PROLOGUE
Legend had it that
on the darkest night of the month, the New Moon, Undead minions – living skeletons
in service to Varkolak, from the battles of old - entered cities and farm
communities, stealing children, unmarried women, and the elderly from their
beds, to be feasted upon.
Of course, no one
in the Realm of Valdor believed such rumors, especially since Varkolak had been
defeated over four-hundred and fifty years earlier; his army of Undead, mostly
destroyed by fire – the only way to kill them completely. Varkolak and his
remaining minions had fled into the Wilderness beyond the Dark Woods, never to
be heard of or seen again.
Yet, despite the general
disbelief of the old legends, all the doors and windows, save one, of Monarch
City – the capital of Valdor – were shut tight on the night of the New Moon.
The one window that
had been left open was set in the highest tower of the Castle, watching over
Monarch City like a worried parent.
A light breeze
drifted through the open window and ruffled the hair of an old man sitting at a
table so covered in paper and empty ink bottles, that it was hardly
recognizable as a table. He stared out into the darkness, his brow knit. Slowly
he stroked his dark gray beard with a wrinkled and weather-beaten hand. Though
the night was unusually warm for the time of year, the old man was wrapped
tightly in a dark blue cloak.
Three chairs as plain
as the table were tucked underneath it and the old man sat in the only one not
covered in paper. Off in a darkened corner an ornate wooden throne stood,
covered in a royal red robe, set aside in case the King came up for a chat.
The room itself was
rather plain. The room held no furniture, besides the table, chairs and several
large shelves which lined the walls, from floor to ceiling. Books had been crammed
the space inconceivably tightly, perhaps never to come out. The shelves groaned
under the weight and bent in the middle, threatening to break.
In the middle of
the room was a marble pedestal. On it a large, red book laid open, a scarlet bookmark
stuck in its spine. The cover, though not visible, was covered in a fancy golden
script.
The room had four
doors; three leading to bedchambers. The fourth followed a spiral staircase
down into the rest of the palace. Suddenly that door slammed open, followed by
an unladylike grunt.
“You could help
me,” the owner of the voice grumbled. The old man by the window didn’t have to
turn around to know who had entered the room; he always knew when Gwina was
nearby. Nevertheless, he did turn to watch her wade through the mess of papers,
quill pens, ink bottles, books, and other oddities which littered the floor.
Gwina was tall.
Nearly as tall as the man, something she didn’t let him forget easily. She had
long black hair and delicate swirls painted around her eyes. Her dress was red
and had slits going up just past the knees on either side. She wore a black,
sleeveless mantle that rustled when she walked.
In her hands were
several more books – to join those in the rude piles on the floor – a new ink
bottle, a number of scrolls, and on top of it all, a cake.
Gwina made her way
over to the table and, balancing her load on one hand, swept the paper from one
of the chairs to the floor and sat down with a thump. Though she tried to
carefully place her handful on the table, the cake still managed to slip. She
caught it just before it splatted to the floor.
“What is that for?”
the old man asked, raising his eyebrows and nodding towards the rescued cake.
“It’s our birthday!
I thought I’d bake us a cake in celebration. It took me a few tries… and I
nearly burned the palace down, but I finally got it right! I thought to myself,
‘Gwina, a birthday cake is the one thing that has to make Master IsenGRIM smile.’ I see I was mistaken.” Gwina
smirked as she looked on the stormy, and frowning, face of her teacher. “Surely
you haven’t forgotten our birthday?” she asked incredulously.
“On the contrary,”
said Isengrim, resuming his stare out the window, “I was contemplating our
birthday the very moment you burst in. Gwina, what day is it?”
“Why, you know that
Tutor! It is the night of the New Moon! The darkest night of the month! Which
begs the question… why is this window open? Do you want the Undead to come in
and steal us away?” Gwina laughed but Isengrim remained stolid.
“How old are we
this New Moon?” Isengrim asked.
“You know that too,
Tutor,” Gwina replied. “You are one-hundred and I am fifty…“ Realization hit
Gwina. Her eyes opened wide and her mouth hung open in a perfect ‘O.’
“What does the Old
Text say about our birthday?”
Gwina leaned back
in her chair, the smile banished from her lips. “Every fifty years, on the
night of the New Moon, a Wizard is born. He – or she – will be brought to the
palace to be trained by the current Wizard, or Wizards – that’s you and me. The
new Wizard will be taught to control his - or her - powers and defend the Realm
of Valdor against evil!” Gwina’s eyes shone. “We’ll be getting a new pupil soon!”
“I don’t think so.”
Isengrim’s eyes were full of foreboding and his physiognomy was troubled.
“What’s wrong,
tutor?” Gwina’s usual happy-go-lucky countenance assumed a worried look.
Usually, she teased Isengrim’s worries, because she knew they had no merit.
This time, however…. Something was very wrong.
“I do not think we
will be gaining a new apprentice any time soon,” Isengrim said.
Gwina gasped.
“What? How can that be? A Wizard is always born! And always brought to the
palace! It has never been otherwise, the Old Text says so! It is treason not to
bring forth a new Wizard for training! It endangers the Realm!”
Isengrim didn’t
answer, just stared out at Monarch City, slowly shaking his head. The gesture
made Gwina’s stomach do a little flop. She no longer felt hungry for the
birthday cake she had so painstakingly made. She turned to stare out the window
as well, prepared for a sleepless night, watching and waiting for the
inevitable.
***
Many miles away
from Monarch City lay Brookdale Village, surrounded by its abundant farmlands. In
one of the most isolated farms a baby was being born.
“I’m going to ride
to Brookdale Village for the surgeon,” the father said to the mother.
“No! Imradil,
please don’t leave me. It will take you hours to ride to and from the Village.
The baby will be born by then. Please stay. Besides, I’m not in much pain.”
“Yet,” muttered
Imradil, pulling a chair over to his wife’s bedside.
Despite Imradil’s apprehension, the birth was relatively
quick and easy.
“Look at our
daughter Imradil! Isn’t she beautiful?” gasped the mother.
“What’s wrong with
her, Raya?” Imradil frowned, staring at his daughter.
“Nothing is wrong with her,” Raya said, disgusted. “All
newborn babies look like this.”
“No, it isn’t like
that. She has a mark on her wrist.” Imradil carefully took the infant’s right
hand from the folds of the blanket she was wrapped in and examined it.
“It’s simply a
birthmark,” Raya said, paying it no attention.
“Birthmarks don’t
look like fancy red books with twisty writing on the front,” Imradil persisted
grimly.
Raya took the baby’s
hand from Imradil and inspected it. Sure enough, she saw a bright red book with
fancy looking gold writing on the front printed on her daughter’s wrist. “Birthmark…”
she whispered, trying to convince herself. Meanwhile, Imradil got to his feet
and slowly walked over to the door. He unlatched it and flung it open and
looked out into darkness.
“It’s New Moon,” he
said absentmindedly.
“Don’t let a draft
in!” Raya leaned protectively over her child.
Imradil turned to
his wife. “Raya, do you know what this means?”
“What does what
mean?” suddenly Raya was feeling exhausted. She just wanted to go to sleep, not
try and decipher her husband’s words.
“It’s New Moon!”
Imradil slammed the door and rushed over to the bed. “New Moon is the night
when Wizards are born! One every fifty years, is what the rumors say. They also
say the parents will always know when they have a Wizard baby by a strange mark
on their child.”
“Imradil, what are
you saying?” Raya whispered, fear in her big blue eyes.
“Raya, I think our
daughter will be the next Wizard of Valdor.”
Raya gasped and
stared down at the sleeping child in her arms. Tears replaced the fear in her
eyes. “Oh Imradil…. Oh Imradil, just think! Our baby, our little daughter, will
be raised in the palace! She will grow up in Monarch City! Imradil, she will
learn to defend the Realm! Our little daughter - a hero!”
“No,” Imradil said
quietly.
“What?” Raya asked
her husband.
“I said no,”
Imradil repeated darkly. “Our daughter will stay right here, with us.”
Raya gave her
husband a quizzical look.
“I’m not going to
give her up,” Imradil continued. “It’s stupid and unfair that those tyrants in
Monarch City can take away our daughter without our consent, just because she
was born a Wizard. I won’t let it happen, I tell you!” Imradil thundered, and
slammed his fist against the wall.
In Raya’s arms, the
baby startled awake and let out a tiny whimper.
“Look, you’ve woken
her!” Raya said in an upset tone. She gently rocked the child back to sleep. “Imradil,”
she said when she was sure the baby was sleeping soundly once more, “we have to
give our baby up. She’ll have a much better life in Monarch City than here on
the farm. And I don’t see why the King wouldn’t let us visit her every once in
awhile.”
“That’s not good
enough!” Imradil said angrily. Suddenly his idea came gushing out. “We will
keep her here, with us. No one needs to know about her. We live miles away from
anyone. We can keep her isolated…” He nodded as he spoke, as if assuring
himself that his plan was fool-proof.
“Imradil, that’s
treason!” Raya said, shocked. “Besides, living in isolation is no way for a
child to grow up!”
Imradil fixed Raya
with such an malevolent glare that she shrunk back into her pillows and put a
protective arm across her baby.
“Raya, there is no
way that our child is going to Monarch City,” he growled. “Don’t you dare argue
with me about this. Ever. Do you hear? This child will grow up in isolation. No
one will ever know about her. You won’t tell anyone, and I won’t tell anyone.”
Raya didn’t dare answer
and instead looked down, in submission, to her child. Raya gently stroked her
daughter’s pink cheeks.
I’m committing treason for you, Baby, she
thought, shaking her head slightly. Please
be worth it.
What do you think? Do you like it? Does it all make sense? (Well, it's not all supposed to make sense yet.) Any constructive criticism?
I'm still not sure if I quite like the last half of The Prologue.... It just feels like it lacks something, but that could just be me.
Sometime in the near future I will write up a synopsis and post that as well. Perhaps I'll share a few of the characters sometime as well... But since I actually have no clue about most of them we'll see about that. (I have about eight characters - because they are from the board game - and only two of them have anything like a personality.)
Live long and prosper!
Intriguing. I do agree that the second half is missing something. If you're going to be skipping forward to when the child is quite a bit older, and are going to be focusing on the child, you might want to just cut the second half. It sounds cruel, I know, but having too much information in a prologue is not a good idea and can frustrate readers.
ReplyDeleteAnd I'm glad you found the Rowa interesting. I personally find world-building my favorite part of writing, and have several worlds. I've been working on the Rowa for ten years now, so it didn't happen overnight. I'm sure your world building will improve with practice!
This is very interesting and exciting! The first bit was creepy and Pirates of the Caribbeanish but it got better after that. The scene after that vaguely reminded me of a mysterious clocktower in the middle of a town. Gwina is just a little confusing to me though. Her voice is called unladylike but her other manners are feminine so I'm not sure how to imagine her voice. You may want to work on that bit a little.
ReplyDeleteHere, "The cover, though not visible, was covered in a fancy golden script," you could probably replace "not" with "barely", because otherwise the readers shouldn't know what isn't visible.
Maybe what the last half is missing is a little disbelief. The father is so quick to believe that their child is a wizard and makes up his mind a little too quickly, but that's just me.
I hope that helps some! This is really cool!
I like it! Especially the characters! (I think the two wizards are going to be a lot of fun.)
ReplyDeleteThe second half, maybe if it is just slowed down a little? It felt a little rushed compared to the first half.
Im very excited to learn more about the book!
There was a Tintin book where he didn't know who he was? Or did you mean a book where the reader doesn't know much about the character? (I probably got confused.)
Jack read this to me and I liked it. but I feel bad for the baby. it will be boring growing up and no one knowing about her.
ReplyDeleteCome to see me. All our snow came back, but I don't think it is sticky enough for a Dalek snowman. My spider friend says hi back, and he will not come visit if you are really sure you don't want him to.