Love Fest: Julia Dvorin

Hello all, this is Julia coming to you with my entry for February's Love Fest. This is an excerpt from my novel Ice Will Reveal, in which our roguish heroine Whisper Thornn finds that sometimes friends with benefits want to be more than friends. Enjoy!

In the ash end of the afternoon, Whisper climbed the steps to the side door of the Radamond Theater. The Radamond looked unassuming in the daylight, awaiting the crowds and the evening’s wavering torchlight to bring its colorfully painted exterior to life. Whisper had always loved this place, drawn to its exuberance and unapologetic catering to the baser kind of entertainment: the sexy kind with lots of flash and fighting. She wasn’t the only one--everyone loved the Radamond, adults and children, young and old, wealthy and plain. Any given night you could find an intriguing cross-section of Mycea’s populace there: from slumming gentlefolk and prosperous merchants to rough working folk, all happily spending their coin on a titillating night out. Even the Temple Guardians showed up there occasionally.

The Radamond was a venerable institution, the heart of the Arts district. It was also one of the few places in Mycea where humans and Tey mixed, though sometimes overly religious groups of ignorant humans who swallowed the Temple’s fester about Arcanist blasphemy came looking for a Tey to knock around. The City Guard kept most violence from spreading, though, and had traditionally provided a lenience for the Radamond, due in no small part to the significant gag price the owner regularly paid. The Guard kept the pickpocketing, drug-peddling and bedmate solicitations outside to a bearable minimum, and generally turned a blind eye to the activities within.

Whisper knocked loudly and rapidly on the door, then stepped back and waited. When there came no reply after half a minute, she repeated the process and put her ear to the door. Finally, she heard footsteps; the door swung open to reveal a tall Tey woman with blond hair past her waist, barefoot and dressed only in a simple white shift. She looked disdainfully at Whisper.

“Tell your mistress to buy tickets around front. This is the player’s entrance.”

“Jorellya, it’s me, Whisper. I borrowed this outfit from Kylliarra and I’m here to return it.”

The moment stretched out, and Whisper sighed and put her hands on her hips. “So, may I come in?” she asked.

Jorellya rolled her eyes skyward and turned away back down the hallway, leaving the door open.

“Thanks,” Whisper muttered, following. Creepy Tey oddbucket. Good thing you sing like a bird or no one would put up with you.

“Hey, is Garritt here?” Whisper asked as Jorellya turned aside at the doorway to the prop room. Jorellya made a languid motion with her hand toward the door to the dressing room before disappearing. Whisper was glad to see her go.

The dressing room was emptier than Whisper expected this close to players’ call time--there was only one other person there besides Garritt, an older human man dressed like a city guard seated at one of the makeup tables. Lounging against the wall by the men’s costume closet, Garritt was still in his street clothes, but had removed his tunic already. His white shirt, open at the neck, revealed just enough of his handsomely muscled chest and fuzzy blond chest hair to make Whisper pause and eye him appreciatively as she entered. Both men ceased their conversation and turned to look at her.

Garritt grinned. “Ah, my Firefly returns, and so soon!”

“I told you to stop calling me that,” Whisper said, but softened it with a flirty smile as she moved toward him.

“I won’t. It suits you, always blinking on and off with your cold, pretty light.” He pushed off the wall and opened his arms to her. “Hey, come bring that pretty light a little closer.”

“Hello, Rebbondo,” she said as she passed the older man, who nodded at her with a chuckle.

Rebbondo cleared his throat as Whisper and Garritt’s hello kiss stretched into something more than polite. “Do I need to give you two a little privacy?” he asked.

Whisper ignored him but Garrittt broke away, saying, “No, Whisper’s just come to return some things she borrowed earlier.”

Whisper arched an eyebrow and gave him a little pout before turning away to remove the braided wig.

“So, what show is up tonight?”

“The Jewels of Duchess Dennya,” Garritt answered.

“Mmm, I haven’t seen that one. Is it new?” Whisper put the wig back up on a shelf.

“Not really, it’s mostly a reworking of The Lady and the Swiper from last season, with a few more songs and better fight scenes,” Garritt said. “Want to stay for the performance?”

“Thanks, sweeting, but I have to report home for dinner and I doubt my Mistress will give me the night off.” She sat at the makeup table nearest Rebbondo and began scrabbling through the drawers, coming up with a pot of cream and a well-used rag. “Ugh. Rebb, are there any cleaner makeup rags in that table?”

“Hmm, aren’t you the professional all of a sudden,” Rebbondo said with a raised eyebrow, handing her a marginally cleaner rag. “No wonder Garritt goes through his makeup supplies so fast.”

“You spend enough time around players, you pick some things up,” Whisper replied, putting some cream on the rag and wiping her face and neck with it until her darkened skin returned to its usual pallor.

“Pick some things up, indeed,” Rebbondo said, looking archly at Garritt.

Whisper finished removing the makeup and handed the rag back to Rebbondo without comment. She stood and took off the grey baggy servant dress, hanging it back up in the closet. “There, see?” she said to Garritt. “Just like I promised. Kylliarra won’t have anything to yell at you about. Although I think she’s prettiest when she’s angry, hmm?” Rebbondo and Garritt both chuckled. Whisper sat back down, looked at herself in the silvered glass and frowned. She adjusted the neckline of her green shift and tightened the laces of her fitted blue overtunic, then began to remove the pins from her coppery hair.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Garritt said, moving up behind her and running his hands through her hair, removing the last few pins and combing it gently between his fingers. They locked eyes for a handful of heartbeats in the silvered glass. Whisper closed her eyes and leaned her head forward, her hair forming a loose wavy curtain around her face. After a few breaths, she heard Rebbondo get up and leave, closing the dressing room door behind him.

Garritt leaned down behind her and began to nuzzle her neck, hands kneading her shoulders. “So are you on again or still off?” he breathed into her ear.

“It’s not me, Garritt--you have a sweetfriend now, remember?” Whisper straightened and met his eyes in the glass.

“That never mattered to you before,” he said, hands moving from her shoulders to her neck, to her hair, playing with the curls.

“True,” she said, watching him, “but it should matter to you.”

“Fffmph,” he said with a dismissive wave. “So let’s get this straight then. This one’s strictly a business visit, is it? Always so hard to tell with you.”

“I have to get home,” she said. “I don’t have time for distractions right now.”

“Ohhh, so that’s what I’ve been downgraded to, a distraction. That does the old tender heart a lot of good,” he said, with an exaggerated pout.

“Come on, Garritt, you’re not broken-hearted over me. Besides, you’re bedding that new brunette barmaid at the Meadow, everyone knows it.”

“Don’t tell me what my heart feels,” he retorted, seemingly stung. He took his hands out of her hair, and stepped back. “You clearly have no idea.”

“What does it feel, then? Go on and tell me, I won’t hold it against you. Or maybe later I will hold something against you, depending how nicely you speak.” She turned to see if he’d gotten the jest, but he glowered at her.

“Don’t tease me. You know I’d give it all up for you, but you never let me.”

“Give what up?” she laughed. “The new sweeting? The barmaids? The after-show admirers? The wealthy patronesses? They need you, Garritt--you’re a prime force for lady-pleasing in this city. Don’t withdraw your gift from the world.”

 “I don’t care about them,” he said. “I just want you to stay.”

“Garritt, I thought we’d already been through this whole discussion. My life is just...inconsistent. That’s the way it is.” She sighed. “Heed this, I’m sorry to just barge in on you before a show. I truly do have to get home. I promise I’ll come back soon if you want me to.”

“On again, off again, that’s my Firefly,” he said wearily, rubbing his face with his hands and smoothing his shoulder-length blond hair. His sigh and slumped shoulders might have been just an act, but they were effective nonetheless—there was a reason he was the leading man of the Radamond, after all.

She stood and put her arms around him. After a moment, he put both his hands back in her hair and bent her face up toward his for a long kiss. Whisper relaxed against him, running her hands over his back and pulling his shirt out of his breeches to touch his bare skin. But when he pulled her toward the cot in the corner she leaned away. “Goddess knows I’d like to stay, but don’t you all have a dress rehearsal starting soon?”

“Ehh, Rebb’ll keep everyone out for at least a few minutes,” he said with a rakish grin. “You said you had to get home soon anyway. Don’t make me beg, you wicked girl.” He reached for the laces on her tunic, hooking a finger into them and tugging.

“Hmmm, now that could be entertaining,” she said, pretending to think about it, “but since we only have a few minutes I guess we’ll have to dispense with the usual theatrics.” He laughed and “tsked” at her, pulling her over to the cot. And she let him.

Fright Fest Friday Fiction

Hi all, Julia here. It's Fright Fest Friday, and my turn to provide a bit of October macabre for Heroines of Fantasy. Wait, did someone say ghoulish? You want ghoulish? I got your ghoulish right here. This is a spooky sample from Ice Will Reveal, where both the reader and one of the main characters meet wraiths (aka ghouls, or as I like to fondly refer to them, zombies, even though they are technically their own variant) for the first time. It'll get much, much worse for Our Heroes after this...bwah hah ha ha!



Scouting was by no means Jarrod's specialty, but he tried to keep quiet, crunching through the snow from tree to tree in an attempt at giving himself cover. The sounds continued, then stopped, then began again, growing louder the farther away from his companions he went. Crackles, crunches, yelps, rustlings--what in Ahnweh's mercy could be out here, in the winter-locked mountains, so close to all that ravenous death? It was difficult to hear over the pounding of his heart.

Off the pathway the slope steepened, and even with his snow boots on he had to concentrate and balance carefully to keep from skidding down it like a runaway sled. The trees thinned off to his left; he headed there, hoping to see something.

When he finally slipped and squeaked his way over to the last tree, what he saw stole his breath and squeezed his heart with fear.

He stood on top of what must once have been a high riverbank. A hundred feet below was a chaotic tangle of beasts and people, fighting on the frozen ground. He saw the ummeks immediately, handfuls of deadly furred forms darting this way and that in blurs of snapping teeth. But who were they attacking?

There were perhaps two dozen people, but something was not right about them: limbs misshapen or missing, clothing tattered and too thin for the cold, grey and withered skin showing through the tatters. More than that, there was an unsettling strangeness to the way the people moved. Some were stiffly clumsy, hardly jointed; some were horribly quick and sinuous, as if their muscles no longer anchored tightly to the bones.

But this horror was as nothing compared to the truth that dawned on him next: the ummeks did not just attack the people. The people attacked the ummeks. With bare hands.

The ummeks dropped as soon as they were touched, crumpling to the ground with high-pitched yelps. Jarrod could see at least a half-dozen furred bodies lying still upon the ice. Most unnerving, the withered grey people were silent, except for the occasional grunt or moan when an ummek struck. He watched in growing horror as the number of ummeks dwindled and he could see the withered people more clearly. Despite the distance, he could tell that some of the people were shorter and wider than the others, and even though he had never seen a pureblood, there was no mistaking the heavy brows, broad noses and squared jaws of the Norenoni.

Jarrod's mind reeled; it was at least several breaths before he thought to duck back behind a tree. He stood with his back pressed hard against the bark and tried to bring his thoughts--and his breath--back in line.

These were the wraiths from Mother Corandonn's truevision.

But this was no army--there were perhaps only twenty of them, and certainly not all were Norenoni. And they had no weapons that he could see.

He couldn’t decide if it would be best to speed back to his companions with the news or watch longer and risk discovery. Then he heard the crunch of something coming through the snow from the trees not far off to his right, and the decision was removed from his hands.

He drew his sword--the scrape of metal on scabbard, too loud!--and crouched down low behind the tree trunk, wishing it were bigger, wishing he were smaller. He chanced a quick look around the tree, but couldn't see anything.

The crunching grew louder, and he nearly exploded from the tension of waiting without knowing what was coming--then it receded, down toward the river below. It sounded like something scrambled down the high riverbank--something big. Was there a path? Keeping low, Jarrod peered around the tree.

Goddess! What is that? He blinked and squinted.

Below him, another, even stranger figure had joined the others: a rider upon a mount. But the mount was no horse. It was unlike any animal he'd ever seen. It was vaguely ummek-like--four-legged and grey-furred, with a long tail and triangular head. But it was bigger than any ummek, bigger than most horses, and its proportions were those of neither wolf nor horse. Its head was huge, with a large underslung jaw filled with sharp fangs that its lips could not quite cover, and tiny up-pointed ears. The head sat at the end of a long, flexible neck, reptilian in appearance despite its thick fur. The body was squat, with most of its height coming from its long, thin legs. The legs ended in oversized paws, not hooves, each sporting four giant curved claws easily as long as a dagger blade.

The beast wore no proper saddle or stirrups; the rider was lashed to its back with a collection of ropes and rags. No bridle or reins either--the rider clutched the coarse fur at the base of its neck, more for balance than for control.

The rider was hooded and swathed in layers of ragged cloth, but one thing was clear--the rider had no legs. That explained the lashing, but only added to the mystery of how the rider controlled the grotesque beast.

He waited to see if the wraiths would attack this new presence as they had the ummeks, and indeed, they converged on the strange rider as soon as they saw it. But they stopped in a loose circle around the rider and steed. As Jarrod watched in amazement, each one approached the rider in turn and held up a hand. The rider leaned down and clasped each proffered hand, lingering a moment, then moved on to the next. Those touched withdrew and stood quietly a few feet away. When the rider had touched all the wraiths, it straightened up again and turned its steed in a circle in order to look in all directions.

As its hooded gaze swung toward him, Jarrod hurriedly ducked back behind the tree, his heart racing. Could it see him? He listened, hard, but heard nothing at this distance. Should he look again? Should he stay or go?

The tension and the stillness were too much for him. Sword in hand, he scrambled back up the slope with all the speed he could muster, silently cursing every crunch and squeak his own clumsy boots made. He was almost back up to the path when a noise behind him made him whirl in time to see the first wraith racing up the slope with arms outstretched.

Guest Author: Julia Dvorin

We are so happy today to welcome another sister at Hadley Rille Books, author Julia Dvorin. 

Julia is a woman of many hats and little sleep, who tells stories wherever she can. A proud graduate of the Viable Paradise workshop for speculative fiction writers, she fits her writing in while parenting two young boys and promoting a collaborative art project called “Fly Your Freak Flag High” (FYFFH). Julia holds an MA in Sociology from University of California, Santa Barbara, and has been a college lecturer in Sociology and Women’s Studies. She has also worked in consumer products licensing and sales, and has run her own web solutions business. In 2010, Julia’s novelette “Cupid For a Day” was published in the Renaissance Festival Tales anthology from Hadley Rille Books to high acclaim. You can visit Julia on her website: www.parentheticals.com

At the end of Julia's post, we will have an excerpt from her novel, Ice Will Reveal, so please keep reading!

Prophecy, Destiny, and What Is Revealed

Prophecy. Whether religious or secular, we see it all the time in fantasy writing, and there are infinite variations on the concept. Mighty beings, wreathed in thunder and lightning, speak directly to the people. In times of greatest need, the mystic with a direct conduit to God(s) or Goddess(es) is given a vision with a message for the faithful. A previously unremarkable commoner has a single or recurring dream that turns out to be a divine revelation that sets them on a collision course with kings and wars. Secret messages from previous aeons are decoded and brought to light by intrepid researchers. Perhaps people believe the prophecy and it rules their lives, their culture, their everyday actions; or perhaps prophecy is discarded, scoffed at, hidden or forgotten. Sometimes a story lets us see the act of prophecy as it happens; sometimes the prophecy has already happened and the story we read is about the prophecy’s result, which is often the time when it comes true (or not). We find reluctant prophets, eager prophets, fanatical prophets, and persecuted prophets. Then there are those special people who are the focus of prophecy, the ones who will save the world (or possibly doom it): the One, the Chosen, the Foretold, the Named. We are warned about or against them; we must watch for, identify, find, encourage, or stop them.

Why such a fascination with prophecy and those involved with it? What’s that about? I would argue that fantasy literature is at its heart driven by the investigation of the ineffable, the unknowable, the mysterious and magical, and prophecy is something that allows us to access that through asking “where does prophecy come from?” Prophecy is also intimately related to the concept of destiny, another familiar and beloved fantasy fiction concept. Playing around with the concepts of prophecy and destiny allows us to explore the idea that even if it’s too mysterious or big to comprehend, there is a larger design that we are each a contributing part of, and that hopefully there is something or someone directing that design (regardless of whether that something or someone is obvious or hidden to us). Don’t we all want to be special, to be Chosen? Don’t we all want to be recognized for the unique contributions that we bring into the world? Personally, I find it reassuring to muse (to hope, dream and speculate) about my own place and purpose in the world, even if I don’t necessarily know their exact shape and parameters yet.

So when I started writing Ice Will Reveal, my first fantasy novel, I wasn’t that surprised to find the familiar (and personally compelling) concepts of prophecy, destiny and free will cropping up, even though it’s also an adventure novel with plenty of action and intrigue and monsters and even a little romance. Each of the main point-of-view characters in the book is in the process of struggling with her or his own destiny and purpose, and prophecy helps frame their experiences, but not prescribe them. Some characters act on faith in or obedience to something external, and some act on faith in their own internal sense of direction or morality. Some vacillate back and forth. Yes, I do talk a lot about “the Foretold”, and priests and priestesses receive “truevisions” from their Goddess, but the Goddess has also turned Her face away and become increasingly impossible to access, and visions are open to interpretation. The title refers to an ancient prophecy that serves as certain characters’ context for interpreting current events and provides those characters with reasons to set other events into motion. (Actually, the original title was The Augured, which got changed when a helpful soul pointed out that there was a double entendre possible there that I might not want. But I digress.)

I wanted to write a book in which prophecy was a signpost, not a recipe; where what was happening or what “should” happen was not always clear or direct, and purpose had to come from within as well as without, because finding moments of choice was as valid and important as the willing submission to predestination. I tried to explore how people act and think in situations where “right” and “wrong” are suggested, not required, and vary based on perspective, and what it’s like to try to be a hero(ine) in that kind of “grey” context. These themes recur throughout the book, and surely reflect my own time, place and cultural zeitgeist as well as my particular life stage and personal intellectual interest. I plan on exploring them further throughout the next couple sequels to Ice Will Reveal, and heck, probably in everything I ever write. I can’t help it. Maybe it’s just what I was meant to do.

About Ice Will Reveal

There will be one I choose to turn the wheel

To use My gift to help the land to heal;

The One, the Gift, the Time

Ice will reveal.

Orphaned siblings Jarrod and Whisper Thornn grew up as “mercy kids” at the powerful Holy Temple of the One Goddess. Devout, law-abiding Jarrod became a loyal Temple Guardian, whereas restless, unscrupulous Whisper escaped to an apprenticeship with a rich thief as soon as she came of age. For years, they have barely seen or needed each other.

Then, Whisper accepts a dangerous mission to steal an arcane artifact wanted by the Temple. Meanwhile, the Temple has named Jarrod as the Foretold, the One who will heal the land and turn the absent Goddess back to Her people. But prophecy is open to interpretation, and the priestesses of the Order of the Sickle have named one of their own as the Foretold. Jarrod’s test: he and his companions must investigate a breach in the magical Boundary that has long protected the land of Caledendria from the apocalyptic influence of the Blight. 

When Jarrod and Whisper’s paths unexpectedly converge, Whisper joins Jarrod and his companions on a harrowing journey to seal the breach in the Boundary. Together, they must battle life-sucking wraiths and face loss and betrayal as they hurtle toward a fateful encounter at the Boundary. 


Excerpt from Ice Will Reveal

Jarrod took a long drink of his ale and set it down half-empty on the table with a sigh.

Burning with curiosity, Whisper couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “So?” she said. “What in the Goddess’ name is so important that you had to come all the way out here to see me on a night off? You do have the night off, right? You’re not here to tell me that you’ve left the Temple or anything crazy like that, are you?”

Jarrod finally looked at her, frowning. “No, I haven’t left the Goddess’ service. But I will be taking a brief leave of absence from the Temple itself . . . and I thought you should know, as my only kin.” He looked around as if to check for eavesdroppers, but no one in the crowded, noisy room paid them the least bit of attention. He leaned in closer toward her, putting his elbows on the table. “I’m being sent to the Blighted Lands,” he said in a low voice.

Whisper goggled in surprise, her own drink forgotten in her hand. Like other Myceans absorbed in their city, Whisper thought of the Blighted Lands as mostly a cautionary history lesson, not as an actual place anyone would ever go. “What?” she managed finally, sitting up and leaning in toward him.

“Yes, you heard me.” He nodded slowly and vented another big sigh. Whisper recoiled from the smell.

“Wait a minute . . . are you drunk?” She smothered a laugh. Now that she was close enough, she could smell more than just ale on his breath. In fact, he reeked of whiskey.

Hah! My oh-so-holy brother is sauced like a duck. No wonder he was so formal back at the house. I hope Mins didn’t notice.

“Not nearly drunk enough, I think,” he said solemnly. “But it’s still early. I thought you were going to bring back something challenging. . . ?”

Whisper chuckled. “Ohhhh, don’t tempt me, brother. Even though it’s a fully amusing thought, and one I’d like to pursue for real some other night, watching you puke your devout, virtuous guts out in the alleyway is not why I’m here. It’s been a long day for me, and from the smell of you, you don’t need anything more challenging than Warbler right now. So come on—what’s going on, Jar?”

Jarrod sighed again. Whisper leaned back, waving her hand in front of her nose in mock disgust. Refusing to rise to her teasing, Jarrod remained serious, saying quietly, “It’s complicated. The summary of the story is that I’m leaving in the morning with a few companions and going to the Blighted Lands, to do some reconnaissance there. But . . . there’s more to it than just that, I think. Do you remember that stuff about the Foretold, from when we were kids?”

Now it was Whisper’s turn to frown. Of course she remembered—it was an old and oft-fondled sore spot for her. She remembered the regular visits with Supreme Mother Corandonn and the priestess’ seemingly casual but endless questioning. She remembered the speculative looks and whispers from certain adults around Jarrod, and the rumors and teasing amongst the Mercy kids that had spread even to Whisper. She remembered all the special treatment over the cycles that Jarrod never acknowledged but that she’d felt all too keenly. Tunneling to the bottom of what all that had been about was the first mystery she’d solved, and it had given her an appetite for information-gathering that she’d never lost. Wasn’t she the one who’d first overheard the word “Foretold” applied directly to Jarrod? She remembered that moment clearly: she had been eavesdropping on a heated discussion between Supreme Mother Corandonn and Mother Noyennah from her favorite hiding spot in the high branches of the old elm tree in the Temple school’s courtyard. She was the one who’d run to tell Jarrod about it, and she’d led their careful investigations in the Temple Library.

But despite their figuring out that Supreme Mother Corandonn and the other adults thought Jarrod might be “the Foretold” of prophecy they’d learned about in school, nothing had ever come of it. Eventually the looks and whispers had died away, the teasing had moved on to different victims, and she spent less time around Jarrod, so she stopped noticing any special treatment. Even so, Whisper had always closely held the hurt of not being the special one, the chosen. And as Jarrod, so humble, so determined to be good and righteous and worthy, had grappled with his apparent destiny, she’d pulled away, acting out, becoming his opposite, hoping to be noticed as special, too, even if it was only as specially “bad”. But no one had cared about her or seen her as special until Mins came along and took her away from all that.

“Yeah, I remember. You think they didn’t change their minds after all, and now it’s finally time for you to save the world, huh? Should I bow to you or something?” Jarrod didn’t smile, just looked at her with that long-suffering pious expression she hated. “But I don’t get why they’d send their special boy to the Blighted Lands. Kind of cold and dangerous out there, last I heard. You’d think they’d want to keep you all warm and safe right there at the Temple.”

“Well, they are sending me, that I know,” Jarrod said defensively, and leaned back in his chair. “So I thought maybe I’d better tell you.” He gulped the rest of his Warbler and thumped the glass down on the table, then crossed his thick arms over his chest and glared at her. Whisper, attuned always to what people weren’t saying when they spoke, got a flash of the fear lurking behind his eyes.

He’s afraid he’s going to die out there, she realized. He came to say goodbye, just in case. She felt suddenly guilty for teasing him.