As writers, we innately tend to know when our story is working and when it isn’t. I like to describe this awareness as a sort of resonance, but it could just as easily be compared to an engine with all pistons firing. A skilled mechanic can tell just by listening when an engine isn’t purring along. Likewise the practiced writer. 

Sometimes the words just pour out. The pages flow one to the next, your dialog perfectly captures the emotion of the scene, the story conflict builds or resolves into the next arc without interruption or even much thought… In those moments, the creation appearing on the page before you seems to flow from a divine source. 

And then there are the times when you can’t seem to make a chapter work to save your life. The island paradise may be your final destination, but the sea between you and this goal is either a storm of occlusion that has you struggling to stay the course or a dead calm without a breath of inspiration to cast you forward. On those days you simply cling to whatever you can, aimlessly adrift, praying for a spark of lucidity in which it all suddenly begins to untangle and the wind picks up. A moment that brings your island into view. 

I’ve been working through my own difficult seas recently. During this time, I tried some of the popular methods for overcoming writer’s block (of which there are as many suggestions as there are writers) but ultimately I returned to my own rather unconventional means of navigation.

Here are five of my successful ways of calling the wind in a dead calm:

1. Go back to where you were last doing well.

You’re sailing along and suddenly slam into a bog. The waters turn muddy, the way forward becomes unclear, and nothing you write thereafter seems to work.

If you can look back and see a time in the story when everything was going well (even if that point was a chapter or more ago) returning to the point where you were last doing well and then continuing forward again in a new direction can often prevent running into the bog again.

How do you chart a different course? Change your dialogue, alter your character interaction, throw in a new plot twist or peril, or even send your character(s) somewhere else entirely. The point is to cast your new heading directly from the point where you were last doing well, even if it means tossing all of the pages written since. 

2. Look to see if you’ve compromised your character’s integrity in some way.

I’ve many times found that the story will bog if I’ve somehow compromised my character’s integrity. For example, at the beginning of Dagger, my truthreader Tanis faces off against an overwhelming enemy named Pelas. My first attempt through the scene saw Tanis with spunk and fire, talking back to Pelas with brave defiance. It was interesting to see a new side of Tanis—and it didn’t work at all.

The problem lay in the fact that my young Tanis isn’t defiant. The way I was writing him in that scene—the way I originally felt I had to write him—was out of character for him. He’s innocent and he’s brave, but he’s not impudent and rude, and he wouldn’t suddenly become belligerent even when facing overwhelming odds.

I had to look at how to rewrite the scene, how to make it both interesting and intense, yet stay true to Tanis’s character. Going back to the beginning of the scene and letting Tanis be himself led to a breakthrough—oddly enough—in Pelas’s character (which ultimately made him a reader favorite). 

3. Rethink a character.

If you suddenly bog and something isn’t working in the story, take a look at the characters in that part of the tale and try adding complexity or new depth to them. Reveal a new side of them that is plausible to the reader. Give them a hidden passion, a compulsion, or a secret love or torment. Any time you can add something new to a character’s personality, you give the reader more about that character to connect with. 

In the example above, I had been writing Pelas as a typical villain–flat, unimaginative, boring, actually. I didn’t realize it at the time, of course, but when I took another look at Pelas (as a part of solving the problem with Tanis) I realized Pelas could be much more than he appeared. Even if it means going back to the beginning to add a nuance or hint here and there to set up your character reveal later, it’s usually worth it.

Rethinking a character from the ground up can often open entirely new paths through the story and pull you rapidly into breezy seas once more.

4. Change location—not yours but your character’s.

When something about a scene just doesn’t feel right, try putting the characters in a different setting. Instead of having them meet in a courtyard, move the exchange to a ballroom, a garden, or a dark alley.

Changing the scene will cast new shades upon the existing conversation and add new elements of danger or anticipation, longing, love, heartbreak or excitement. Sometimes we’re so focused on plot that we forget to take advantage of the setting, but setting can do so much to convey or engender emotion. It’s an invaluable tool.

You may end up changing the dialog you already have written to adapt to the new environment. Sometimes that shift of location is all you need to set a new course.

5. Don’t strand yourself on a reef of your own devising.

This is perhaps the most perilous hazard to keep an eye out for when sailing creative waters. 

As writers, we often have an idea of our destination. Some writers chart their path island by island (chapter by chapter). Others merely use the stars to guide them in the general direction they wish to go.

No matter your means of navigation, it’s all too easy to decide on a certain course and then become stalled by it. You make a decision about the path the story should take while just rounding the head at point A. Then as you’re sailing into port at point C, your next heading doesn’t make sense anymore. But you’ve decided on this heading because that’s how you planned the story. You’re already thinking it has to be that way. But you are the one who set that course to begin with. You can simply decide to go in a different direction.

This is almost always easier said than done. Firstly, it can be difficult to isolate which of the many decisions are the ones now stopping your forward progress—we make the rules, you see, then we have to follow them in order to keep continuity in the story; so we become just as bound by the rules we made as our characters are. The second problem faced when looking at this is the understanding that you have the entire story/plot/chapter/character arc planned out—the course is set!

But if that very course is what is sinking you, hadn’t you better rethink it?

I’ve experienced this with laws I established for my fantasy world or powers I’ve given to my characters. I’ve seen it with plot points decided on months ago that now just don’t make sense—or that cause unsolvable conflicts with later story threads, or even with the time it would take to develop the backstory to support the plot element I’ve decided must exist.

I’ve seen it with character back-stories and planned future conflicts and myriad other vortices I created for myself and proceeded to sail directly into as if I had no choice, as if the gravity of my own creation now exhibited more power than I did.

We have to be able to change our minds about our story or we’re no longer captaining our creation but enslaved by it.

I hope these ideas will help you to continue sailing free.

*    *   *

What’s your experience? Share your thoughts on writer’s block and any methods that have successfully gotten you out of the calm and back on course. 

“The time for fear is past.” ~ King Theoden, The Lord of the Rings

In fantasy worlds, fear is the enemy. It swoops down on black wings to smash the heroes to the ground, to paralyze their hopes. It comes with talons and ghostly swords, with blazing eyes and green fire. It rusts men’s resolve. Turns allies against each other. It clears walls of defenders. It is the edge that no armor can stop. Cowardice to courage marks the most common arc of character growth in fantasy, possibly in all genres. For heroes to stand a chance, or even to remain standing, they must say goodbye to the butterflies ravaging their stomach. Anyone who reads enough might begin to believe that all fears should be smothered in their cradles. 

Read closer. Characters in fantasy novels fear all the time. They are cautious. They respect danger, trying to avoid the greatest perils. When they throw fear to the wind, it’s often because they have no other choice but one last desperate gambit.

Real-life heroes also fear. Soldiers in modern armies still experience the tearing sensation of numbness in the pit of their stomachs. They merely fear letting down their fellow soldiers more. I read an article in which a veteran said his greatest worry was that his mistake would get a friend killed.

“I do not fear either pain or death,” Eowyn of The Lord of the Rings said to Aragorn. “Then what do you fear, my lady?” “A cage.” Even the bold must fear something. If not, then we would have a hard time relating to them. They would begin to seem inhuman.

I hope my readers never meet someone who is truly fearless. There is a name for that condition: psychopathy. Bereft of emotion, psychopaths have only an intellectual understanding of danger. In one reported case, a psychopath broke into a man’s home, murdered him, had a beer from the fridge, and fell asleep beside the corpse on the sofa. (Clearly, this psychopath was not an intellectual.) He woke up in handcuffs. A person in that situation who has fear in their repertoire would be less likely to kill, fearing social recrimination if nothing else. Adrenaline would careen through his bloodstream. His heart would pound, his pulse race, his stomach cramp, and his lungs gulp air. He could never fall asleep.

Even for us non-killers, fear has its uses. A performer on stage will always feel the rush, that tingling burst from the presence of hundreds of eyes. The greatest entertainers will expect the feeling, be ready for it, and use their heightened alertness and strength to amaze. Those without any urge to perform (or find the safest way to Mount Doom) may still have need of fear. In fact, it may save their lives. In the book The Gift of Fear, the author cautions that often people will imperil themselves by ignoring fears. A woman might, for instance, experience a chill before allowing a strange man to carry her groceries into her apartment. To avoid appearing rude or ungrateful, she might push away the creeping sensation that’s bristling its way up her spine. If she acts fearlessly and lets him inside she could well regret it.

“You have the gift of a brilliant internal guardian that stands ready to warn you of hazards and guide you through risky situations.” — Gavin de Becker, consultant to the FBI and author of The Gift of Fear

Some might prefer to call this inner sense the intuition. Whatever the name, adrenaline accompanies it and causes those well-known feeling, from trembling fingers to cold feet. The important thing to remember, Gavin de Becker writes, is that fear is in response to some external trigger. Even if our brain’s conscious processing has not yet caught on, we have to respect that our fear might be onto something. Stories will often have the theme of trusting one’s instincts. The wise old mentor might urge the hero to follow intuition and, in the same wizened breath, to stamp out every last spark of fear.

To be fair to the Jedi masters, they likely are cautioning against allowing fear to paralyze, or drive one to impulsive violence. But to deny all fear seems less than practical. “Ignore your doubts,” sounds too close to, “Ignore your intuition.” Heroes feel fear, and we should expect no difference from ourselves. When that sensation of ice prickles down our backs, we should first think what might have caused it. (But don’t freeze in the headlights too long.) Next, we should avoid thinking of fear as an evil. Not, “Oh, no, this is terrible!” Or, “I’m afraid, so I must be a coward.” But, “Ah, something important is coming, and my body is getting ready to fight.” I say it’s past time fear got its due in the fantasy genre. After all, I always root for the underdog. Especially if he is a terrifying mongrel that breathes fire and has three heads.

In my latest fantasy novel, a tragedy arises from an acute shortage of fear. The protagonist studies magic in a vertically inclined magic school. To reach the lofty altitude of the academy, she had to overcome her fear of heights and walk up a cliff. When the academy’s enchantments begin to fail, she senses the mounting danger but ignores her worries. She has grown too used to being bold. To save her school and her students, Enchantress Hiresha will have to regain a healthy respect for fear. She’ll need the full speed of her intuition to outsmart the mastermind holding the magic school ransom. Only with every instinct and every edge adrenaline can bring her will she have a chance to oust the invaders. Hiresha faces twelve to one odds in battle, and each step could end in a plummet.

“He who is without fear has no hope.” – Lord Tethiel, Gravity’s Revenge

Discover the fun fantasy loot at the Kickstarter for Gravity’s Revenge

I’ve been struggling recently with a situation that arose from the number of positive—yes, I just said positive—reviews I’ve received on my latest novel (which, by the way, was recently selected as a Finalist for the ForeWord Book of the Year – yay!) It took me a bit to sort through just what I was experiencing, and I thought I’d share these ideas now that I’ve got the problem resolved.

To begin, I want to talk about universes. Not the Stephen Hawking kind. The kind that come with us when we wander from place to place. The kind that offer a retreat in which to explore our own thoughts. The kind where we imagine and dream…where we envision the people and events that eventually fill the canvases of our artistic works. 

I have never spoken with my characters, yet they’re as real to me as anyone I’ve passed on the street. I carry my characters around with me in the universe of my head.

When a writer envisions a story, he creates it first in his own ‘universe’. Though intangible, these universes can feel very real to the person who owns them—as real as the physical universe we all live in. Of course, the clearer the writer sees things in his own imagined universe, the better he can bring his readers into it through narration and description, through the medium of fine storytelling.

Now, for every author who has created a world to be read about, there are countless readers who recreate that world in their own universe as they read. They take the author’s descriptions and mold and shape them into their own versions of the characters and events. No matter how complete the author may have been in his/her descriptions, readers still inject the characters with their own colorations—they still have to imagine them, you see. 

This concept of multiple subjective universes reminds me of Roger Zelazny’s Chronicles of Amber, where Amber is the one true world, casting infinite reflections of itself.

Every book casts infinite reflections into the universes of its readers; and in every reader’s universe there exists a slightly different—or largely different—reflection of the book.

So what does this have to do with reviews? The truth is—and whoever would’ve thought I’d be saying this—the plethora of glowing reviews for The Dagger of Adendigaeth actually mired my forward progress into the story.

For an agonizing span of days, I couldn’t understand why I was experiencing this writer’s block on Book 3. I had the story planned out to the ninth hand of chance. I had countless positive reviews rolling in for Dagger, extolling my ‘epic follow-up,’ and an abundance of dear readers expressing their excitement for the next book in the series. Even where someone voiced a criticism, their thoughts were usually insightful in some way.

Please don’t think I’m complaining (trust that I am working through this difficult situation of overwhelming admiration for my novels), but it took me some time to figure out why praise was miring my forward progress into the story.

We all love getting to experience our work through a reader’s eyes. I think this is the artist’s real pay. This form of reader contribution—i.e. their exchange with the author—is far more valuably some subjective feedback than the material dollars and cents provided. But when we look at reviews, what we have to keep in mind is that the story being reviewed has subtly changed from the author’s original. Our readers take our worlds and make them their own as they read along—and therein lies the trap in spending too much time “listening” to reviews. 

Here’s what I finally realized: Any time you take a review to heart, you run the risk of departing your true Amber world and getting caught instead in the reflections of your work. For instance, my readers commended Book 2, and I devoured their praise, gobbling up every morsel as reviews came pouring in. Yet in reading all their kind words, I began to feel the pressure of continuing to please them, of not disappointing them with my next novel, of continued success. I began to wonder how I would ever make Book 3 better, more exciting, even more valuable to my readers than Book 2 had proven to be.

Here’s the real problem in my taking on this viewpoint: I didn’t write Cephrael’s Hand or The Dagger of Adendigaeth for anyone’s benefit but my own. When I wrote those novels, I retreated to my universe entirely and asked no one’s permission, sought no one’s regard, and just wrote what I wanted to write because it pleased me to thrive in that creation. I wrote to entertain myself. (Now it happens that I’m a picky fantasy reader, so something that entertains me is likely to please others, but that’s really beside the point).  

You see, there I was, assuming the reader’s viewpoint suddenly, trying to determine how to keep my readers happy, worrying how to make my opening scenes as interesting and vital as those of book 2, fretting that I’d never be able to make book 3 as intriguing, as heart-wrenching…so many concerns. I was second-guessing all of my plot points and plans, because I wasn’t sure they would be interesting enough to others. I had abandoned my most successful action of just writing for my own entertainment. In trying to take the viewpoint of the reader and fit my story to their unknowable expectations, I lost my way, and the story went nowhere.

So this is the crux. Any time you as the author get tied up in trying to fix or alter or somehow match your world to a reader’s reflection—even the reflections of glowing praise—well…you’ve lost the integrity of the world. Because ultimately when you assume the reader’s viewpoint, you’re now sitting in the reflection, too. You’ve become one with the kaleidoscope of reader universes. You’ve lost your true path, your Amber. 

If you’ve experienced any shade of this phenomenon in your own artistic work, or even in life, here’s the most important thing to remember: those reflections are but shadows of the real world. Your world.

What do you think? Have you experienced this idea of universes, either in your reading or in devising your artistic work? How have reviews of your work impacted you? Share your thoughts. 

First, with gratitude to Clive Eaton, author of the thrilling sci-fi mystery, The Pyramid Legacy (a GoodReads #1 list topper), and immense supporter of independent authors, I give my best gracious bow.  

My second deep bow of thanks goes to A.E.Marling, whose fantasy novels mingle whimsical eccentricities with delicious evil portrayed in a tantalizing display of witticism, sarcasm and just plain tingle-your-toes scary fabulousness.

My third bow of immense gratitude goes to authoress Catherine Winchester, whose richly detailed historical fiction novels remind us of a more elegant time.   

Again, thank you three for the nod. Now, on to the traditional Next Big Thing interview:

1) What is the working title of your next book?

Book 3. It’s also the name of my favorite playlist right now. And the most frequented topic of my subconscious as evidenced by the number of troublesome dreams (or sleep-deprived nights) spent brooding upon it.

Yes, I’m deep into the quagmire of planning/writing the third book in my ongoing fantasy series, A Pattern of Shadow & Light, and just when I think I’ve got the pattern figured out, some new detail springs to light that make it look less like an inspired tapestry of intrigue and adventure and more like the tangled ball of yarn/cat hair/unrecognizable-ick that my cat bats around on the kitchen floor when she’s not leaving it deposited as a gift on my bed.  

2) Where did the idea come from for the book?

Astral projection. I’m convinced the characters are trying to contact me from another realm and pushing their entire story into my head as a means of convincing me to brave the void of space/time/dimension to find them.

3) What genre does your book fall under?

Epic fantasy…unless there is some new category named Philosophical Adventure Fantasy, or Allegorical Fantasy, or Epic Fictional Philosophy. 

4) What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

If I had a dollar for every time someone has asked me this question…

I’m just glad I’m not a casting director. I pity the stout men and women bearing the brunt of an author’s ire when they’ve absolutely mangled the book ever before it makes it to the big screen, such as casting Tom Cruise for the part of Lestat. He did a great job of embodying Anne Rice’s character in essence, I suppose, but Lestat just doesn’t look like Tom.

If you have any ideas as to who could play the roles of Ean, Tanis, Trell, Phaedor, Carian, Fynn, Alyneri or any of my other diverse cast, by all means pass them my way. I’m hesitant to restrict a reader’s own expression of these pivotal characters by providing a picture open to no further interpretation than criticism.

5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

For Book 3? One cannot lead without first being willing to sacrifice everything. 

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

This will be my third self-published book.

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

Still writing. Grrr….

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Anyone who loves epic fantasy will like my series. It’s full of true-to-life characters struggling with problems not unlike our own (if with sometimes more dramatic consequences), and complex villains, none of whom are what they seem (okay, maybe one or two are exactly what they seem—Dore Madden).   

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?

I see fantasy as a metaphor for life in this world. As a philosopher by nature, I love the fantasy genre for its inherent struggles between good and evil. What’s most interesting to me is exploring the many shades of grey in between the ultimates. People rarely set out to do evil. More often, they feel entirely justified in their decisions—yet those same decisions and actions may indeed appear evil when viewed from the other side of the field.  

I like to take a single concept, such as leadership in book 3, and pick it apart, turn it around, give you different ideas of it from different points of view, and ultimately challenge the reader to say they can ever view leadership the same way again.

The human spirit provides an endless resource for exploration, and in its infinite variability, it deserves to be explored.

10) What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?

Book 3 follows a path that explores compulsion and free-will, the responsibilities of leaders, duty versus personal purpose, one’s nature/inclination and choice, and the relationship between integrity and courage, all wrapped into a roller-coaster ride of adventure, treachery, sedition, torture, bravery, heroism and intrigue. Oh, and there will be some happy moments, too. Lest we forget the only absolute law: there is balance in all things.

And now, my nominees for The Next Big Thing: 

Martha Bourke 

V.K. Ramsey

Andre Todorovich

Troy Blackford

Christopher Shawbell 

Even so, I obsess over my cats. I’d like to think I don’t, but I do. It’s just in my nature. I don’t think you can be a good fantasy writer and not have obsessive tendencies—at least not an epic fantasy writer.

To write epic fantasy, you have to be able to move in and out of the heads of innumerable viewpoint characters on a chapter by chapter basis, while weaving together a dozen or more story threads into some form of cohesive whole. You have to be able to create an entire world with realistic conflicts, cultures, languages and religions and design and explain a magic system that follows actual laws—and above all, you have to be able to craft a good story out of this complicated tangle.

Artists obsess over their creations. They also obsess over people’s reviews and critiques of their creations. Art is obsession in all its many guises.

To you, Joe and Marybeth Reader, this is probably just some book you picked up for somewhere between $0.99 and $10 dollars (most likely). Maybe you loved the story and happily gush about it to your friends. Maybe it wasn’t your cup of tea. Maybe you hated it with a passion. I can safely say, Joe and Marybeth, whether your response was lukewarm or glowing, the writer of that novel obsessed over every part of it far longer than you did over their choppy dialogue or the errant typo encountered during your thirty-minutes-before-bedtime daily vigil.

Art of any kind is basically communication. Good stories are all about communication. Simple tales might have one thing they hope to communicate. If the story is well crafted, that communication is universally received. The more complex the story, the more obscure the ideas being conveyed, the more varied the reception of the author’s communication. And when you’re writing about invented worlds and races, when you’re crafting a commentary on real life but using a parallel world to do it, when you’re weaving a tapestry of philosophical ideals meant to be explored and evaluated, compared and pitted against reality, and when you’re writing at a level that requires a fairly high degree of literacy in your reader…well, that single communication has turned into a peacock’s fan colored by nuance and intimation, where each feather represents a different character and each swirl upon the fan poses another thread of philosophical exploration.

The greatest reward for an author isn’t in the money someone pays for their work. It comes when that reader receives the author’s communication. I don’t care if someone disagrees with me, so long as I can tell from their comments that they at least understood what I was saying. 

To be understood—that’s all any of us really seek from others, isn’t it? In the broad scheme of life, don’t we all just want other people to understand why we do what we do, why we react a certain way, why we feel certain compulsions or harbor unusual passions? Don’t we want them to understand those parts of ourselves that we don’t even comprehend?

There are a lot of varying viewpoints about reviews. Truthfully, I welcome any review, because a) I want to know if my communication was received and b) they help encourage potential readers to pick up the book.

But with this said, let me ask, what would be your ideal review? Would it embrace the whole of your story in a way that lets others know what they will find within its pages? Would it touch upon your philosophies and story threads, and capture the essence of favorite characters? Would it encapsulate your communication as the author, even if reduced to a few succinct sentences? And would it give, overall, a sense of the world, the characters, the feeling of being there and what it’s like to have experienced the story? 

When a reviewer writes a review so expertly detailed, so eloquent, so revealing of their depth of understanding that you’d think they were talking about their own novel…this is the highest compliment any author could receive.

I recently read such a review. I’ve been sending it everywhere, because no better summary has ever been written of my novel. And it starts like this:

“Melissa McPhail created a world unlike any other in fiction but also not unlike our own, where individualism and unity exist all at once; good and evil coincide, are intertwined, and vary in shades; and philosophy, mundane and profound, shape lives. With her debut novel, she captured a world—from its physical base to its ethereal heavens, and everything tangible and intangible between, before known time and (hopefully) not its “after.”

Please read the rest at The LUV’NV, because it truly is an amazing review. Itself a work of art. 

And thank you again, Raindrop Soup, for understanding me so beautifully.

I’m pleased to announce the winners of our big contests (winners have also been notified by email). Winners were chosen by a Novel Publicity Panel (in other words, it wasn’t me, folks!).

The $100 best blog entry award goes to CP at the BiaLog for is epic video review.  

The random blogger award of $50 goes to the blogger at Curling Up By The Fire. Congrats!

The Rafflecopter awards (two $50 gift cards) go to: Jennifer Rowan and Mimi Smith.

The Friday author contest winners are:

• Best Magical Ability (Kindle Fire): Alyson Miers
• Best Character ($100 Amazon Gift Card): Geekdad248
• Random (Autographed Book):  Lisa Peters

And the winners of the social media sharing contests on Twitter, Google+, and Facebook have all already been notified. Congratulations to all the lucky (and hard-working) individuals who now have a little extra cash in their pockets.

*Note on Judging from Novel Publicity:  All current Novel Publicity employees and clients were disqualified from winning any of the prizes—sorry!

Thank you so much for helping to make the Cephrael’s Hand Whirlwind Tour such a success!

We’re hosting one gigantic contest with two separate parts, which means you can enter once, twice… as many times as you like! Help me create a character that will be featured in book #3 of A Pattern of Shadow & Light.  You can:

A) Create a name and back story, and if your character idea is the best, s/he will be featured in my upcoming novel AND you’ll win a $100 Amazon gift card.

B) Think up a glorious new magical ability, and you could win a Kindle Fire. Submit as many entries for both as you can think of to increase your chances for winning.

To recap:

*  The most compelling character name and back story wins a $100 Amazon gift card AND a  feature of your character in book #3 of the Pattern of Shadow and Light series

*  The coolest new magical ability wins a Kindle Fire

*  Enter as many times as you’d like in either category by posting a comment below.

The winner will be announced at 5 PM EDT on Saturday, January 5th. Read on for info that might be helpful in crafting your characters and magic abilities.

Behind the magic of Cephrael’s Hand:

I’d like to keep the magical abilities open to your imagination, but knowing just a little about the magic in Cephrael’s Hand might help you devise a winning entry. Here’s what you need to know:

Magic in the realm of Alorin is fueled by the lifeforce known as elae. Elae is divided into five strands, which are basically different aspects of energy. Adepts are men and women born with the ability to work the energy of a particular strand.

1. The first strand is the energy particular to life, that creative spark that fuels growth. It is the energy used by Healers in their ministrations of the sick and injured. It is the energy used to increase longevity in those who work the Pattern of Life to attain immortality. The first strand is also associated with Seers, who tap into this creative source to see choices further down the path of time.

2. The second strand is kinetic energy. This is the energy that fuels and channels through the pattern of the world itself. It is used by Nodefinders to travel on the pattern of the world, connecting far distant places with a single step. It can be created by putting certain items in motion, but it is difficult to harness when made that way. This is also the energy associated with dreams, and some Nodefinders are also Dreamwalkers.

3. The third strand comprises a variant energy which is known primarily for the strange traits it bestows upon Adepts born to this strand. Wildlings, they are called, and they are known to have a wide range of abilities (sometimes more than one) including shapeshifting, Nodefinding, and even the ability to make small
skips through time.

4. The fourth strand in the energy of thought. This is the strand used by truthreaders who read the minds and thoughts of men. The energy of the fourth strand can be harnessed and channeled to produce powerful physical effects, from bolts of flame to concussive explosions of force. The fourth strand is used in compulsion patterns, which force a person to do things against their will. It is also the strand used in crafting illusions.

5. The fifth strand is the most powerful of all, for it compels the elements themselves. Those Adepts who work the fifth strand have been known to turn air to sand, water to wine, or even raise a castle, fully formed, from the bedrock of the mountain. The fifth strand is also the most dangerous to work, for it skirts a precarious line of cause and consequence.

Here’s one more reminder of what you have to do and what you can win:

• The most compelling character name and back story wins a $100 Amazon gift card AND a feature of your character in book #3 of the Pattern of Shadow and Light series
• The coolest new magical ability wins a Kindle Fire
• Enter as many times as you’d like in either category by posting a comment below

Post your entries in the comments box below. The winner will be announced at 5 PM EDT on Saturday, January 5th.

Don’t forget to drop by the main tour page to see what’s going on and to learn even more about Cephrael’s Hand.

One can find a plethora of quotes on the subject of happiness, from philosophers and writers to superstars or saints. Happiness seems the most universally sought commodity worldwide. Perhaps my interest in this topic of late is a result of the holidays, or perhaps it stems from spending too much time marketing my novels recently and not enough writing the next one, but I find my philosophical side coming to the forefront as I look toward the new year.

Because my greatest wish for all is to find that elusive pot of gold called happiness, here are some ideas on the subject that they might serve as an inspirational golden goose to fill your personal cache.

“There is only one passion, the passion for happiness.” ~ Denis Diderot

What is happiness? Most definitions merely describe a state of being without offering any advice on how to achieve said state. Philosophers tell us that happiness lies in admiring without wanting, or in restricting one’s own desires—in loving what you already have. There is some truth in this concept. But is happiness really gained by limiting our dreams? By minimizing our goals or deciding our hopes are unattainable?    

We usually know happiness when we experience it, or when we think we see it displayed through the windows of our neighbors’ lives. Certainly a startling number of people covet the perceived happiness of others. Yet if happiness is to be gained, the path lies not before the brunette with the rich husband but before our own two feet. The road to happiness doesn’t require a pair of Louboutin heels to forge the way. This path can be walked by even the most well-worn soles.

To find that path, here are three rules to live by:

1. Do what you love.

If you’re not doing what you love and loving what you’re doing, ask yourself, “Why?” Who is stopping you from your dream of writing, from making that trip to places exotic and wonderful, from having a family or jumping into a new career?

And after you’ve made a list of all the whos and the myriad reasons why you couldn’t possibly… ask yourself now who is really stopping you? 90% of the time, the only truly honest answer is: you.

We limit ourselves with our viewpoints of what we can and cannot achieve, of the perceived barriers of everyday living that yoke us to 9 to 5 boredoms or routines far from the ones we crave. But are those viewpoints fact? Are they even rational? Do they come from a place of truth? Or are they derived out of fear or confusion, out of past failures and mistakes, or from the labels and criticisms of others?

If you want to find happiness in 2013 and beyond, take Thoreau’s advice: dare to live the dream you have imagined.

2. Happiness lies within.

What does this mean? It means it begins with our deciding to see the glass half-full. All the happiness we ever find lies within ourselves, within our choices and our truths; in living life to the fullest extent; in appreciating what we are given and giving generously in return. 

Happiness lies in how we live our lives, not in how others live theirs, and it’s found through applying those golden rules not because our priests and rabbis and gurus tell us to but because we honestly desire to achieve our own standard of noble living.  

The happiness in virtue is gained not in the enforced or desultory exercise of duty but out of a self-determined desire to bring about or contribute to higher states of survival for ourselves and others.

3. Don’t seek happiness. Seek the mountain. Happiness will join you along the way.

One of the best definitions of happiness I’ve found describes happiness as”the overcoming of not unknowable obstacles toward a known goal.” Reading that carefully, we find that happiness isn’t necessarily gained in the goal itself, but rather in striving toward the goal—in the playing of the game. As soon as the game is won, well, it’s necessary to find a new game or face a quick degradation into withering stagnation and boredom.

Ask yourself what games you’re playing in life. What goals have you set? What mountains lie upon your horizon for the claiming? And when you have this list, take an honest look at how excitedly you’re pursuing the items on it.

Happiness depends on our ability to generate interest in living our lives. How happy we can be depends greatly on how interested we are in the “games” we’re playing and the goals we’re striving toward. Those who are truly happiest are the ones who exert great passion into their lifetime pursuits. They are generating their own interest in life by finding something to be interested in.

Life is our greatest adventure. Play it with gusto.

As the Sanskrit poet Kālidāsa wrote so succinctly many eons ago:

Look to this day!

For it is life, the very life of life.

In its brief course

Lie all the verities and realities of your existence:

The bliss of growth

The glory of action

The splendor of beauty.

For yesterday is but a dream

And tomorrow is only a vision,

But today well lived

Makes every yesterday a dream of happiness

And every tomorrow a vision of hope.

Look well, therefore, to this day!

Such as the salutation to the dawn.

Wishing you the greatest happiness in the new year and beyond.

What’s your concept of happiness? How and where have you found it in your life? I welcome your thoughts and ideas.

“To know love is to know fear.” – Attributed to the angiel Epiphany

The skiff bobbed on icy waves as two sailors rowed in tandem. A crescent moon looked down upon the little boat and limned a silvery trail back to the hulking shadow that was the royal schooner Sea Eagle. The air was damp and pungent with the scent of brine, but the sky shone uncommonly clear, and the wind carried an exhilarating sense of promise.

Or at least Ean thought so as he stood with boots braced in the prow of the skiff watching the dark expanse of the Calgaryn cliffs growing taller, broader, vaster, until they towered over the little boat. They’d no lights glimmering from the great crags to tell the rowing sailors where beach ended and deadly rocks began, neither lighthouse nor lantern to serve as a beacon across the blanket of ebony ocean, only Ean’s ears, keen to the roar of the waves upon a familiar shore.

“There,” he said, pointing with arm outstretched. “Two degrees to port.” The blustery wind whipped Ean’s hair, lifting and tossing it in wild designs while his cloak flapped behind him, so that he seemed a figurehead as he stood in the prow, a sculpture of some undersea godling.

“Aye, your highness,” said one of the sailors as he and his partner adjusted their rowing to shift course. 

“Tis strange,” said the skiff’s fourth occupant, who was seated on a bench behind Ean wrapped in an ermine cloak. Ean’s blood-brother since childhood, Creighton Khelspath had sealed his destiny to Ean’s, to go where the prince went, to serve, and to protect. Now he and Ean had both gained their eighteenth name day, the age of manhood that brought new titles and new responsibilities, yet neither felt quite ready to face the world beneath the mantle that accompanied their new statuses.

“What’s strange?” Ean shifted his head slightly to maintain his focus on the minute sounds of the surf.

“Strange to be coming back here after so long,” Creighton answered, simple words that yet shouted his anxiety. He shifted his gaze to the smudge of darkness towering before them, but it wasn’t the treacherous shoreline that troubled him. He added under his breath, “Strange to think of ourselves as the King’s men again, instead of just the Queen’s.”

“Would that there was no need for such distinction,” Ean muttered. He’d spent five long years arguing with his Queen mother about her relationship with his King father—the entire time he’d been sequestered on his mother’s home island of Edenmar, in fact—and the disagreement had created a flood of bitterness. That he’d been sequestered there to protect his life after both his older brothers were lost to treachery seemed ill consolation for being ripped from all that he’d known and loved, or from his father’s beloved side.

Now all that had changed—at least, that was the expectation. Two moons ago Queen Errodan and her entourage had returned to Calgaryn to make peace with King Gydryn in the name of their only surviving son. Ean hoped his name would be enough to bridge the canyon between his estranged parents; a great part of him feared nothing could span so immense a distance. 

Suddenly the little boat surged upwards, and the crashing sound of waves gained in volume. “We’re here!” Ean shot Creighton a look of sudden excitement as the waves lifted them again, and moments later he leapt from the boat and sloshed through hip-deep surf to stand, dripping, upon the shore.

Jutting cliffs sliced into the bay on either side, while between them lay a swath of sand that sparkled faintly in the moonlight. Ean opened his arms and spun around to embrace the air of his homeland, breathing deeply of its fragrance.

The sailors took the skiff all the way in, surfing the last wave until the flat-bottomed boat scraped the shore. Creighton swept up his ermine cloak and stepped across the bow onto the beach, turning to face the waves as his boots sank into the soft sand.

Above the dark waters spread another sea, this one a starry splay of jewels surrounding the moon. Just above this eyeless crescent, high within the arch of sky, a seven-pointed constellation flamed. Creighton swallowed. “Ean,” he murmured, pointing with his free arm. “Look.”

Ean lifted his gaze to follow along Cray’s line of sight. His ebullient expression faded when he saw the grouping of stars. “Cephrael’s Hand.”

At this utterance, both sailors lifted faces to the heavens.

“Tis an inauspicious omen for your return,” Creighton observed, unable to hide his sudden unease.

One of the sailors grunted at this, and the other spat into the sand and then ground his boot over the mark.

Ean cast him a withering look. “Ward for luck if you wish, helmsman, but we make our destiny, not superstition.”

“Epiphany’s Grace you’re right, Highness,” replied the sailor, “but you won’t begrudge me if I keep my knife close tonight, I hope?”

Ean caught sight of Creighton loosening his own blade in its sheath and stared at his blood-brother in wonderment. “Creighton, you and I both have studied the science of the stars. How can you believe the stars have any power over our fates—”

Creighton spun him a heated look and hissed under his breath, “How can you not?”

Ean pushed a chin-length strand of cinnamon hair behind one ear and folded arms across his chest. He couldn’t discount the terrible events that had each happened beneath the taint of Cephrael’s Hand—two brothers lost—even if he chose not to believe in the abounding superstitions surrounding the fateful constellation. The memories evoked a sigh that felt painful as it left his chest. “We blame the gods too often for things no one controls.”

“That’s your father talking.”

Ean shot Creighton an aggravated look. “Sometimes he’s right.”

A gusting breeze brought the stench of seaweed and wet rocks, and something else, some proprietary scent seemingly owned by that beach alone. Ean remembered it well—it and all of the memories it harbored, memories carried like autumn leaves spinning in funnels across the sand. “I said goodbye to both brothers upon this very spot,” he observed quietly, recalling a much younger self who watched as first one brother and then the next was carried away toward an awaiting royal ship at anchor, much as the Sea Eagle was now. Neither brother had returned from their journey south, one lost to treachery, the other claimed by the Fire Sea. Now Ean stood upon this shore not as a boy but as a man, and he’d never been more aware of how different his life had become, how much the fingers of tragedy and obligation had molded and changed him.

“The Maker willing, we shall meet them again someday in the Returning,” Creighton said respectfully, repeating a litany they’d both recited too many times already in their young lives, “and know them by Epiphany’s Grace.”

“Aye,” Ean agreed, feeling unexpectedly hollow.

“Aye,” intoned the sailors, who couldn’t help overhearing.

Ean grimaced and turned his gaze upon the Sea Eagle and the tiny flame of a lantern on its mainmast. Once, a royal schooner could always be seen at anchor just off these cliffs, awaiting the King’s command for his pleasure, but after the loss of the Dawn Chaser and Ean’s middle brother five years ago, King Gydryn sailed no more. Memories of his lost brothers had stolen what joy he’d summoned for his homecoming, leaving naught but unwelcome emptiness in its place.  

“Come,” the prince said, affecting a happier tone to help shake off the clinging cobwebs of loss. “Let’s see how far we can get before my mother’s men spot us.”

Creighton set off with Ean across the beach, muttering, “I only hope they’re not inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. There’s nothing like a bolt in the shoulder to sour one’s homecoming.”

“No one could mistake you for a brigand in that outfit,” Ean noted.

Creighton adjusted his ermine cloak and straightened his shoulders. “You never get a second opportunity to make a first impression.” He smoothed his velvet jacket and pressed out the long line of ornate silver buttons that glittered down the front—indeed, Ean had watched him spend many an hour polishing said buttons in preparation for their homecoming. “And Katerine’s favor is worth any effort.”

The prince chuckled. “A first impression? Correct me if I’m mistaken, but wasn’t it Katerine val Mallonwey who looked raptly on as you tried to escape that seaskunk on this very beach?”

Creighton cast him an aggravated look. “How was I to know it was mating season?” He shook his head and scowled at Ean’s back. “I had to burn that cloak. The smell never would come out of it.” Ean laughed again, and Creighton lifted his head and glared sootily at him. “I do believe you take perverse pleasure in my misfortunes.”

“Creighton, the entertainment value alone is priceless.”

They navigated around and between two hulking rocks that muffled somewhat the crash of the sea, and the prince reached for his blood-brother’s arm. “Now then.” Ean leveled Creighton a look full of amusement. “You swore you would explain once we were ashore. Why all the pomp? The cloak, the endless polishing of buttons? I notice you’ve even cut your hair, though Raine’s truth, a blind monkey could’ve made a straighter job of it.”

Creighton couldn’t stop the foolish grin that split his face. “Tonight, upon our return to Calgaryn, I’m to see Katerine.”

Ean grabbed Creighton’s arm. “You told her of our landing?”

“No—of course not!”

“You know the threat upon our lives—never mind the precarious situation of my father’s throne! If you told Katerine or anyone, Creighton—”

“Ean, I swear, I did not.”

Ean dropped his arm and gave him odd look. “Surely you don’t expect to wake her in the wee of the night. So how…?”

A faraway, love-struck look beset his friend, and a moment passed before Creighton confessed, “It’s like I can sense her, Ean.” He dropped his eyes with a sheepish look. “I know it sounds foolish, but after so many years of letters back and forth, of secrets shared across the intimacy of Mieryn Bay…years of imagining her eyes and smile as she read my words and wrote to me in return…” Creighton shrugged.  “I can’t explain it, but I feel in my heart that when next I set foot within Calgaryn Palace, Katerine will be there to meet me.” His distant look faded, replaced with Creighton’s boyish smile. “So,” he concluded with a glance down at his finery, “I’ve come prepared.”

“I see,” Ean said, even though he didn’t. He started them walking again. “I take it that you mean to propose then.”

Creighton grinned. “Am I so transparent?”

“T’was the ermine betrayed you.” Ean winked, adding, “It begged me save it from a torturous hour of maudlin rhetoric. Ode to Katerine…” He placed a hand dramatically upon his heart. “T’were I but able to describe thy beauty, shall I compare thee to a thistle?”

Creighton looked injured. “It wasn’t to be that sort of thing at all. I wrote her an epic allegorical poem…”

Upon which confession Ean really laughed.

Frowning at the prince, Creighton reached inside his vest and withdrew a velvet pouch. He emptied its contents onto his palm and held it out for Ean to see. “I was going to give her this.”

Sobering out of consideration for Creighton’s earnest admission, Ean took the ring and looked it over. A single ruby glinted amid delicate silver filigree fashioned in the shape of a rose. “It’s beautiful,” Ean offered by way of apology. “It must be very old.” He handed the ring back to Creighton.

“It belonged to an Avataren Fire Princess,” Creighton murmured while returning the ring carefully inside his vest.

“Ahh…” Ean winked in understanding, for he knew now who had surely given Creighton the ring to use in this marriage proposal. “So…my mother and her Companion Ysolde are in on this farce then. I’m hurt I wasn’t entrusted with the secret.”

“Only for your own protection, Ean. We wouldn’t want any rumors going about that you were planning to propose.”

Ean snorted. The truth was there were so many rumors about him that he couldn’t keep them all straight.

The boys turned their attention back to the climb then, which became ever steeper, and Ean grew pensive in the silence that followed. His mind wandered back to Creighton’s earlier confession. His friend had spoken truth. It was strange to be returning as men to these places where they’d played as children, to the very beach where he and Cray had so often sought refuge from Ean’s eldest brother Sebastian, who’d had a penchant for throwing pie tins full of mud and rocks when he was in a temper; where all the boys had come to devise new ways to torment their tutors, secretly and momentarily united against a common foe. Strange to find comfort on a chill and treacherous shore, yet it was there he’d fled when first one brother and then the next was taken, snatched away by the pitiless snares of Fate.

And stranger still to find comfort lingering there, like an old friend waiting by the wayside.

Ean didn’t want a formal acknowledgement as the crown prince—Raine’s truth, how could he desire a crown when it only fell to him though tragedy and betrayal? Never had he felt the loss of his brothers more than in the sure knowledge that he’d taken their place in line for the throne. Yet the cold fact remained: Ean was the family’s last hope of retaining the Eagle Throne, and he shouldered that responsibility as any good son should, though he wept in the knowledge of what had passed to lay the promise at his feet.

“My prince, is that you?”

The boys drew up short.

Footsteps approached from the path above, and soon a soldier’s mailed form solidified in the moonlight. “Why it is you, your highness,” the man said as he neared. Queen Errodan’s silver coat of arms glimmered on his breast in the moonlight, a barely discernable trident on his dark green surcoat. “And you also, Lord Khelspath, Fortune bless you’re both safe. Her majesty is most aggrieved about these circumstances, but your highness’s safety necessitated the subterfuge.”

Never was understatement uttered so blithely. “I understand,” Ean said. “It’s good to see you, Eammond.”  

Eammond nodded. “Aye. Let’s be off then. This way if you will, my lords.”

They took the rest of the climb in silence. As they neared the crest, the unwelcome sound of battle floated down. Eammond held up his fist to halt them. “Stay here!” he hissed, and then he was sprinting up the last switchback in the trail.

Creighton gave the prince a wide-eyed look. “Ean, we can’t just—”  

“Of course not!”

Ean darted after Eammond, and Creighton followed close behind.

A battle indeed greeted them at the crest, where the moonlight revealed a writhing frenzy of soldiers. Green-coated Queen’s Guard fought red-coated palace soldiers, and other palace soldiers fought each other.

Ean stared open-mouthed as he tried to make sense of the scene. This is madness!

Creighton grabbed his arm. “Is…is it your parents fighting again?”

“No,” Ean whispered, suspecting treachery had turned soldier against soldier, not their monarchs’ whims. He motioned Creighton to follow, and they ducked through the tall sea grass looking for an opening into the fray. As yet they hadn’t been spotted, and the prince hoped he might find an opportunity to intervene—

Suddenly Ean felt the cold press of steel against his neck.  Ean stilled beneath the blade.

“I have him!” shouted a voice next to his ear.

In the clearing, the fighting slowed. Among the men Ean recognized, Eammond looked down the wrong side of a deadly blade, and Ean suspected with failing hopes that his allies were on the losing side.

“Good work,” said a burly soldier dressed in the king’s livery. He pushed his way through to where Ean stood. The prince couldn’t turn his head to look around, but he suspected Creighton stood nearby, held in much the same fashion. “Let’s see his weapon,” the leader said as he reached for Ean’s sword. He looked only at the hilt and the deep sapphire set as the pommel stone.

“That’s a Kingdom blade all right,” confirmed the man holding Ean.

“Aye, but the other lad has one too,” said someone else.

The leader frowned over at Creighton, who stood at sword-point a half-step behind Ean, and then back again. He grabbed Ean’s chin roughly and turned his face from side to side, the knife at his throat barely loosening in time to avoid garroting him in the doing. “Can’t tell. He could be the right one.”

“You’d think the other’d be him,” grumbled another of the men, also in the uniform of the palace guard. “Look how he’s all gussied up.”

“Just so,” the leader noted. He narrowed his gaze at Ean. “Well then, which are you? The prince or his dog?”

“I am Prince Ean!” Creighton declared before Ean could respond.

“I am Ean val Lorian,” the prince said evenly, holding the man’s gaze with angry eyes. “And you’re a corpse when my father learns of this.”

The leader laughed and spun his arm to the others. “Aren’t we all soiling ourselves now, men?”

Eammond spoke up to be heard over the round of raucous jesting that followed this remark. “You may have fooled us,” he said while disdainfully eyeing the blade aimed at his heart, “but the King’s Own Guard is coming even as we speak. Be certain they will know you for the knaves you are. Release us now, and I will beseech their majesties for mercy, though tis undeserved.”

“I just can’t be certain which one you are,” the leader remarked, ignoring Eammond completely. He lifted his gaze to the man holding Ean. “Best to kill them both.”

“Agreed,” said the man, and the prince felt the blade’s deadly sting against his throat even as Eammond and Creighton both shouted, “No!” 

Ean slammed his heel onto the bridge of his captor’s foot and spun into his embrace. The blade bled his neck, but then he had his hands on the weapon and was forcing his captor backwards into the long grass. Fighting broke out behind him as others joined the struggle. Ean struggled to gain control of the dagger. His assailant’s black eyes bored into his with ruthless menace as they wrestled. Ean realized he couldn’t overpower the other man, but he was spry and agile and determined not to lose his life that night. When the man stumbled over a jutting rock, Ean used the momentum to force him backwards—just four quick steps and they reached the cliff’s edge. Ean wrenched free of his hold as the man fell with a howl.

Heart racing, Ean drew his sword and turned to dive back into the melee.

It was the first time the prince had ever swung a blade with mortal intent, and he felt powerful and righteous in the doing. His years of training held him true, and within moments he took a man through the chest. The traitor fell to his knees, and Ean backed away, covered in the other’s blood, his own chest heaving, both repulsed and exhilarated in the same terrible moment. He was the first man Ean had ever killed, but he was not the last that night.

Ean had just felled a third man when strong arms grabbed him from behind. They wrapped around his arms and chest and squeezed inward and upward, choking the breath out of him with a pressure so great that Ean was forced to drop his weapon. Needles pricked his hands and arms where the man had them pinned against his sides. He dragged Ean, kicking and grunting, into the long grass and threw him down. Ean rolled, but the man pounced on top of him just as quickly. Knees pinned the prince’s shoulders into the sandy earth and legs pushed his arms painfully into the ground.

With his heavy weight crushing the prince’s chest, the man pushed a hand hard over Ean’s mouth. “Now then,” he whispered, pulling a bundle from within his surcoat. “We’ll do this the right way.”

Dark eyes watched Ean with hungry anticipation as the man unwrapped a dagger with his free hand. “This is Jeshuelle,” he said, showing the blade to the captured prince while Ean struggled beneath him. “She’s named after the first slut I slew. She was a fighter, she was, nearly bit my ear off while I was bedding her. I dug out her heart when I finished and filled the dead hole with my seed.” He scraped the point of the blade against Ean’s chest, making an X across his heart. “That’s the only way to be sure, you know.” He gave the prince a grim smile. “Take out the heart, and no Healer can bring a man back.”

Ean fought against desperation. If only…if only…

Laughing, the man raised his dagger—

It was the keening that stopped him—froze him actually in place as a wild look of recognition came into his gaze. The sound stopped everyone, in fact; soldiers on both sides of the conflict cringed, their senses immediately scrambled, ears protesting that terrible cry. It grew in volume, a horrid, uncanny wail that resembled nothing in nature. It was a cry from beyond the grave.

“What in Tiern’aval is that?” someone was heard to ask, but none other found voice to marry with words.

“Shite,” hissed the assassin atop Ean. While all others stood transfixed, he leapt off the prince and scuttled low through the long grass on hands and knees like all the daemons of thirteen hells were chasing him.

Benumbed by the strange turn of events as much as by the terrifying howling, which only grew stronger and louder with every passing moment, Ean pushed to his feet. His head swam, his chest ached, and his neck bled fiery warmth into his collar. He pushed one hand over the gash, retrieved his sword, and stumbled back toward the clearing.

He met a strange scene. The soldiers stood immobile with their blades leveled at one another, as if in silent agreement to first discover the source of the wail.

Had Ean been wiser, had he not just been nearly suffocated, garroted and stabbed, he might’ve thought to follow the one man who seemed to know what approached and himself run far and fast. But like so many of the others, Ean’s curiosity to learn the source of that dreadful, ear-splitting cry rooted him to the scene.

A cloud moved off the moon, and they came. 

Moonlight bathed the clearing in silence, its arrival seemingly shepherded by a cloaked man who was approaching through the meadow. Even as Ean watched—and had he not been watching from the very start he never would’ve believed his eyes—deep shadows began rising up from the low blanket of night; solidifying, congealing darkness unto themselves until they at last coalesced into creatures of legend and myth.

It cannot be!

Ean denied the image his eyes so clearly witnessed. Half as tall as horses, entirely black with eyes like darkly golden fire, they lifted their paws out of the night-shadows that birthed them and gathered around their cloaked master, red tongues lolling.

Darkhounds.

Had it been daylight and sunny, still they would have cast no shadow, for darkhounds were shadows—made real.

And then the stranger reached the clearing, and Ean became intimate with a new kind of terror.

“You men,” said the cloaked man, pointing to Eammon and the other of the Queen’s soldiers, “bind yourselves.”

Several hounds trotted forward on soundless paws, and Ean saw that they carried ropes in their mouths. He wondered why no one protested, why no one turned to fight, why no one moved in challenge. Wondered, that is, until he tried to speak out himself and found he could not.

The stranger turned toward Ean then as if feeling his questioning thought. Pushing back the cowl of his hood, he locked gazes across the distance with the prince, and Ean knew he was dreaming. A Shade and his darkhounds? Is this some twisted jest?

“Look at me but once, Prince of Dannym,” said the stranger with the silver face that gleamed like chrome, metal yet living flesh, “and I have the power to bind you to my will.”

Even as the stranger spoke these words, Eammon and the others wordlessly took the ropes and began binding each other’s wrists. They moved stiffly, and their eyes were wild.

Ean tried to find his voice, pushing against the confines of his throat, but though he screamed inside, not even a squeak emitted. He tried to lift just one finger, and the effort left his heart pounding and the sound of blood throbbing in his ears. Only his eyes moved freely, and he searched the darkness for a sign of Creighton, but either his blood-brother had fallen, or he was out of Ean’s line of sight.

The heavy thunder of horses brought meager hope, but all too soon Ean saw it was not the foretold King’s Own Guard that approached. Two dozen men reined to a halt in a scramble of hooves, and the Shade spun his head to fix them with a stare. “You’re late.”

“We had to elude the King’s Guard,” the man in the lead said breathlessly. “We led them for a chase, but they’ll be here soon.”

“Get the prince on his horse and be off then.” The Shade pinned his gaze once more on Ean. “Go with them, Ean val Lorian.”

Ean found his legs suddenly moving quite without his volition. More frightening still, he couldn’t even affect a jerking motion in the pretense of fighting against the stranger’s will; his legs simply no longer belonged to him.

As Ean neared the horses, a man came forward with a moon-pale stallion in tow. The prince’s fine destrier had made the crossing with the Queen two moons ago, and the horse Caldar seemed so out of place among this strange night that Ean almost didn’t recognize him.

Before he knew it, however, he’d sheathed his sword and had one foot in his stirrup and the other slung across Caldar’s back. Only as he settled into the saddle did he realize that he could now move his arms freely. His legs remained so leaden, however, that he marveled they were still attached to his body and actually caught himself looking down just to be certain.

In all, the entire night seemed far too incredible to be believed. Struggling to make sense of it all, Ean looked to the heavens, to the constellation of Cephrael’s Hand gleaming brightly above him. It all felt so impossible that Ean held onto a desperate hope that this must be an elaborate deception, that a court magician had been solicited to create the illusion, or that they were all somehow made to hallucinate the same appalling vision. Everything had happened so unexpectedly—each unlikely moment opening onto the next, such that Ean felt he watched some disjointed farce populated by actors whose wild improvisation led the entire performance into appalling directions.

The Queen’s men had just finished binding each other when the hounds began their unnatural keening again. This time an unmistakable hunger resonated in the whine.

Ean shuddered reflexively.

The Shade’s dark gaze flitted across the assembled soldiers, statues made of flesh and bone. “Spare none.”

The darkhounds attacked with predation, and men screamed like children. Horribly, the Queen’s men alone were allowed their voices as the hounds swarmed in and around them, sating their deep hunger on those who’d meant Ean ill, leaving Eammond and his men untouched save by the blood that soon washed the clearing. Ean found something unbearable in that observance—to die such a death without being allowed even the grace of voice to give vent to the fear and pain in one’s last moments…

The prince shuddered and looked away. Wicked they might be, and with malicious intent, but they were men. No man deserved such a fate. 

“Creighton Khelspath!” commanded the Shade, his clear voice rising above the ravening din. “Attend!”

Ean swung his head to look for his blood-brother, for he had still not seen him among the group.

At first he saw only the horrible hounds sating their hunger on the living, but then a form rose up from among the long grass bordering the scene. Creighton wore a horrified expression, as if death had already claimed him, and he walked with a staggering gait, clearly in pain. Ean wanted desperately to call out, to give words of encouragement and hope—even if they were impotent—but voice was still denied him. So he watched helplessly as his blood-brother crossed the distance, miraculously passing untouched amid the feasting darkhounds and their flailing prey.

Tears came unbidden to Ean’s eyes, and he reached for his sword with sudden desperation that he might do anything to stop this, but his fingers couldn’t close upon the leathered steel. The sword hung encouragingly at his side, yet it might’ve been aboard the Sea Eagle for all he could use it.

Creighton halted in front of the Shade. His face was ashen, his expression now void of emotion, as if already defeated. The Shade stared at him for a long moment, and then he shook his head. He slowly drew forth a sword from beneath his dark cloak. “Kneel,” he commanded.

Creighton dropped to his knees.

The Shade walked to stand behind Creighton, and Ean saw his sword gleaming with a silver-violet sheen. He placed the tip against the back of Creighton’s neck, and Ean thought he might loose his mind. No! No! Noooooooo!

“It was not meant to be this way with you,” the Shade murmured. Then he spoke for a long moment in a language Ean didn’t understand. Creighton never looked up, never turned to Ean though, yet Ean imagined he heard his voice as clear as day in his mind.

Tell Kat that I love her. Tell her I will always love her. Tell her I’m sor—

The voice ended with the Shade’s two-handed thrust.

And Ean found he could scream after all.

“Reyd,” the leader of the horsemen called the Shade’s attention to where he stared anxiously toward the road. The rising thunder of horses said more soldiers would soon be upon them.

“Yes, go.” The Shade still held the sword that impaled Creighton so horribly, the latter’s body slumped and twisted like a broken marionette. “Go!”

The horsemen pealed away, and Caldar leaped into a canter, following the other horses without Ean’s prodding. Indeed, the prince was tumbling amid crushing waves of pain and loss and could barely conceive of anything else.

Three brothers, was all he could think as his world spun and his gut twisted and his chest heaved with silent heart-wrenching sobs. Three brothers lost.

 

“A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.”  –Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

The importance of imagination in our lives cannot be underestimated. Imagination fuels the wheels of progress along every avenue—from Apple to the Curiosity Rover, and in each technological marvel in between. Imagination is what separates humanity from the animal kingdom, and it’s oftentimes a key factor in achieving success—whether that success is found on the soccer field, in a board room or on the pages of a book or manuscript.

If “imagination is the air of the mind,” as Philip James Bailey tells us, then why not provide the mind with an inexhaustible source: that of speculative fiction?

Unlike speculative fiction, tales of modern literature are set within a familiar reality requiring little imagination to envision in our minds. People, places, groups and even ideologies are presented as they appear around us—indeed, it’s often the grim and gritty tales that stand out as remarkable from the gamut of this exhaustive commentary. This is no criticism of mainstream fiction—read as thou wilt. I mean only to suggest the value of adding speculative fiction to your regular reading regimen. 

And here’s why: you can’t read fantasy or science fiction without engaging your imagination.

“To know is nothing at all; to imagine is everything.” –Anatole France

Science Fiction has long been lauded as fueling technological advances. Technovelgy lists 2,200 science fiction inventions—many of which have actualized beneath the light of day—and 168 from the great Philip K Dick alone.  Man never dreamed of standing on the moon until the Pulp SF masters of the 1930’s put us there with astonishing ideas of “jet-propulsion rockets.”

In the fantasy genre, the kingdoms and landscapes are often products of the author’s imagination, and the entire history of the world could be new and different (its mysteries to be revealed in fascinating morsels as the reader follows the author’s Hansel and Gretel trail of crumbs). Each chapter holds the potential of introducing new cultures, rituals, and fascinating ideologies. When you read speculative fiction of either type, your mind is put to work envisioning ideas literally out of the author’s wildest imagination.  

Imagination is the razor edge of the machete we use to carve a path through the jungle of existence; it is the prow of our very own Santa Maria plowing across the southern Atlantic on a heading for the new world. It’s imagination that envisions solutions when problems inundate us, imagination that helps us excel or stand out among the milling crowd, and imagination that gives perspective to what yet could be, lighting the way toward new horizons.

As we grow and age, the hard knocks of life experience can dull that razor edge, enticing us to discard the knife altogether. Enter the whetstone of speculative fiction on a regular basis, and lo and behold, that edge gains clarity once again. Imagination is self-sharpening—the more we use it, the keener it becomes.

Reading Fantasy and Science Fiction can help us keep the knife of our own imaginations honed and acute, that we might all dream of and achieve greater heights. 

“You see things and say, ‘Why?’ But I dream things that never were and say, Why not?” –George Bernard Shaw