Then you would have to forsake Isabella.”

Marcus’ smile was sheepish. Of course his friend had seen him with her. It was always his way to know his most intimate thoughts. It was what endeared Marcus to the young man.

“Well, there must be something you can tell me about what has transpired. What keeps you busy these days?”

“Nothing. Thyre persists, much as it had when you left. You can see for yourself the idle fancies one must partake to avoid the constant weight of the city. The poor busy themselves with the rich and the rich busy themselves with the poor.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Crime. It is all that ever seems to amuse the aristocracy – the savage heart of man and all that.”

“And what about the rich’s interest catches yours?”

“Their interests often become mine,” Kieler said, uncomfortably straightening his jacket.

“Anything now?”

“Recently? Burglary. There has been a string of silver thefts from estates all across town. All wonder the identity of the daring rogue and what is being done with their cutlery.”

“Theft seems rather petty,” Marcus frowned. “Such a pedestrian occurrence hardly seems worthy of attention.”

“It was mostly unremarkable until the ha Valrontes lost most of their family heirlooms one night. It has been quite the scandal since. The constabulary has been unable to track down even a single missing earring.”

“Likely it is being smuggled through the slums,” Marcus mused. “Guards rarely go through there and would it not be too troubling to stow it through the storm sewers to the docks?”

“That’s what I first imagined too,” Kieler laughed.

“Then the police should place a few constables by the grates. Surely even the gangs would leave them alone if they were there in large enough force.”

“They did. Canvassed the entire area with three patrols and found not even the slightest indication that anyone had passed.”

“Did they consult a sorcerer?”

“Dorsche Gereau. He could find no trace of the missing silver. Considering the ridiculous legend of that element’s association with certain forbidden practices, the University was quite eager to work with the constabulary. There was not even a mote of an incantation to be found.”

“So, either the culprits are very good or the docks are not their route of transportation.”

“And therein lies the mystery,” Kieler said. “No one knows where the silver is going. It’s become quite the obsession. Many speculate but more are concerned about their own property. If the ha Valrontes could be victims…”

“Then anyone can,” Marcus finished. “Well, the ha Romontes have not been struck. I doubt mother would hold this lavish gathering if she were concerned about her pearls. And even the pickpockets of Kulkattu could not get a single coin from me. There is no method by which our household could be penetrated by these burglars.”

“If only confidence itself could be used as a ward,” Kieler laughed.

“You think our defences could be breached?”

“I broke into your ball.”

“But you did not steal our jewels. Besides, a sorcerer of your skill would hardly pass beneath the constables’ attention. Even if Fraust failed to catch you, certainly someone else would notice your passing.”

“So, the best burglar is one that knows his victims?”

“To a point,” Marcus said. “Be too familiar and you are likely to be a suspect. Should something be reported missing, surely your… upbringing would be noted by the authorities.”

“You think it impossible for me to go unnoticed?”

“Well, you are familiar with our staff. Certainly that grants you some favour once you breach the grounds. In fact, you could possibly walk in as simple a guise as a servant until you passed the guards and gain entry through any number of the below-stairs entrances without being stopped.”

Marcus shook his head.

“That is it then, your mysterious method?”

“I said it was nothing too extravagant,” Kieler smiled. “However, if we take this lesson to heart, one must appear familiar without actually being intimate in order to gain entry.”

“Precisely. It is only of the serving men one needs to be wary. They have eyes and ears like the rest of us, and while their employers typically pay them no mind, the constabulary turns to them first. Most of my staff know you as a friend and would be unlikely to stop you. Failure to garner their attention, though, and you would have free reign to pilfer whatever riches you wanted.”

“Then you have the matter of procuring the objects and getting them to a seller, for what is a heist if not a means to greater wealth?”

“Except the more people you involve, the greater the chance of apprehension,” Marcus said, leaning back in his chair. “Theft is such a lowly form of crime with base desires behind it. Were there no element of mystery to these heists, they would not attract the attention they do.”

“It is the want of idle minds to light upon the current enigmas of the collective consciousness.”

“But the only appeal of the mystery is the unknown. Once the method is discovered, the allure vanishes like so much smoke and fog. Do you not feel the same?”

“I find theft rather uninteresting,” Kieler said. He stood and moved towards the door.

“And what is it that grabs the great mind of Kieler Dietrich? What perfect crime would impress upon his immeasurable skill?”

“Murder.”

And with that, the gentleman slipped from the study and vanished. Marcus looked at his glass, the red liquid seeming thicker than before.

A rap at the door drew his attention and he turned to find the wizened face of Fraust.

“At last, young master, I have found you.”

Drastian Fraust had served the ha Romonte family for as long as Marcus could remember. He had dressed for the evening, the formal suit looking quite stiff and out of character on the man.

“Is there with something I can assist you?”

“I’m afraid that there’s been some meddling with the manse’s wards. I have not been able to find your father to inform him. If I may, I must borrow you for a moment to bolster the incantation.”

Marcus smiled.

“No need to fret, I have just spoken with Kieler. I am sure it was his doing.”

Fraust frowned at the younger sorcerer’s name but he merely shook his head.

“It… interests me to know that your friend is here tonight. Though, this is unlikely his doing. The tampering was rather crudely performed, something that even your friend is not apt to do.”

“Very well,” Marcus said, standing. “I am certain there is nothing wrong.”

***

Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow is available on Kindle or for online reading from all Amazon sites. Canadian customers can find the digital copy here: Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow Kindle Edition

Paperback versions are also available but only from a limited number of Amazon sections. If you are in Canada, you’ll need to order from Amazon.com. If you’re in the United States then you don’t need to worry! Check it out: Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow Paperback Edition

Dirty Gears and Dirty Streets

Second preview for our first novel Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow. Enjoy!

Available for Kindle and Print at Amazon.ca and Amazon.com!

***

Chapter 1: Jarret Renette, Seven Days Earlier

 

“The principles of electromagnetism and steam are perhaps the greatest discoveries of our time. Perhaps they are the greatest of all time. Now, the elements held solely in the purview of the Lord and nature are opened to the ingenuity of man. We are seeing a great upheaval of thought fueled by the revolutions of the cog and crank. Never has the destiny of man been so changed since the invention of the wheel.”

~ Alfred Patel at the Third Annual Academic Conference of Bélise

 

With a clap, Lieutenant Jarret Renette of the Queen’s Sixth Battalion slammed shut the pocket watch. It was impossible to shake the dogged anxiety. Not when he was so close to his destination and certainly not when he was already twenty minutes late.

Outside, a great crackle of electricity shot past the window and filled the air with the shock of its passing. The lingering flash echoed in Jarret’s eyes as he blinked the image from his mind. He sniffled at the smell of ozone as it wafted in from the cracked window. He would have shut it entirely but the heat emanating even this far from the engine would be suffocating.

To this is what I am returning, the young ex-soldier thought with a dry smile.

He could see the land outside. The view of the country offered little distraction from the jostling of the grand machine. The land, ostensibly famed for its lush greenery, was a brackish haze smeared across the bubbled pane. Small drops of rain pattered against the glass, causing once familiar beech trees to become twisted and deformed. They were the wracked, skeletal remains of a distant past that Jarret had nearly forgotten.

Jarret turned from the foreign countryside. He peered absently about his cabin, tired eyes drifting over the worn luggage shaking haphazardly upon the shelves overhead. The edges of those cases were frayed and stained with the grime of travel. Each rip and tear spoke a story – one filled with daring and adventure through the telling lips of unmended bullet holes. It was a life far removed from the trimmed morning coats and patterned ascots that they held. Wedged upon the polished brass shelves, those ratty cases were little rugged barbarians invading the pinnacle of refined society.

A cough from the other occupant stirred Jarret from his thoughts. It was a private cabin but, due to the excess of returning men, Jarret was required to share. Though he would have preferred the solitude – a commodity sorely lacking on the crowded ship – he could not find it within himself to say no.

But his fellow traveller hardly made an impression. The passenger still wore his military regalia, identifying him as a lieutenant of the Queen’s Cavalry. Furthermore, he occupied much of his time reading the local paper. It shook in his hands, though Jarret chanced to read the raised name – the Thyrian Chronicle. The front-page article covered, in exacting detail, a recent rash of thefts plaguing the city.

Curiosity led Jarret to browse the opening. After a cursory interview with a man by the dubious title of Grand Arcanist Loaghairne, the columnist proposed his own theory for the thefts: a secret cabal of sorcerers whisking the dining platters of the wealthy for use in disturbing but unknown rituals. Jarret expected to find mention of the Queen’s troops and the war waged for Empire and throne. But such business had already fallen from the interest of the world’s mightiest Empire.

The Lieutenant cleared his throat before folding the paper and tossing it to an empty seat. He regarded Jarret coolly.

It was hard to distinguish his age beneath the well groomed chops and moustache but he certainly was no more than a few years Jarret’s senior. Neither the cavalryman nor infantryman was familiar with the other. Jarret had only known a handful of the mounted troops and most of them did not returned with him.

“We must almost be there,” the Lieutenant spoke.

Jarret nodded, “That is my hope. It seems that even with these mighty inventions, public transport still fails to maintain decent promptness.”

“Punctuality: the lost art,” the cavalryman smiled. He leaned forward, extending a thin hand. “Lieutenant Remuel Bontflore of the Queen’s Third.”

Jarret grasped the man’s hand. Bontflore squeezed firmly – a trait common in the commanding officers.

“Are you on leave?”

Jarret shook his head, patting the head of the cane stretched across his lap.

It had become his closest companion over the long return home. Simple bands of silver reinforced its humble frame and a plain handle topped the polished rosewood. Only a subtle, weaving design etched around the top betrayed its foreign origin that valued small but exacting detail over obsession with progress in the face of propriety. It was the last souvenir Jarret obtained and was one he would keep with him for the rest of his life.

His companion gathered the meaning immediately.

“Forgive me. Most of the men I knew returning were either wrapped in bandages or born in boxes.”

“As were mine,” Jarret said. “I was fortunate that the offending bullet pierced clean through the flesh. Unfortunately, where the weapon failed the jungle succeeded. The physicians said the infection has been practically purged but the damage left shall be permanent.”

“So you were a member of the patrols?”

“Not exactly but we certainly passed through the jungle enough to feel as such. My detachment was entrusted with visiting the villages and ensuring the rebels found no safe haven there.”

“That must have been a most… difficult task. I confess I rarely left the cities as there were few places that accommodated the equestrians. If only we had been trained to ride those fearsome pachyderms like the locals.”

Jarret gave a smile that belied the tinge of horror he felt. Those beasts and their terrible march were impossible to forget.

“I heard stories of some rebels using the beasts in skirmishes. I can only imagine the courage needed to face down that foe.”

“Courage is a remarkable thing. In the moment, it is nearly indistinguishable from foolishness.”

Bontflore nodded. Another shock of electricity cackled, startling both men. They turned, bearing matching childish grins.

“I am certain we must be getting close,” Bontflore said.

Jarret forced himself to leave his pocket watch tucked away.

“I shall not miss this trip.”

“Nor I!” Bontflore laughed. But the smile quickly faded. “It almost pains me to think that the Empire plans to build these machines back there.”

“Considering the beasts they rode, this wouldn’t be as terrible.”

“Save for the smell.”

To accentuate Bontflore’s point, another cackle of electricity burnt ozone into the air.

“Will you miss it?” the lieutenant asked, following Jarret’s gaze towards the window.

Not an unexpected question, but it was one for which Jarret possessed no answer. He had been through much he had no desire to dwell upon again but for three years those jungles had been his life. The world he left behind was now the one that felt strangely foreign.

“I shall never forget it.”

“I often find my thoughts wandering those distant lands. I mean to say, so many months at sea will make any land appealing and while I loathed it while there, those boats forced me to reconsider the jungles with a touch more affection. And now, it seems all I do is try not to dwell on it. It’s been so long but I wonder if I felt this way when I left the isles.”

“There are things I missed,” Jarret said. “From both home and abroad.”

“Oh, truly. However, heading there carried the great sense of adventure. There was wonder and excitement over the unknown. But the return is so…”

“Predictable?”

“Terribly so. It is as if the Empire stood still while we were gone.” Bontflore laughed. “But yet, we say this upon the infamous Lighting Rail. This must be the recollections of world-weary sons.”

“I am sure, given enough time, we shall fall back into the familiar routines.”

“If I stay that long.”

“You plan to return?” Jarret asked.

It was Bontflore’s turn to regard the clouded window. His expression grew distant as if his eyes saw past the countryside and to another land.

“I don’t know if I have truly left. My dreams still carry their exotic aromas. Even the nightmares seem more real than this. I fear I left something behind. Something I must reclaim.”

Bontflore shook his head.

“I must sound like some love-struck poet. The truth is my return to Thyre will surely be limited. Arrangements with my trading partner back east are already made and I shall only oversee our business venture for a short time.

“But what of yourself? Are you happy to be returning?”

Jarret knew he should. But there was something familiar in his companion’s words.

“I, too, have some business to address in the city,” he said. “But I fear mine shall keep me for quite awhile longer. Regardless, I fear I am no longer in much shape for distant voyages.”

“Ah yes, the leg. She certainly left her mark on all of us, hasn’t she? That land was a wild mistress.”

“That she was.”   

The car shook as it thundered along its rails. Gears screeched as metal ground metal. Between the bright shot of sparks, Jarret noticed the pastoral landscape slowly dissolve. A grand road now wove outside, connecting the growing collection of houses. Farms vanished and Jarret could see the dark, smoky bulk of the city looming in the distance.

The capital of the world’s greatest empire, Thyre, did not rise from the ground so much as erupted from it.

Enormous towers scraped the skies, belching thick clouds of dark smoke into the heavens. Two large escarpments rose on either side of the winding rivers running into the endless sea of steeple-roofed homes. Tall, ancient walls surrounded the old city, ineffectual in containing the sprawl. Those walls were legendary for holding back the barbarian hordes. And now, the city had accomplished what dozens of invaders could not.

One cliff-side of the city was covered in the expansive terraces and gardens of the aristocratic estates capping at the great golden domed palace. Across from it, its twin cliff was pock-marked with porous holes from the endless mining in its side. They were the scars of the never ending search for metals smelted and laid out across the old cobbled streets.

With reckless abandon, the train ploughed maddeningly toward that pile of steel and smoke.  

A gurgled, disembodied voice crackled through the cabin as the engineer announced their arrival. With a great lurch the machine’s brakes deployed as a horrific scream – as if the metal beast were screeching its final breath – pierced through the entire cabin. Jarret slumped hard into the seat across from him as his cases crashed upon the floor.

Bontflore was quick with his assistance, retrieving Jarret’s cane and helping the soldier disentangle himself from the fallen luggage. Jarret could feel a flash of anger bite his face but he held back the urge to push the man away.

“We shall leave the trunks,” Jarret said curtly as Bontflore reached for the luggage, “we have almost arrived.”

The engine’s cry lasted the entire descent into the city as the last of the bent trees gave way to cobbled walls. At last the train rolled to a stop amidst a dock of stone and steel. Great cables hung from the girder-lined ceiling like the looping vines of a metal canopy.

Jarret waited until he was sure the machine had stopped before planting his cane heavily against the floor and clambouring to his feet. He turned his attention to the fallen cases, quickly inspecting his things to make sure they survived their fall.

The door shook open and a porter appeared, confused at the bags already waiting upon the floor. Jarret gave a beckoning nod before doffing a simple chimney-pot hat. He waited for the porter to bundle his things before turning to his companion.

“Perhaps we will see each other again, sir,” Bontflore smiled.

“A pleasure,” Jarret nodded. He paused. “Sir Jarret Renette. Perhaps you would be interested in stopping by my estate in the future?”

Bontflore started.

“Forgive me, I was not aware you were a lord,” Bontflore bowed.

“It is unimportant. We are both soldiers. And I dare say, I would not mind a comrade’s visit before he departs the city once again.”

Bontflore smiled, gathering his extravagant walking stick in his hands as he bowed the Lord out.

“I would like that very much.”

The hallway of the car was lightly carpeted and small brass lanterns jutted from the walls between the rowed cabins. The lanterns hissed at Jarret’s passage, the small flames waving their delighted farewell from the gas pumping through the inlaid pipes. Jarret could hear the raucous chatter of homesick boys and men finally returned.

Jarret pulled his pocket watch loose.

“We are near an hour late.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but the machinists are still working out the kinks. We apologize for any inconveniences while riding the Lightning Rail.”

“Have they considered the troubles this could cause the concerning gentleman?”

“Once again, sir, we offer our apologies,” the porter bowed. “But I would like to say that the trip from Dovern could nary be completed within two hours by either carriage or ship. It’s our hope this doesn’t impede your decision to travel with us in the future.”

“Well, it certainly would not be the only thing,” Jarret muttered.

They emerged from the machine and stepped down to the bustling platform. Jarret could feel the hairs on his neck tingle as he passed the energized hull. A footman was waiting to offer his hand and ensure no passenger mistakenly touched the metal. As if bidding farewell, the engine released one last great crackle of energy into the air. The blast struck the retaining rods bolted to the ceiling, discharging harmlessly above the heads of the gasping crowd in a great sheet of forking light.

The train was certainly an experience.

Officers in dusty uniforms shepherded the masses with brass whistles clutched in their teeth. The porter stood apprehensively by Jarret’s side as the gentleman peered about the faceless bodies moving past. Impatiently, he rubbed his sore thigh. The immobility of the journey had caused a terrible cramp to take hold of his leg.

It was just as his crest was falling that a friendly face emerged calling as he strolled forward.

“My word, has there ever been a more haggard visage of a half-dead phantom!”

He was a vibrant gentleman wearing a white wing-tipped shirt beneath a brazen double-breasted vest patterned in bright, swirling emerald and lavender. Great frills poked from the sleeves and collars held barely intact by a mauve cutaway tailcoat. White gloves and a simple black top hat finished the daring ensemble.

“The trip was quite different from that of my departure,” Jarret replied. The two young men embraced. “It is good to see you, sir Theodosius.”

“Ha, such formality is best saved for the unacquainted or the fawning! Come, we have long kept our correspondences during your foolhardy excursion to the wild, far-flung colonies. As I was when you left, still I remain your ever humble Theo.”

“Much has changed my friend but your new-found humility is something even I can not believe.”

“You wound me!” Theo gasped. The gentleman motioned for one of his servants to relieve the porter of his burden then beckoned Jarret through the crowd.

“Come, you must visit my estate at once. My curiosity over your journey will not be satiated until I bear witness to the great trophies of your excursion!”

“I fear I bear little that is worthy of attention,” Jarret confessed, his cane tapping rapidly to keep pace with his friend. “But surely our visitation can wait till after I have caught my breath at my own home?”

“Save such foolish talk. A strapping man like yourself has no need of rest! I simply must hear the story behind this keepsake.”

Theo lightly tapped Jarret’s cane.

Jarret grew quiet.

Theo sensed his companion’s hesitation and paused to examine the mighty Lightning Rail. Despite the lack of electricity, there was still a tangible charge in the air that caused travelers to give the engine a wide berth.

“What are your thoughts? I have yet to ride its magnificent interior. It is the first of its kind, as you undoubtedly know. Works off the principles of electromagnetism put forward by the top scholars of the Academy.”

“Quite the industrious empire we have.”

“Did you not enjoy your ride?”

“We heard tales of the wonder in the jungles,” Jarret related, leaning heavily on his cane. “The officers delighted in the advancements back home and spent many nights discussing the newest curiosities in our weekly rag. Perhaps I am old-fashioned, but I would have preferred the carriage.”

“Old-fashioned? My boy we are on the cusp of the future and Thyre shall lead the way into a glorious new age! This is a very exciting time for the empire.”

“If it is anything like the factories, I suspect it will be less glamourous than you imagine,” Jarret replied turning and continuing from the platform. “I would be quite pleased if I never saw that contraption again.”

Theo hurried after his friend. They emerged from the busy station to find a solitary carriage awaiting. Jarret’s belongings were already being loaded and the doorman gave a polite bow as the gentlemen approached.

Jarret looked about the street but there were no other persons to greet his arrival. Save for the carriage and the servants, only Theo remained.

“Is this it?”  

“Ah, yes. My apologies but it seems your arrival was a touch untimely. I fear most are involved with a rather important ball at the ha Romonte’s family estate.”

“I see.”

“Their son has just returned from the Far East himself. It seems now is the homecoming of the city’s prodigal children.”

“It is always important to remind one’s self of his place,” Jarret said. He climbed as best he could into the carriage. “I presume, from your presence, your invitation was lost in the mail?”

“Dreadful system we have. It always seems my address is cursed by neglectfulness. I harbour suspicions that no service wishes to travel the length of my boulevard.”

“Ha! Of course. Well, if its length has not become too ungainly since my last visit, I would be delighted to travel such an unfathomable expanse.”

“Our course is settled then. I take it as my personal responsibility to remind you of all the finer things likely forgotten since trampling around your smelly wilderness. It would be my greatest failing if you are not once more overcome with your misplaced patriotism by the time I am finished.”

“Since when did you become an avid supporter of the monarchy?”

“Less Queen and Country, Jarret, it is the women and wine where my loyalty lies. They may be awfully pale, but I am sure they are sweeter than what could be found in your muddy adventures.”

“The women,” Jarret asked, “or the wine?”

“Both. To home!”

***

Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow is available on Kindle or for online reading from all Amazon sites. Canadian customers can find the digital copy here: Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow Kindle Edition

Paperback versions are also available but only from a limited number of Amazon sections. If you are in Canada, you’ll need to order from Amazon.com. If you’re in the United States then you don’t need to worry! Check it out: Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow Paperback Edition

Welcome to the Smoke and Shadows

Greetings everyone. It’s been a long time. For those astute observers, they’ll have noticed that it is now May which means last month was April. It also means that there was little activity on the site. That’s because I was neck deep in work and thus unable to post regularly. However, I have finished the first draft of an exciting new novel called The Nanny State. But don’t expect to hear that name for quite some time.

What is more exciting is the release of our first novel Thyre. You may have noticed an announcement for its availability on Amazon. You may even notice it advertised in our little banners on the sidebar of the main site. This is a very exciting time for us and I just wanted to try and share that enthusiasm. As such, I thought it would be a good idea to post a little taste of the book for people to gauge whether it would be something they are interested in or not.

So, without further ado, here is the first preview for Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow. Enjoy!

***

Prologue

So loud was the beating of his breast that even the haunting lamentations of the Raven Tower could not drown its song. A chilling jolt swept his body, snaking along his skin and reaching the tips of his tingling fingers.

And something stirred within him. An alien sensation that caused ecstatic shudders to run along his spine.

He adjusted the sleeves of his long coat and stepped into the shadows as the other guest brushed passed without a word – two familiar strangers passing in the night. Only a hint of vanilla lingered in his wake.

The moonlight broke through the scattered clouds, casting down in grand beams that filled the cramped courtyard. Beneath that heavenly light, she was there. She stirred from the ground and the softest of moans emitted from the deepest crimson lips.

Tattered breaths came in short spurts as she crawled to her knees. Her hands cast about the cobbles, alighting upon a small string of shimmering stars. Her fingers wrapped about those beads as she pulled herself to her feet. Her mouth quivered, addressing the shadows that enclosed her on all sides.

She parted those lips and with the sweetest of voices she began to sing.

He could see her clearly now, illuminated as she was in the glow of the pale moon with the stars clutched in one hand and the ribbons of her gown in the other. She called out to the darkness, a gentle string of epitaphs floating upon the midnight air.

She raised a slender finger to her face. Blues and purples decorated her cheeks like a harlequin’s mask. She drew back, admiring the soft train of tiny rubies left against her flesh. A small, moist tongue slyly drew across her beaten mouth.

She was more beautiful now than he had ever seen her. Her visitor had come and enacted his will upon her. She sang so beautifully for him, a familiar tune he had heard so long ago. The stranger left his mark and it made her radiant: just like he had always remembered.

He wanted to go to her as she stumbled upon cracked heels. But he dared not emerge from the shadows. Fear clasped his heart. It squeezed the life from it till the muscle hung limp in his chest. He could see rejection lingering on her tongue and he dared not tempt fate.

She inspected her attire in the fading light. She cursed its torn skin and stained flesh. She plucked at the loose strings, tying what she could until it hung more naturally upon her frame. Then she turned to the prize still in hand.

She raised those glittering jewels to her neck, the string gently resting against her painted skin. It was a stark contrast of brilliant white against the dark circles of purple and blue. Her arms reached behind her as fingers worked sightless upon the clasp.

Suddenly, her fingers slipped and the stars fell to earth.

She bent to reach them but stopped as nails scraped the ground.

“Are you still there?”

Her eyes seemed to pierce his dark cover and stare directly into his own. She held him captive in that look, drawing him slowly into sight.

He took one careful step forward and then another. She straightened at his approach and the cloth of her dress clutched at her bosom. His eyes lingered upon her chest as it rose with each cautious step. He could see the prickling of her flesh. He could see the flush of her skin.

Slowly he bent and fetched her discarded jewels.

“You weren’t who I was expecting,” she whispered.

A smile caught at the corners of her lips. He held out her fallen prize and she turned her chin to him, exposing the long nape of her neck. With those languid fingers, she plucked the gentle flow of her hair and drew it back to reveal her full glory.

She was so beautiful.

Tentatively he reached out, holding the string against her. Fingers brushed against her and he almost dropped the gems.

She laughed. It was a sound as gentle as chimes.

His breath caught in his throat as he pulled the ends together. The clasp was cold in his hands but her skin was so warm.

“You are too kind.”

He froze.

She had given him praise. She had laughed at his touch. He wanted to say something. He wanted to speak the words that had grown knotted with his tongue.

But as he leaned to her ear, all words but one stuck in his throat.

“Marie.”

He could feel the heat drain from her.

“How did you…”

She turned, the unclasped jewels falling limp over her shoulder.

“Who are you?”

Her eyes clouded with suspicion as the smile evaporated from her lips. He could see the growing sneer. His heart fled before the inevitable lashings. He wanted to turn and make his escape while he could.

But his hands had other plans.

They sprung to life of their own accord, snatching the loose end of the string and pressing those beautiful stars tight against her neck. She stumbled back, her body striking against the red brick wall.

She raised her fingers to loosen the string. Chipped nails scratched at the inset stones. Her lips twisted, those dark words boiling up from within her. He pressed harder and harder, attempting to stop them before they could escape.

A hand lashed out, striking at the old spots. But they lacked the force they once had.

She tried to push herself from the wall but he slammed her back again and again until her resistance subsided.

She was disarmed. Her words were gone. Her strength was gone.

He wrapped his fingers tighter and tighter around that dainty throat until even the stars failed to shine.

***

Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow is available on Kindle or for online reading from all Amazon sites. Canadian customers can find the digital copy here: Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow Kindle Edition

Paperback versions are also available but only from a limited number of Amazon sections. If you are in Canada, you’ll need to order from Amazon.com. If you’re in the United States then you don’t need to worry! Check it out: Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow Paperback Edition

A Treatise On Magick Part 4

These are the last of my notes on my magic system for my Thyre universe. While this gives a good, general view of the current thoughts on how magic works in this world, it doesn’t truly capture all the elements and how I worked them in. For instance, the previous section mentioned Alchemy briefly and how it relied almost one hundred percent on following precise formula to perform. It didn’t, however, explain the ramifications of this detail.

One thing I didn’t want was to have magic to feel separate and disconnect from the rest of the world. I feel there’s often a tendency for fantasy to have its world and the wizards as two distinct classes. Like Harry Potter, those that wield magic only have an impact whenever the author wants something grandiose to occur. But the face of the world is rarely so affected by the existence of magic for it to permeate any other aspect of its society or culture.

It strikes me as odd that in a world where people are capable of turning a man into a newt that the entire fabric of society is pretty indistinguishable from Medieval Europe. Why is it that so rarely rulers are people that mastered the arcane? Would not ambitious individuals learn the magical arts and then turn to conquering with their new found powers? So beholden are we to late Arthurian Legends and Tolkien imaginings that wizards are little more than the mysterious mentor who flutters in and out of the narrative at the author’s convenience but rarely ever leaving a footprint on the world during his trespasses.

For me, that would not do. To circle back to my mention of alchemy, the natural outcome of its elements was that while it took a typical magical background to learn its components one didn’t have to truly be a great practitioner to derive its benefits. This translated into the field of medicine. So much of alchemy is about changing the body that it seemed quite natural that its study and application would eventually create doctors, surgeons and apothecaries. Every single doctor in my world is a classically trained sorcerer. Each of them is capable of some degree of magic. Many who seek education from the marble halls aren’t pursuing some romanticized vision of reshaping the cosmos at the bend of their fingers but simply to learn the alchemical trade so they can help the sick and the needy. And because alchemy isn’t so reliant on the deep, esoteric knowledge of most sorcery, you could have your most daft pupil still learn something helpful and applicable to the rest of the world.

A humorous outcome from this, however, is that many sorcerers often look  disparagingly upon their medicinal kin. It’s a common belief amongst the scholars that doctors are just “failed sorcerers.” However, to the common man, the doctor is the epitome of applicable magick. Few are able to afford a household sorcerer for protection and prestige so most encounter sorcerers when needing attendance for the infirm and sickly. The common man sees the typical scholar as a cloistered recluse out of touch with society and a useless member to the Empire.

In many ways, the modern sorcerer is a tragic figure. So desperate are they to cling to their ancient ways even when those ways fail them. They seek a glory long lost and forgotten all the while under siege by the progress of time and technology. Theirs is a dying world and instead of seeking a true solution to their problem, they just raise their walls and cut themselves further and further off. They are like a small animal, crawling into the dark beneath a porch in order to die alone and out of sight.

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Scholar Reading by Rembrandt van Rijn

Notes from Professor Jonas Kaine’s Injunction

Concerning University Curricula

The power of a sorcerer is limited only by his imagination.

This quote by the renown practitioner Malchior the Grey, has been the idealism of the arcane practices for centuries. Throughout history, the tales of powerful sorcerers have been retold. Everyone recalls the power of the ancient Pharoic’s court and their awe-inspiring priests capable of raining locusts and blood down upon their enemies.

Almost every culture has its own sorcerers of lore; the great men capable of harnessing the elements to their whim. Even the dread witches of childhood fables and villains of the legends of old were capable of tremendous feats of arcane channelling.

It may seem oddly disconnecting for the modern practitioner beginning to learn the secrets of the aether. Where are the terrific storms? Why does the earth not groan at the passage of the sorcerer, his will causing even the Lord to shudder in fear?

Partly, legends have exaggerated the abilities of the sorcerers. People, especially the layman in the dark times, did not understand how the magickal truly worked. Their fears and suspicions twisted the reports of their sorcerers into terrifying men who would dare challenge the heavens.

That is not to suggest that the enlightened man is incapable of feats beyond the simple glamours and charms taught to the initiates. Controlling the aetheric winds is a challenging but greatly awarding practice. There is tremendous power to be tapped in the world around us, more than even the Academics and the sceptics care to admit.

The truth of the matter is that invocations are limited. There is just so much energy that man is capable of channelling on his own. However, ancient man made a rather terrific discovery: the process of invoking can be delayed with the correct use of retention wards and actions.

An invocation is like digging a dike beside a rapidly flowing river. The sorcerer creates a channel they wish to redirect some of that energy, but the process is never truly completed until the shoreline is breached. However, the dike itself can last for quite some time – it need not be filled immediately.

Thus, the first rituals were cast by combining certain key invocations and timing their completion at the simultaneous moment. This allowed a sorcerer to produce a single effect far greater than any individual cast. Suddenly, terrific powers were unlocked to the resourceful mind. But with all things, there were limitations. Not all invocations would work together and many would have to be adjusted to ritual use.

03300However, unlike invocations, it was discovered that universal actions would produce the same results. Assuming the practitioner could isolate themselves from contaminating the ritual, just about any sorcerer could channel the same effect as their peer if they followed the same processes. This was like alchemy but at a greater level.

Even more astounding, multiple sorcerers could combine their might. This could reduce the amount of time it took to prepare a ritual and also opened up even greater and greater effects for the arcane. With precise co-ordination, effects eerily similar to the legends could suddenly be performed.

The danger ran with the inclusion of each practitioner. The more sorcerers involved, the greater the chance of contamination. While the greatest abilities required the most practitioners, the more men channelling also entailed more risk. This is why the most powerful rituals never really developed very far. Only the most experienced could produce the effects with any sort of reliability. And one wrong step could produce the most disastrous results.

Few are aware of the dangers of channelling the arcane. The layman mistakenly assumes that a sorcerer is a master of his art – that the arcane is a well of power which they can siphon freely. This is incredibly misleading. The arcane is highly energetic and reactive. If a sorcerer missteps, the best they can hope for is a harmless atmospheric discharge of the energies often misconstrued as an unimpressive glamour. There are, however, far worst consequences for the sorcerer.

One phenomenon called aetheric flashback is a chief concern amongst those drawing on lots of the arcane. Should a sorcerer incorrectly channel the great deal of energy, they could find that the currents of the aether blow back upon him. This energy burst is most commonly released in a tremendous amount of heat and light. To the untrained, it may look like a sudden conjuration of fire sweeping over the bewildered sorcerer. The least severe can just leave the sorcerer disfigured and burned.

More likely, however, if an aetheric flashback is produced the sorcerer will be consumed by the very unrestrained energy that they have released.

Current knowledge of the aether is sparse, but it is widely believed that the aether is not a passive medium through which energy flows. Many practitioners believe there are natural currents which energy travels willingly through. Learning to navigate these streams can greatly increase a sorcerer’s skill in channelling the arcane.

However, known currents are not eternal. They are more like winds, apt to sudden change in direction one day rendering any attempts to harness them rendered useless.

Aetheric currents are not of typical concern in invocations because of such a short and focused release of energy. However, rituals almost always require the use of these ever changing channels. Many scholars argue that this explains why ancient rituals are not longer effective. There is a common theory that ancient magickal practices have been lost as the great currents that ancient practitioners tapped have all but vanished.

023Most rituals can be changed and adapted to the fickle nature of the aether. However, the oldest rituals are nothing but intriguing studies for the modern sorcerer who can only guess what the effects of many of these arts were capable of producing. And the stories of small cabals of sorcerers being lost in terrific explosions warn against foolishly attempting to “brute force” a ritual through a no longer existent stream.

There is one other major concern for rituals that should be mentioned. While every practice of the arcane requires some amount of cost (typically the ingredients required for the invocation), the cost of rituals is far greater than any other practice. While many will scoff at the idea of cost impinging the great study of the arcane – only those that work closely with rituals can truly begin to appreciate the expense. Some rituals turn relatively cheap invocations into a practice requiring almost a princely sum to perform. Coupled with the danger of a misfired ritual which will often destroy all the components, it is no wonder that rituals have mostly fallen out of favour with the common practitioner.

The study of rituals is still an important one. It is something that this University should not abandon in its research. While there are many difficulties involved, it is still a valuable tradition to keep alive. For one, it maintains a connection with the practices of the ancient sorcerers. It also gives further insight into the matter which sorcerers tangle with daily. Never is our ignorance of the arcane made so clear than when we attempt to understand the workings of rituals. They bring the importance of procedure and time to the forefront of a practice so wholly focused on the wills of the individuals.

Outlawing rituals would thus be detrimental to all this institute’s principles. Instead, I propose that the study of rituals is strictly limited to those capable of its investigation and who are willing to accept the risks involved.

If we weren’t prepared to take risks, then we would be nothing more than those lowly mechanists digging about in the ground.

A Treatise on Magick Part 3

My earlier breakdown in a treatise on magick created three classifications for sorcery: the ward, glamour and charm. However, as I pondered the role and use of magick in my world, I felt that having just these three options could be too limiting to my writing. Magic, afterall, is meant to be the strongest fantastical element of my story. These wondrous components are the hallmarks of the fantasy genre. I feel readers read fantasy precisely for the mysterious and mystifying elements and I didn’t want things too actually be dry and boring. I just wanted to give the feel that most people in my world found magic to be boring.

I was, essentially, pursuing that pre-Einstein field of thought. Physicists felt they had covered just about all the field had to offer with Newton’s laws and only the smallest of details remained. We know now that such a perspective couldn’t be further from the truth. But I wanted that sense that magic was on the decline. And without resorting to some sort of mystical explanation that the “magic” of the world was “vanishing” I instead opted to just have the mystery for its people dispelled.

But to make sure I didn’t ultimately leave myself written into a corner, I decided I would leave a small loophole. Thus, invocations and rituals were born. They would be the explanation, the metaphorical hand wave, that I could use whenever my sorcerers did something beyond the expected. What he did may not have been a glamour, ward or charm. It could be an invocation – the catchall for everything that I hadn’t the foresight to have penned down before my system had been completed.

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Portrait of a Scholar by Domenico Fetti

Invocations, Rituals and Alchemy: Cornerstones of the Magickal Trade

Excerpts from the lecture by Emmanuel Dupont

 

No doubt, young initiate, you have perused the nature of the magickal. You have glimpsed upon the vast aether and felt the lines of power that course through it. Undoubtedly, you have received a pseudo-intellectual explanation of the greatest of the natural forces. You think you understand the rudimentary concepts of flavours and shades. You believe that wind is composed of wind energy.

Well, my young initiate, you are wrong.

The use of the arcane is a far more complicated matter than conjuring the soft stirrings of a breeze or creating the tinkling of a bell. You will notice, in your practices, that you require ingredients and foci in order to accomplish even the most mundane of tasks. Sure, you’re aware of the anchors for wards and have seen the sorcerers in the market purchasing an eclectic assortment of bits and bobs. You have the mental image of the mystique gentleman, waving about tails of newts and sprigs of holly in order to cause the very earth to shudder at his whim.

These foolish notions are even encouraged by my colleagues. They are drunk on the power of the arcane. They have tasted the sweet wine of the aether and have become lost in its heady aromas.

Well, young initiate, things are not so easy. If it were, anyone could be a sorcerer. Even the fair maids of the gentler sex would be able to tame the wild forces of chaos and nature. However, things are not so simple, and most of you will never progress beyond the basics.

The arcane is still a mysterious force even to this day. Despite our many journals, theories and practices, we still do not understand exactly how the forces work. Why do cinders and pine needles release such power to cause drowsiness in those who inhale their fumes? Why does willow bark coated in honey allow one to hide themselves beneath a veil of a foreign face?

The simple explanation, as you have heard, is that every thing contains a certain attuned energy. A flame is attuned to fire. Wind is attuned to air. The natural question would be how many types of energy are there and how do you identify them?

And that would be the wrong question.

The most basic concept is that every thing has its own unique energy. Mine is different than yours which is different than your mother’s which is different than the Queen’s. Yet we all have the same basic ‘human’ energy. We will all use our own to create glamours. However, if I hold up a piece of willow bark and admix with my own energy, I will create a different glamour than you will. Don’t believe me, let’s have some volunteers. You sir, with the dazed look. And you, mister, the one who looks like he’s old enough to teach this lecture.

Come here. I have a simple glamour for you to perform. Take this bell and rattle and create a glamour that will make the rattle ring with the clarity of the church clocktower. The rest of you, observe carefully the notes produced.

You see? Your drowsy pupil made a sound almost like a simple country church bell. One, I would dare say, sounds like it were cracked deeply down its side. And this excellent gentleman has produced a sound so clear I dare hazard it would put the great church of Thyre to shame.

And yet, neither of them have performed a different glamour. Each has focused the sound of the bell through the rattle. So what causes these differences? Is it the obvious difference in age, handsomeness, intelligence, diligence, height, weight or even hair colour? Perhaps the very diet differences between these two gentlemen has caused the energies to be different. It can not be the bell and rattle, for they were the same between.

You see, invocations are a complex practice. One that starts with you: the practitioner. You must be acutely aware of the power of your admixture. It is a quantifiable fact that there will be some of you that are just naturally more adapt at the use of the arcane. Some of you will find that your energy only produces the slightest of glamours.

Invariably, you lowly initiates will take this as a sign of superiority. Obviously, those with the weakest energies, the softest of wills must surely be closer to the mundane. They must be just one step away from those completely incapable of practising any magick whatsoever.

And, once again, your prejudice would betray your ignorance.

Some of the greatest sorcerers were those with the weakest personal wills. That is for the simple conclusion that they are able to dilute their essences the easiest. It is a fact that the greatest wills in this class will struggle to produce anything that is not a glamour. And, while the powers of glamours are certainly impressive, your wills will greatly reduce your ability to invoke charms and wards. Consequently, you will also be the least desirable for participation in rituals.

Naturally, it is not raw power that is important but the cunning and wit of one’s mind that is fundamental for the channelling of the arcane. Those with weak wills can focus their invocations through other humans and other objects. They are better able to grasp the concept of using multiple admixtures and proxy foci. They are keen to the supplemental rituals, especially those requiring multiple practitioners to suppress their own wills in the collaborations.

Of course, some of you will argue and rail against my words. I welcome the challenge of your rebelliousness. Some of the greatest sorcerers are those of Teutanic descent, a people that have consistently shown remarkable forces of will. In fact, my greatest and most controversial pupil was of this barbaric ancestry.

And that is, in my mind, because those of strong wills have greater command of the energies that they do channel. While weaker willed practitioners will be very adept at multiple implements and foci, stronger willed practitioners that overcome their own flaws can get the most out of single ingredients than any other.

But enough of that. You came here to learn the basics of invocations.

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Invocations create the bulk of magicks you will channel. They are your daily conjurations and enchantments. They are the skills you will call upon to defend yourself in confrontations. They are the spells you will use to conduct your research.

An invocation is little more than the simple release and channel of the energy from one or more simple ingredients. While they appear to be the simplest of skills in theory, they are also the hardest to create. They require an intimate knowledge of the ingredients and how they react with the self. For this reason, sorcerers naturally find a collection of invocations that they prefer. These are the most familiar invocations. For example, one of my familiars is a refraction glamour – a complex invocation to most but allows me to cause any one item to appear to vanish. Behold the rattle from the earlier demonstration. I want you to watch it carefully.

You see, it has vanished completely from sight. It appears as if I am not even holding it but observe – the slightest flick of my wrist and you can still hear it as clear as day. And before you ask, no I will not teach you this glamour. Why, you may ask, to which I have my own question. What were my components? What were my admixtures?

You didn’t see them, did you. What’s that? No, they were not hidden within the rattle, but that thinking will take you far. Very far indeed.

Observe – you see, I have had this stone beneath my tongue this entire time. The second component I use is the brass of my jacket button. That’s it, just these two simple components. Seems quite  rudimentary  but this is a familiar of mine. It will take most of you at least three more components to create the exact same invocation. Some of you will require even more. And even a couple of you will be unable to perform this without the execution of a secondary ward.

You see, despite all our research and study, the practice of magick is still an intensely personal affair. You can not just read a library of books and understand how to channel the arcane. It requires constant, daily practice. It requires intense study. It requires a persistence and strength of character that not all possess.

Most of you will struggle to ever perform anything beyond the simplest of invocations and may never develop any familiars. However, the study of the arcane is not a worthless pursuit to you. You see, even the dullest of minds can still capitalize on the qualities of components. All of you can practice alchemy.

Alchemy is almost a form of a ritual, you see. It has precise ingredients in specific measurements. It creates arcane effects but it completely removes the human element from the process. It is the channelling by recipe. All those books you see in the studies of the most successful sorcerers are likely to be alchemical books. You needn’t a familiarity to brew. You need just to be able to follow precise instructions.

It appears we have run out of time, however. Tomorrow, we will address the specifics of rituals and then I shall introduce you to the fundamentals of rituals.

A Treatise On Magick Part 2

So when I miss a day of posting, it’s a terrible event and I have to post the next day. When Derek does it, he gets to write it off as “thesis prep.” Seem fair? I don’t think so either. I’ll be sure to drop a box during his move next week to protest this inequality in our posting expectations. That’ll show him! I may even jangle some hangers!

In the meanwhile, I’ll continue posting about the development of my magic system for my first novel. I actually did a short  excerpt as some notes to myself between drafts. My original intention had been to post that but I got a tad long winded during Part 1. So here’s the first bit.

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Scholar at the Table by Wauters Emile Charles

 

A Treatise on Magick

by Scholar Henrik Wulfgang

 

It is a fact that the primeval energy of the cosmos flows through all things. Within each object, each natural item beats the softest drum of the universe’s heart. The vibrations from these essences can be felt through the natural aether that buoys all objects. A trained mind can perceive these vibrations, can sense their differing frequencies and react with them.

This is the core principle of magick. It requires the carefully trained and honed senses of the practitioner to navigate the aether and its cacophony of noise to pinpoint the source of certain frequencies. A trained practitioner recognizes the very same frequencies that they, themselves, project and learn to focus and manipulate their own projections in order to funnel the natural energies through the aether to produce the desired results. In this manner, a practitioner could funnel the heat energy of a flame into a focused concentration around the reactive energy of another object to create a spontaneous combustion.

However, it requires more than just mere concentration of one’s own energy to manipulate the aether. Due to man’s natural own peculiarities in their own projections, they cause certain repeatable contaminations to different sources which either interfere with their channelling or mutate it into a wholly different form through a process known as transmutation.

It is this mixing of different energies that gave rise to the classification of different magicks and to the development of the glamours in particular. It seems that man’s higher cognitive functioning often transforms even the basest and wildest energies into a subtle perceptual form. It is the belief of this scholar that human energy contains within it a certain higher quintessence that has a profound energizing effect upon most energies. This excites the energy frequencies, causing them to work on a higher level output. While this would create a diffusion of concentrated power, this scholar feels it is a more pure and divine creation that turns even the rawest energy form into something more sophisticated.

Human channelled energies can thusly be a vivid representation of their primal forms but to be elevated to such a level that they no longer possess the entropic qualities of their previous sources. Simply put, human transformed energy is insubstantial. It is more cerebral. It works on a perceptive level while being channelled harmlessly on a physical sense. A human practitioner can turn the raw fiery essence of heat into a blinding conflagration to the senses but leave the actual natural world unaffected by the energies. It turns highly reactive substances and makes them inert. It makes even the most languid of energies fluid and flowing.

skull-optical-illusion-1These are what the laymen call illusions. Because these energies lack a lasting impact, they are under the impression that the energy never truly existed in the first place. This is incorrect. Energy always exists within the aether, it is just the manipulation of that energy that creates the different effects. Essentially, man can move the energies about the aether of their own accord regardless of the natural frictions inherent in the rest of the essences.

Because of man’s natural affinity to the production of glamours, these techniques are typically the first taught to the initiates. While it takes a tremendous amount of skill and at least some creativity to form these glamours into the most remarkable forms witnessed, the basic glamours are quite easy for beginning initiates to grasp. One need only to step into the classroom to hear the phantom sounds of the beginner effortlessly ringing about the hall to understand our own natural affinities.

This scholar believes the reason for this affinity is due, in part, to man’s highly developed social sense. Few animals appear to possess the natural tendency to perceive and interact with high order social structures and these complex relationships are wholly unfeasible in lower based life. Quite often, the status and rank of a member is determined by almost imperceptible cues and indicators and, as such, our minds are primed to attentiveness for these subtle elements. It is in manipulating this natural propensity that a practitioner can trigger the most subtle of man’s perceptions and play into his natural biases.

While glamours may be the most common, they are certainly not the only skill to be taught. The second classification of magick arose  through the manipulation and experimentation of various other substances.

Wards are based on the unmoving energies of rocks and earth. While man has a very transient energy, earth does not. It is this immovability, this unyielding force that gave rise to the development of the wards. These are, perhaps, the sorcerer’s most famous abilities. These are static, focused fields that require a physical sourced anchor. The first wards were protective, creating fields that would alert the practitioner to any outside influence that disturbed its natural order.2006.19_PS6

However, through the careful application of transmutation, wards could be created to produce just about anything. Most remarkable are the anti-magick wards. These incredibly powerful fields dampen and restrict the flow of aether through their area. Most will weaken the abilities of a sorcerer within, reducing the amount of energy they can channel from all sources. The most powerful, however, can reduce the movement of energy so much that a sorcerer can find that he is just unable to channel enough energy to produce any magickal effect at all!

As with all magicks, the advancement of the knowledge on wards came through the creative use of their energies. Some sorcerers were able to create small, inverted fields that rippled within the aether at such a frequency that they could be tracked far further than one could naturally. Other fields flow through the natural energies of their areas that they can accurately reproduce any changes within, allowing a sorcerer to sense all activity within its area.

The final field of magickal inquiry is in the charm classification. The most recent magickal discovery, through the application of advanced channelling techniques, many prominent scholars have demonstrated that the natural energies of items can be increased or decreased if properly admixed with similar or opposing energies. Thus, a sorcerer could physically turn a small flame into a roaring blaze or turn the strike of a thunderbolt into the most harmless of jolts. These charms are, perhaps, the most misunderstood by the layman’s mind.

To the uninitiated, charms can give the impression that the sorcerer is conjuring or creating new energies seemingly from nowhere. As previously state, this is impossible within the aether. To create a flame from nothing, that object must first have a very reactive energetic source. Then, the practised sorcerer could fill that source with even greater reactive energy that causes that source to ignite, reaching its potential energetic state.

The practical application of these techniques, however, are rarely so obvious. A charm can make just about anything better: a charmed sword is sharper, a charmed sweetroll is sweeter and a charmed door is stronger. Likewise, one could induce a state of weakness into substances by interposing contrary energies. The trained sorcerer could cause a new sword to become rusted and brittle, the tastiest cake to turn dry and bland or make even the sturdiest wall crumble at the slightest touch.

However, in order for any charms to reach such effectiveness, the sorcerer must have an intimate knowledge of the properties of its target and their spell’s ingredients. They must know the exact type of energy produced by sandstone compared to marble in order to properly enhance or detract from it. Otherwise, they will find they have burned through their ingredients and produced nothing or worst, cause an aetheric flareback from the unused energies. Furthermore, a sorcerer must be careful to not naturally contaminate the spell with their own innate energy else they will produce a rather useless glamour effect which will do nothing but reveal the amateur abilities of the practitioner.

These three techniques – glamours, wards and charms – form the foundation of modern magickal study. They are well established principles from which all other research is based. The proposed existence of other techniques or forms of energy are wholly hearsay lacking any applicable empirical evidence. Most are based on the exaggerated accounts of historical abilities captured by past historians working with an incomplete knowledge of magickal practice and theory.

To understand further the magickal practices and how a sorcerer can use these principles in a practical setting, I would like to draw the curious reader to my next paper on the components of Ritual and Invocation.

A Treatise on Magick – Thyre Part 1

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Heroic Landscape with Rainbow by Joseph Anton Koch (1815)

So, I wrote a fantasy novel.

I feel one of the hallmarks of fantasy writing is the magic. People love stories of wizards, witches, sorcerers and what have you. King Arthur had his Merlin and Morgana. Shakespeare had his Weird Sisters. In a sense, magic is the easiest way to express the core of the genre. It gives a sense of wonder, excitement and intrigue that lets the imagination free from the expectations and rules of the mundane. It inherently is mysterious. The reader never truly understands how magic works. Partly because the characters themselves don’t know. It’s magical.

However, being who I am, this wouldn’t do when creating my fantasy world. First, I was setting my fiction in a much later time period that general fantasy. My societies have had their Enlightenments. They’ve already gone through their age of superstition where the unknown was an omnipresent entity and their lives were guided by elements and forces beyond their keen. They have studied. They have learned. They have begun to categorize the life around them and tease apart the elements of their world. Of course, they’re mostly on the breaking point of this revolution of thought but to give that sense of no longer leaving the explanations for daily life in the hands of mysterious otherworldly beings there needed to be some theories for why magic existed.

So I had to create a system.

But where do you begin?

I knew that my story was going to have a greater emphasis on steampunk. I also wanted the world to be somewhat familiar to our own. Furthermore, I have a personal bias against high fantasy and all three of these elements naturally led me to a low magic impact. There weren’t going to be giant stomping suits of magitek kicking around. Steam and electricity were the wonders of the age, not doddering old men waving their hands. I felt I wanted magic to be less this awe-inspiring, grandiose affair and something that had become almost forgotten. Sure, you would have some elements worked into everyday life but for the most part the average citizen didn’t feel the weight of spells. I didn’t want my narrative being hijacked by some mad sorcerer with the aims to ruin the world and the ability to reign hellfire from the skies.

But I didn’t want magic to feel isolated either. Merlini is almost cut off from the rest of Avalon and the knights with his studies and his abilities. The world isn’t shaped by those great wizards of legend. They were there as just mystics who dispensed helpful advice or a timely incantation despite the apparent ability to turn into anything they wanted or to shake the foundations of reality itself (depending on who’s telling the story of course). I did like the idea of a faded glory, however. That there were sorcerers who looked back on those legends fondly believing them to accurate tellings of the day. For them myth and legend were the stored records of an age long past where magic controlled the fates of nations and people looked upon those wielders with respect and awe.

Instead of seeing them as conning charlatans just looking to weasel a little more money from you.

I’ll confess, in our age of skepticism, this is hardly a unique point of view. But I felt it would add that element tension towards change that I wanted to capture with my story. The institute of magic was something that was old tradition. They were used to prominence but in the wave of technological advancement they were being slowly brushed aside. Here were men who had once felt they had all of creation in their palm and now few would give them the time of day.

And to insure this, I had to have limits on magic. I had to come up with the reasons for the fall of mysticism. Arthur C. Clarke famously stated that “An reasonably advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. ” I took that idea and ran with it. Not only could technology produce what magic could, but it could do it better. A gun can kill a person with the pull of a trigger. A spell could kill a person but it would require you to sit and mumble and wave your hands and possibly sacrifice a goat while you’re at it. Given the two options, any reasonable person would take the gun over magic.

So my magic had to be unwieldy. It had to be inconvenient. It demanded sacrifice and it produced often results that in this day and age were unsatisfactory. Before the explosion of inventions from the industrial revolution, magic would have been really swell when there were no alternatives to produce the results. But once everyone could light their houses by just installing some gas piping, people are going to wonder if keeping a sorcerer on staff and constantly paying for his supplies is really worth it.

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Stodgy old Newton. He probably didn’t even like apples.

But even with this fall of magic, I still liked its existence. The rules and limitations of the practice would be seemingly well understand by my societies. But just like physics felt like there was nothing else to learn after Newton’s Laws, I wanted to leave room for the current understanding to be wrong and there to be something more. Magic is, after all, a systematic way of explaining the workings of our universe. And even in our day and age with quantum theories we still struggle to come up with an all encompassing scientific theory that explains all phenomena. In the end I didn’t need a system that would accurately explain how magic worked. I needed a system that adequately explained the magic that could work at that time.

I had my feel for my system but none of the particulars. I hadn’t quite yet worked out the particulars or how it all fit in the big picture. That would take extra work and tweaking. And to find out what I made, you’ll have to wait for a later post.