BIG snippet from LEAVES OF FLAME
Jun. 29th, 2011 01:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jpskewedthroneI'm in the revision process for Leaves of Flame and made the hard decision to cut the following scene completely. Even though the scene adds some interesting elements--giving some motivation for Vaeren's actions and providing some setting and color to the Alvritshai's past--I didn't think it was necessary for this section. Plus, my editor asked me to shorten/tighten/streamline some of the "travel" scenes in the novel and cutting this section certainly shortened the travel scenes. (At the same time, I'm supposed to bump up the history of the Old Continent and New Continent regarding the humans, and I haven't figured out how I'm going to do that yet.) In any case, I hope you all enjoy. Colin, Aeren, Eraeth, and a bunch of other characters that none of the readers of Well of Sorrows have met yet, are traveling through the ruined Alvritshai city of Taeraenfall in the northern wastes--the lands that the Alvritshai were forced to abandon because of the encroaching glaciers and snow. They're searching for a Well that's farther north. You get some of the tension between Colin, Aeren, and the members who are part of the Order of the Flame here.
They left the city of Taeraenfall the following morning, struggling over the crumbled buildings and snow-covered debris through streets that had long been empty. Every member of the group paused at some point and stared up at a still-standing edifice--an arch or building or statue--a look of awe or wonder or loss etched across their face. They reached a large central plaza after an hour, a half-fallen temple at its center, the design reminding Colin of the Sanctuary back in Caercaern. The members of the Flame moved toward its entrance after a shared look that Colin couldn’t quite interpret. Aeren and the rest hesitated, but followed as they shoved through the cracked front door and entered the chamber beyond. The walls of the interior foyer--larger than most rooms--sheltered huge mosaics of intricately laid tile, the room still intact. Siobhaen gasped as the morning sunlight slanted through the open door and fell on the multi-colored artwork. She stepped forward and ran her hands across the wall. Even Vaeren was affected by the work, standing in the center of the room and staring up at the ceiling, where a central white-fire sun sent rays outward and down the walls, separating the scenes from one another.
“Scenes from the Scripts,” he murmured. “The Anointment of Eisentoll, the Ascension of Rouwan--”
“The Coronation of Cortaemall,” Aeren said his words thick with irony.
Vaeren shot him a dark look, but before he could speak, stone ground against stone as Boreaus and Petraen forced the doors opposite the entrance open. They gave grudgingly, both forced to put their shoulders to them with the help of Aeren’s guardsmen before they swung wide enough to let any of them pass through. Flakes of snow gusted through the cracks as Boreaus slid past, followed immediately by Petraen. The rest trailed after.
Colin saw immediately why the door had been difficult to open. The massive chamber on the far side had caved in on one side, the supporting stone arches that had once held up the slate roof fallen into the chamber itself. Debris had come to rest against the doors, lay scattered about the marble floor on all sides. Row upon row of seating—like the pews used in the churches of Diermani in Andover, Colin’s homeland—radiated outwards from a central rounded dais with obelisks surrounding the outside, a second raised platform with a huge bowl echoing the one in the Sanctuary within. Colin could visualize the hall crowded with worshippers, could see them kneeling at their pews in supplication in their hundreds as the acolytes of the Order walked among them, the bowl on the dais writhing with the white fire of Aielan’s Light. For a brief moment, he thought he could hear chanting and he stepped backwards sharply, skin tingling with a wave of sweat, afraid that what had happened in the mountain halls above was happening again. But if he had heard the echoes of a prayer it had already faded. His heart still pounded hard in his chest and he swallowed, his mouth dry and ashy.
The party scattered among the crushed seating, Vaeren and Siobhaen heading straight for the central platform, Boreaus and Petraen roaming deeper, into the shadows beneath the still intact arches to the right, where the sunlight slanting through the collapsed roof did not reach. Eraeth and the rest of the Rhyssal guard moved in the opposite direction, ranging through the drifts of snow that covered the floor to the left.
Aeren halted at Colin’s side near the entrance and the foyer. “All of us were born on the southern side of the mountains. None of us have seen what we once were, what we were capable of.” He stared up into the heights of the destroyed ceiling. “We’ve lost so much.”
“We will regain it,” Vaeren said. “One day soon, the Alvritshai will return to what we were.”
Both Aeren and Colin turned at the vehemence in his voice. Aeren’s eyebrow rose and Colin frowned.
“And what was that?” Aeren asked mildly.
“A proud nation, one that ruled with confidence, with power, beneath Aielan’s Light. Not one that cowers beneath the southern mountains, weak and ineffective.”
“I thought we already were a proud, confident nation.”
Vaeren snorted, nearly sneered, but caught himself. Instead, he motioned toward the temple, toward the dais and the architecture that rivaled anything that Colin had seen in either human, dwarren, or Alvritshai lands, including Andover. “Not compared to what we once were. We are nothing now, a race perhaps one-tenth the size of when we lived here, in these cities. We have dwindled.”
Aeren nodded. “Because of the ice, because we were forced to flee south. But we’ve begun to recover. Our numbers have grown—”
“Not enough.”
“Vaeren.” Siobhaen gripped Vaeren’s arms, swung him slightly toward her, the warning written on her face clear.
Colin drew breath to speak, but Aeren beat him to it.
“Is that what the Chosen says? Are those Lotaern’s words?”
Vaeren’s eyes flashed as they shot from Aeren to Colin and back. Colin thought for a moment that he’d answer, but Siobhaen’s grip tightened and he seized control of himself. Shrugging her hand aside, he snapped, “We should leave. There’s nothing here except a dead past.” Then he brushed past Colin and Aeren, through the opening into the foyer and the street beyond.
All of the others remained rooted, Eraeth, the guardsmen, and the rest of the Flame watching the interchange silently from the sidelines. Siobhaen broke the tableau first, halting before Colin and Aeren with a troubled look, as if she were searching for something to say, then finally passing between them without a word, her head bowed.
The rest of them abandoned their search of the ruins. As they entered the street and headed northward once again into the ever-present biting wind, Eraeth muttered, “What was that all about?”
“I don’t know. But I suddenly feel a need to be in Caercaern, so I can watch Lotaern and his Flame and the Order.”
“I agree,” Colin said. “But the Well first.”
Aeren ducked his head at a gust of wind. “Of course.”
But he no longer sounded as certain as he had back in Artillien.
Preorder LEAVES OF FLAME on Amazon.com here.
Or catch up by ordering WELL OF SORROWS here.
They left the city of Taeraenfall the following morning, struggling over the crumbled buildings and snow-covered debris through streets that had long been empty. Every member of the group paused at some point and stared up at a still-standing edifice--an arch or building or statue--a look of awe or wonder or loss etched across their face. They reached a large central plaza after an hour, a half-fallen temple at its center, the design reminding Colin of the Sanctuary back in Caercaern. The members of the Flame moved toward its entrance after a shared look that Colin couldn’t quite interpret. Aeren and the rest hesitated, but followed as they shoved through the cracked front door and entered the chamber beyond. The walls of the interior foyer--larger than most rooms--sheltered huge mosaics of intricately laid tile, the room still intact. Siobhaen gasped as the morning sunlight slanted through the open door and fell on the multi-colored artwork. She stepped forward and ran her hands across the wall. Even Vaeren was affected by the work, standing in the center of the room and staring up at the ceiling, where a central white-fire sun sent rays outward and down the walls, separating the scenes from one another.
“Scenes from the Scripts,” he murmured. “The Anointment of Eisentoll, the Ascension of Rouwan--”
“The Coronation of Cortaemall,” Aeren said his words thick with irony.
Vaeren shot him a dark look, but before he could speak, stone ground against stone as Boreaus and Petraen forced the doors opposite the entrance open. They gave grudgingly, both forced to put their shoulders to them with the help of Aeren’s guardsmen before they swung wide enough to let any of them pass through. Flakes of snow gusted through the cracks as Boreaus slid past, followed immediately by Petraen. The rest trailed after.
Colin saw immediately why the door had been difficult to open. The massive chamber on the far side had caved in on one side, the supporting stone arches that had once held up the slate roof fallen into the chamber itself. Debris had come to rest against the doors, lay scattered about the marble floor on all sides. Row upon row of seating—like the pews used in the churches of Diermani in Andover, Colin’s homeland—radiated outwards from a central rounded dais with obelisks surrounding the outside, a second raised platform with a huge bowl echoing the one in the Sanctuary within. Colin could visualize the hall crowded with worshippers, could see them kneeling at their pews in supplication in their hundreds as the acolytes of the Order walked among them, the bowl on the dais writhing with the white fire of Aielan’s Light. For a brief moment, he thought he could hear chanting and he stepped backwards sharply, skin tingling with a wave of sweat, afraid that what had happened in the mountain halls above was happening again. But if he had heard the echoes of a prayer it had already faded. His heart still pounded hard in his chest and he swallowed, his mouth dry and ashy.
The party scattered among the crushed seating, Vaeren and Siobhaen heading straight for the central platform, Boreaus and Petraen roaming deeper, into the shadows beneath the still intact arches to the right, where the sunlight slanting through the collapsed roof did not reach. Eraeth and the rest of the Rhyssal guard moved in the opposite direction, ranging through the drifts of snow that covered the floor to the left.
Aeren halted at Colin’s side near the entrance and the foyer. “All of us were born on the southern side of the mountains. None of us have seen what we once were, what we were capable of.” He stared up into the heights of the destroyed ceiling. “We’ve lost so much.”
“We will regain it,” Vaeren said. “One day soon, the Alvritshai will return to what we were.”
Both Aeren and Colin turned at the vehemence in his voice. Aeren’s eyebrow rose and Colin frowned.
“And what was that?” Aeren asked mildly.
“A proud nation, one that ruled with confidence, with power, beneath Aielan’s Light. Not one that cowers beneath the southern mountains, weak and ineffective.”
“I thought we already were a proud, confident nation.”
Vaeren snorted, nearly sneered, but caught himself. Instead, he motioned toward the temple, toward the dais and the architecture that rivaled anything that Colin had seen in either human, dwarren, or Alvritshai lands, including Andover. “Not compared to what we once were. We are nothing now, a race perhaps one-tenth the size of when we lived here, in these cities. We have dwindled.”
Aeren nodded. “Because of the ice, because we were forced to flee south. But we’ve begun to recover. Our numbers have grown—”
“Not enough.”
“Vaeren.” Siobhaen gripped Vaeren’s arms, swung him slightly toward her, the warning written on her face clear.
Colin drew breath to speak, but Aeren beat him to it.
“Is that what the Chosen says? Are those Lotaern’s words?”
Vaeren’s eyes flashed as they shot from Aeren to Colin and back. Colin thought for a moment that he’d answer, but Siobhaen’s grip tightened and he seized control of himself. Shrugging her hand aside, he snapped, “We should leave. There’s nothing here except a dead past.” Then he brushed past Colin and Aeren, through the opening into the foyer and the street beyond.
All of the others remained rooted, Eraeth, the guardsmen, and the rest of the Flame watching the interchange silently from the sidelines. Siobhaen broke the tableau first, halting before Colin and Aeren with a troubled look, as if she were searching for something to say, then finally passing between them without a word, her head bowed.
The rest of them abandoned their search of the ruins. As they entered the street and headed northward once again into the ever-present biting wind, Eraeth muttered, “What was that all about?”
“I don’t know. But I suddenly feel a need to be in Caercaern, so I can watch Lotaern and his Flame and the Order.”
“I agree,” Colin said. “But the Well first.”
Aeren ducked his head at a gust of wind. “Of course.”
But he no longer sounded as certain as he had back in Artillien.
Preorder LEAVES OF FLAME on Amazon.com here.
Or catch up by ordering WELL OF SORROWS here.
