The story that would not cooperate is complete.
I finished first draft of Wayfarer tonight; it came in at just under 10,000 words and it fought me every single word of the way. I think it wanted to be a novel. Maybe some day I’ll let it have its way and expand it into a book, but not just now.
I’m pleased the way it turned out, but I think I’ll let it set for a day or three, let it cool off in my mind, before I polish it and send it to Beneath Ceaseless Skies.
Here’s a sneak:
First glance at the little fellow, standing in the tavern doorway, I wondered why he hadn’t blown away in a stiff breeze.
He didn’t look much taller than my shoulder and he was all hard points and sharp edges. His spiky cap of hair was white as the bleached bones of a flensed whale.
“Don’t be certain he’s as old or brittle as he seems.”
Eakin’s whisper scratched at my ear. The defrocked wizard-priest was still hidden away aboard Blessèd, but his magic let him see what I saw and hear what I heard. And he hissed into my ear as if he was at my shoulder.
Eakin hid from the public, for the practice of white magic not sanctioned by the One Church had left him a ruin. His skin was pale as parchment; his arms and legs twisted from the effort of the casting. And he wore a scarlet patch over the ruined pit of his left eye to hide the price he had paid to gain the arcane sight that allowed him to witness my Journey.
I took a second look at the newcomer and decided Eakin was right.
There was nothing flyaway about the little fellow’s manner. He stood his place in the doorway, one eyebrow cocked, studying us all, as if he could shine a light into our minds and so was privy to every sorry secret in the joint.