I couldn’t write on Day One yesterday because I had to drive over to check on my parents before another full lockdown hits us all here in England on Thursday, so I had some making up to do today!
Below is a raw, unedited chunk of the prologue for you, if you’re interested. My goal for NaNo2020 is to rewrite completely what I have done before, putting into action all that I’ve learned through doing well over a million words of shorter stories for Patreon and Tumblr in the last two years. This bit, however, is completely new.
A thousand Myrrathi nights had begun just like this one, with the crackle of campfires and the stamp and whicker of horses, the low, soft mutter of conversation and the playing of a viol and drum. On that moonless night, however, a mage moved alone through the expansive dusk, drawn to the light and murmur of family.
Her black cloak lifted and wafted around her in the stiff steppes wind in veils of deeper night, her boots brushing small clouds of dust up between the stems of pale grass, and one of the camp dogs began to bark an alarm that had heads turning and warriors reaching for spears.
With a voice that carried easily above the rising commotion, the mage spoke in fluent, if slightly accented Myrrathi. “I offer no threat,” she called, hands out, palms forwards. “I'm unarmed, and seek only the warmth of a fire for the night…”
Kae, who had been sitting back and nearly drifting off, leaning his weight on his grubby hands with his face tilted to the evening sky, looked over at her, instantly intrigued and utterly awake again.
Visitors to the clans up here seldom came at night, and almost never on foot. With the herds of priceless warhorses that roamed these parts, the Myrrathi were known for their skills as riders and herdsmen, and if someone were walking alone, it usually meant that they were an outcast. He didn’t know what the ominously wafting cloak meant, but he had never seen anyone wear clothes so strange or so impractical for the harsh climate. His father wore a dense sheepskin coat that smelled of lanolin and smoke from the forge fire, toggled up the front with goat horn, and the women of the clan wore similarly dense woollen jackets and trousers to keep out the creeping cold, even in the height of summer. This woman was dressed like a southerner, with tall leather boots and soft black trousers, but at least the hooded cloak looked warm.
The young boy watched with the intensity of the eagle-hunters as the stranger waited at the edge of the soft pools of light from the three campfires, just close enough for her features to be seen beneath the hood, but far enough away to be polite. Kae’s mother strode over to greet her, flanked by her enormous husband and their fifteen year old son, Kae’s older brother.
At their approach, the mage dropped easily to one knee and brought hand to heart before touching her fingers to her forehead in a traditional greeting of humility.
“You’re alone?” his mother asked. Her voice carried over the still, tense camp with the natural ease of an orator and leader. His father remained silent; hulking and immovable as the mountains behind them.
“Yes,” the mage said, looking up at her without rising. “I am travelling from Karakchun to my mother’s clan on the north-east coast. Their summer camp lies in the lea of Saddle Rock and I hope to spend most of the season with them before returning to the capital for the winter. If you would prefer, I can camp alone elsewhere, but I am tired after walking so far today.”
“Nonsense,” Kae’s mother said. “Rise. Our fire is yours. Our food and water are yours. Please,” she added, ushering the mage in towards the gathering of people who had all turned to stare.
From the ger behind him, Kae’s little sister Ylanna emerged and watched with her dark eyes serious and intent as her mother welcomed the guest to the fire, and someone brought her a cup of water.
Kae would never forget the night he learned about magic beneath the Myrrathi sky as the stars winked into life above them and the mage spoke about things that sounded truly incredible to the mind of an eleven year old blacksmith’s apprentice.
For more updates, both about writing and other Writing Aesthetic(TM) things, follow me on Instagram (@r.n.peacock). And I’m also on Twitter now, though I have no idea how to use it...
