Chapter 1 ~ Summoner in Darkness

Sweat dripped down Ireae’s brow as she hurriedly used her mother’s old knife to carve the symbol for summoning elemental forces onto the dirty floor of the small pantry she had barricaded herself inside. Unlike the rest of the dilapidated building this room at least had four mostly intact walls, a roof, and a floor wide and solid enough to serve as canvas for the Grand Summoning Circle that was about to alter her fate. Upon realizing it would meet her needs Ireae had given thanks to Tychesis, goddess of fortune, that it wasn’t completely rotted away like in some of the other buildings she’d explored in the slums. Like many of the other wretched dwellings lining the filth laden streets, this one had been long abandoned when she’d found it, and none had yet attempted to wrest it from her. 

Wiping the perspiration from her face Ireae frowned as her hand came away smudged with dirt, barely visible in the flickering light of half a dozen candles. The month of Flamecrest often brought with it a dry heat that would make sheltering in this crumbling abode uncomfortable, even on this night, the night of darkmoon. A lack of wind left the air stale, but she felt fortunate her candles wouldn’t blow out on this moonless night. She had a hard enough time seeing already. Ireae rubbed the grime on her already stained smock then looked away from the nearly completed circle, fixing the pantry door with her single functioning eye. She took a short, deep, breath and began listening for the sounds of intrusion.

The buzzing of insects, skittering vermin, and the occasional moan of the sick or hungry could be heard from beyond. Somewhere, not too distant, a babe wailed and was soon hushed. More than that, she couldn’t discern. Ireae waited a few more breaths, straining for any sounds resembling boots, hushed male voices, or scraping metal, but nothing pricked her ears. With a sigh, her gaze lowered to the pieces of broken crates and barrels she’d piled in front of the storeroom’s door, thoughts straying to the reason she was here.

It had been over a month since she arrived in Caledern Viscountcy, neighbor to the County of Ariak where she was born. Her flight had seen her pass through hamlets, villages, and several small towns on her journey east to the border. No great plan or ambition drove her steps; the only thoughts she bore were survival. Escape. Ireae had to put as much distance between herself and Dameron Foltus, the Count of Ariak, as possible. She had to evade his minions and avoid recapture. If she could accomplish that then…after, she could ponder what to do with the rest of her life. The road eventually led here, to Driz, a small but fortified town just within the Caledern side of the border. It was here she’d discovered a suitable hideaway in the refuse mired slums.

And it was here Ireae had come to the realization that she had to fight back.

She felt her face constrict with emotion as she returned to the task at hand, trying to push away the memory of what had happened to her in the bowels of Castle Ariak. “The Count thinks your blood is special.” The all too familiar voice echoed in her mind as the edge of her mother’s knife dug a little deeper into the floor. Once these last few symbols were complete, Ireae had to combine what remained of the mixture of crushed moonstone, black pearl, and silver dust with some of her blood. “Don’t worry about how much I’m taking.” The ghost of a blade pressing into her flesh with callous precision made the hand holding the knife unsteady. “We have plenty of healers on hand to ensure we don’t find ourselves lacking.” 

Ireae paused, closing her eyes as the face of the guards she pleaded with for help surfaced in her mind. None of them had heeded her. “What’s in it for me? You can’t even warm my bed.” Raucous laughter. “I mean you could, but I ‘eard of a man lost his c**k that way. B***h bit it clean off. Not how I’m looking to spend my last days afore I’m beheaded for disobeyin’ orders.”

She drew in a shaky breath, conjuring her mother’s face, the sound of her voice. “Remember, Rea, you must never take off this earring.” But they had taken it from her. “So this is why I never noticed.” A different man’s voice this time; the Count. “Such a wasted opportunity. I could have had that arrogant b***h in Hessenweald kneeling at my feet. Regardless, throw this in the dungeon and summon Nikodemos.”

“Mother,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes tighter and shaking her head. “Remember mother. Not them. Please, please, please.” In her mind’s eye Ireae tried to recall her home in the city of Ariakes; a small but cozy den with a warm hearth, the single bed they shared. Mother’s garden; the purple Astraeannon flowers that matched the color of both their eyes. A worn travel trunk full of books that most commoners couldn’t afford, though that was something Ireae learned later. “Your name comes from the word oreyee.” Her mother’s lips, thinned by age, moved in her memory, strands of silver hair absentmindedly tucked behind one ear. “In the ancient language it means wrath. I was feeling very wrathful when I birthed you fifteen years ago, dear child. And you were filled with such fury at being born, I could think of no better name.”

“That’s right,” she breathed, opening her eyes to the unfinished magic circle. “Ireae means wrath.” Her trembling began to subside as she focused on the anger and her desire to complete the circle. They had all underestimated her back at the castle. None of them had expected her to unleash in despair and desperation what they’d been so eager to steal with their bloodletting and experiments. If any had been less arrogant and assured of her brokenness, she never would have escaped.

Now calm, Ireae turned to the diagram in her mother’s grimoire depicting the Grand Summoning Circle that she’d retrieved from home before heading east. Like most such circles it was designed to conjure a spirit from one of the realms that was home to the primordial elements. She’d used a similar but much smaller circle inked in her own blood to call a minor spirit of air. It had appeared within her dungeon cell, almost directly in front of her; little more than a breeze, made visible only by the swirling dust reflecting guttering torchlight. Conjured by mana drawn from her surroundings, Ireae’s will and understanding of the incantations of summoning, and her own Essence channeled and contained within the circle, that small spirit had been her liberation. Upon her command, it had retrieved the keys to her cage.

Tonight, Ireae would perform something greater.

Leaning down, she continued carving the last of the sigils needed for the summoning into the floor, careful to copy them exactly. The strange characters of the ancient Azeryian language were still only half understood despite the leaflet of translation notes tucked within the pages of the tome, and her mother’ previous instruction. Even so, Ireae was determined. For two weeks she had painstakingly carved each line and symbol, then filled them all with powdered silver, moonstone, and black pearl as the grimoire instructed. Every sigil had a drop of her own blood mixed within to energize it with her Essence.

It was expensive; the reagents and spell components that went into its construction were worth a small fortune. Ireae could have easily lived off of its value as a commoner for fifty years, maybe more. But that wouldn’t have gotten her what she wanted. The life of a peasant, the life she’d lived for the past fifteen and a half years, could no longer satisfy her. Not now, not after what she’d learned, what she’d lost. She’d discovered a small cache of jewelry in the same trunk that held her mother’s library, only to sell them all here in Driz to get the needed reagents. It had taken hours of searching through the bustling the market to find the right buyers for the jewels, then days to locate a shop that sold arcane wares. Returning to the slum hideout proved a lesson in quiet fear as every shadow and sound seemed to hold hidden danger.

But it was supposed to be worth it.

Akasha Azeryian, the last princess of the fallen Azeryian empire and its greatest summoner, had created the circle. The grimoire containing the circle she’d transcribed to the floor was originally hers. Or at least, that was what her mother’s notes stated; Ireae didn’t doubt her mother but it was too amazing to think she’d been hiding something that valuable. The tome was thick, leather-bound, and in pristine condition. If it really did belong to the princess, then it was over a thousand years old, yet it appeared new. Penned in the dead language of the bygone Empire, each book was stuffed with loose pages of translation notes. According to what Ireae had read, the princess’s personal journal contained a Grand Circle, capable of summoning the Great Elemental Spirit of Storms. Her studies named the Elemental Lords as the most powerful beings in existence below The Lady of the Silver Flame, Goddess of Creation.

“I will do it too,” Ireae breathed, finishing the carving on the final symbol; a sigil in the shape of a crown. She reached for the bowl containing the powder mix. “Even if I only call a spirit half as strong as the Lord of Storms, it will be worth it. It has to.”

A loud crash from beyond the door, but assuredly within the dwelling, broke her concentration. Dust spilled onto the floor and Ireae frantically tried sifting it into the grooves. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes and the beating of her heart increased in pace at the sound of hushed voices; men’s voices. “I don’t have time,” she hissed, shooting a glance at her poorly constructed barricade. A sob threatened to escape as she hastened to finish her work. It won’t hold. If I don’t finish this now.

Images of the dark, cold, cell in the Count’s dungeon flashed in her mind. Knives and needles, pain, glass beakers clinking, the hiss of black fire, healing chants, and that smile. Always his curious smile. The memory of Ariak crawled over her flesh like hungry shades. “No,” she bit out, shuddering. “I won’t go back. I’ll never go back.”

“Find her!” It was a familiar voice. Could it be him? Ireae’s pulse quickened at the thought. “They said she’s been living here. Check that door!”

Ireae flinched again, almost gouging a sigil with the knife as she moved to draw blood. A mistake now spelled doom, but her body wouldn’t cease its tremors. Another crash reverberated through the walls as the only other door within was broken down. The Count’s knights had finally caught up to her. Her heart had climbed into her throat when she’d spotted them across the crowded market earlier. Fool! Fool! Ireae had berated herself silently at the time. A lone, dirty, girl selling expensive pieces of jewelry would undoubtedly draw eyes. Despite the distance between territories, she had thought she was discreet.

Something hard collided with the door behind her. “Here! This one’s barred! She must be inside!”

Nearly sobbing, Ireae scored the back of her arm, watching the sigils light up silver as drops of her blood infused Essence into each inscription. Focusing her mind, she prepared to draw forth as much Essence, as much magic, as she could from within herself. All that was left was ritual; the rite of summoning. If Tychesis had been with her, she would have been able to do this properly.

But now she had no more time.

“Open up now, w***e’s daughter! If you come with us quietly, no harm will come to you. Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

Ireae ignored his words. All she’d ever experienced under the Count’s care was harm.

With trembling hands she retrieved the Argyrian Shard from the pack to her right. It was a gem almost as large as her head. Clear and pristine, it shone with an inner radiance. A pure fire the color of burnished silver blazed inside its center. Few would have the knowledge to know its origins or true worth; Ireae knew only because of her mother’s books. Yet the crystal’s holiness was unmistakable. It bore the Silver Flame and was a container for the Essence of the creator Goddess. It was a priceless artifact. 

Having stolen it by sheer dumb luck from her father’s study, she was sure that it was the will of Tychesis that she and the Shard be united.

“By darkest pearl I call to thee in the void,” Ireae began, chanting in the ancient language. “By purest silver, I part thee from the shadow.” The flickering candlelight dimmed as her Essence was painfully drawn out by the preformed connections in each sigil. “By brightest moonstone I light thy path through endless night.” The Grand Summoning Circle lit up, shining brighter than a swollen moon. “By the Silver Flame I clothe thee in power!”

A hush fell over the room.

There was so much more that was supposed to be done by the summoner to call forth a Great Spirit; burning incense, ringing special silver bells, additional verses to gather and stabilize Mana from the environment rather than the caster’s Essence, their very life. She should have been performing this on the night of a swollen moon, not a darkmoon like this one. But none of that mattered anymore. It was all or nothing. This was her last chance.

Eyes widening, she drew a deep breath.

“I, Ireae Azeryia Reed, by blood and mine own name, I call thee home!” With those words, she ran the Shard across her open wound. 

The room quaked as the very air bent in on itself. In her hands, the crystal turned red as Ireae’s blood as more of her Essence drained away. A sound, like a chiming bell, echoed out from the crystal as it shattered and became dust. The silver white flames inside were released with a roar as they flowed over the glowing circle, forming into blazing white chains. Flaring brightly, they settled into every sigil she’d carved, touching the very ceiling and leaving Ireae terrified that she was going to burn to death. A scream almost escaped her lips at the sight.

At that moment, the door splintered and cracked as the Count’s knights invaded her pantry.

Then all was plunged into darkness.

Reviews

[JayG]

• “Sweat dripped from Ireae’s brow as she frantically carved symbols in the ancient language of the Azeryian Empire onto the dirty wooden floor of the hovel she called home.”

So someone we know nothing about, of unknown age background and dress, in a place that’s undefined, in a year that’s undefined, in a country that’s undefined, is, in an undefined way, defacing a floor...for undefined reasons. Given that the reader has zero context, who cares? Yes, you’re beginning with action, but it’s action taken for unidentified reasons.

You’re thinking cinematically, where the viewer would see the condition of the place, her expression and body language, and begin wondering, and speculating as to what’s going on. but the viewer has ambiance, and soundscape, all seen in parallel with the action. On film they might see her taking quick glances at the doorway, as if afraid that someone will arrive before she finishes. But none of that gets to the reader. It’s only in YOUR mental image—an image you didn’t give the reader. Morover, every item you mention is done serially.

• “Well, not home. Not really.”

Seriously? You’re the author. You say what you mean and mean what you say. AND, you write for the page, not transcribe a storyteller whose words, gestures, and more, cannot be either seen or heard by the reader. For that reader, your entire storyteller’s performance—the thing that brings the tale to life is missing, because not a trace of it reaches the reader. Instead, you’ve given them YOUR storyteller’s script, expecting them to hear how YOU would present it, as THEY read words on the page. And that cannot be made to work.

In fact, that’s the single most common trap in writing, and the reason for the 99% rejection rate, because almost universally, we forget that they’ve been refining and expanding the skills of the Commercial Fiction Writing profession for centuries. No way in hell can you use the skills of another medium in their place.

The problem is, the pros make it seem so easy. And because you already know the story and backstory as you read, and, can hear the narrator’s performance, it works...for you. So you never have the computer read it to you, which would show you what the reader “hears.”

You have the story, the desire, and the perseverance. But at the moment, you, alone on stage, are talking ABOUT what’s happening, secondhand, and including authorial interjections. How can that seem real to the reader?

I mention that because it MUST. The reader doesn’t want to learn about what happened, like reading a history lesson. They want you to make them BECOME her, to the point where they, who learn about everything that happens and is said first, will decide that she should do what she’s about to decide to do, herself.

Why? Because when it seems that she’s following the reader’s orders she turns real as the reader’s avatar. And that happens, the reader begins living the story in real-time, as her. And THAT’S where the true joy of reading lies.

My point: To write fiction you need the skills of fiction writing because nothing else works. So, dig into a good book, like Jack Bickham’s, Scene and Structure to acquire those skills. And read it slowly, with time spent on how each new point relates to YOUR writing. Then, practice it to set it into your mind, or a week later you’ll have forgotten you read it.

https://archive.org/details/scenestructurejackbickham

That aside, there are several other problems.

1. Never assume. Research. For example: The locks on seat belts DO NOT wear out. If they did, and people were hurt they would sue.

2. Having had someone rear-end me at a traffic light at 35 mph, I can tell you that the seat belts are not what keeps you alive because it causes you to accelerate and sink into the seat, not be thrown forward. And as that happens, the car crumples behind you, absorbing much of the shock. And finally, when the acceleration is complete, the car is either coasting, or slowing via the car’s brakes. In my case, it was the car behind me that needed the seat belts.

The fix is to have him sandwiched between the car in front and a semi that crushes the car, and him.

3. The protagonist must have a name that the reader attaches to themselves. But you open chapter 2 with “HE was dead.” He’s our protagonist and not important enough to be named?

4. Be very careful of forcing actions because the plot needs it. When Mr. No-name arrives as summoned, he magically does exactly what YOU need him to do, and desires a sword instead of showing good sense and trying to run, first. But that aside, he’s a modern man, so why doesn’t he wish for an AK47? Wouldn’t you? But...your plot needs him to save the lady with a sword, so, he dutifully acts as YOU want him to, not what he would do were the scene real.

The fix for that will come, automatically, when you begin writing from within the protagonist’s viewpoint, instead of playing storyteller. So, take some time to dig into that book. You’ll be glad you did.

And as an overview of the field, in general, you might check a few of my articles and YouTube videos.

Sorry my news wasn’t better, but given that we never address the problems we don’t see as problems, I thought you might want to know.

Jay Greenstein
Articles: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos: https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334

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“Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”
~ E. L. Doctorow

“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”
~ Mark Twain

“In sum, if you want to improve your chances of publication, keep your story visible on stage and yourself mum.”
~ Sol Stein

[Dewella~Vintella]

Amazing as always. Loved the pacing and imagery, very interesting and compelling concept you have here. I am excited to see where this goes.

[Caradoc]

Thanks so much for taking the time to read this. I’ve been dying for some feedback. I was hoping the first chapter would be interesting enough.

[Joss Jeffrey]

Your work is absolutely remarkable, and I will love to help to bring it to life through story art and animation and also i can help you to reach a broader audience. Do you have any other social media account when we can connect? you can find me on this Telegram: @Yaroslava_6ixyes or discord: @yaroslava70