The Bristling Wood
Peel (Dev.) Far, distant.
Rhan (Dev.) A political unit of land; thus, gwerbretrhyn, tierynrhyn, the area under the control of a given gwerbret or tieryn. The size of the various rhans (Dev. rhannau) varies widely, depending on the vagaries of inheritance and the fortunes of war rather than some legal definition.
Scrying The art of seeing distant people and places by magic.
Sigil An abstract magical figure, usually representing either a particular spirit or a particular kind of energy or power. These figures, which look a lot like geometrical scribbles, are derived by various rules from secret magical diagrams.
Spirits Living though incorporeal beings proper to the various nonphysical planes of the universe. Only the elemental spirits, such as the Wildfolk (trans. of Dev. elcyion goecl), can manifest directly in the physical plane. All others need some vehicle, such as a gem, incense smoke, or the magnetism given off by freshly cut plants or spilled blood.
Taer (Dev.) Land, country.
Thought Form An image or three-dimensional form that has been fashioned out of either etheric or astral substance, usually by the action of a trained mind. If enough trained minds work together to build the same thought form, it will exist independently for a period of time based on the amount of energy put into it. (Putting energy into such a form is known as ensouling the thought form.) Manifestations of gods or saints are usually thought forms picked up by the highly intuitive, such as children, or those with a touch of second sight. It is also possible for a large number of untrained minds to make fuzzy, ill-defined thought forms that can be picked up the same way, such as UFOs and sightings of the Devil.
Tieryn (Dev.) An intermediate rank of the noble-born, below a gwerbret but above an ordinary lord (Dev. arcloedd.)
Wyrd (trans. of Dev. tingedd) Fate, destiny; the inescapable problems carried over from a sentient being’s last incarnation.
Ynis (Dev.) An island.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Over the past few years, readers have asked me various questions about the Deverry series. Usually these questions get themselves asked in noisy rooms at conventions where no one can really hear the answers, but now Spectra has kindly given me a chance to answer some of them in print, where it’s always quiet. The two things you all most want to have clarified, it seems, are the kind of magic the characters use and the way I’ve organized the books.
Deverry dweomer is very loosely based on the “real magic” of the Western tradition, a field of study that can be best defined, perhaps, through its history. First, though, let me define one thing that magic isn’t, popular belief and oft-repeated clichés to the contrary. Magic is most emphatically not a substitute for technology, nor is it the equivalent of technology. No more will the true magician study it only for personal gain. As a very wise man recently defined it, “Magic is the art of producing changes in consciousness at will and of using these changes to expand the consciousness of all humanity.” Notice the emphasis on consciousness here. This is not to say that magic never produces any effects in the so-called “real” or physical world. Quite the contrary. It is simply that in true magic, consciousness is always central and these physical effects secondary. In Deverry; since I’m writing adventure stories first and foremost, the physical effects are quite spectacular, but this is one reason that I say the magic is very loosely based upon the Western tradition.
What is this tradition, then? Over the past two thousand years, thanks to the invective of the various churches and more recently of the scientific community, magic has had to lie hidden in the West, practiced in secret, persecuted in public whenever the inquisitiors got wind of it, and because of that persecution what should be an organized body of philosophic thought and spiritual practice has become maimed and garbled, conflated in the popular mind with superstition, devil worship, and the tricks and silly stories of con men and hucksters. In Asia, where no one organized religion ever got the whip hand over the soul of humanity, the situation is different. Most of you know about Yoga, for instance, a truly spiritual discipline reaching back thousands of years, or have heard about the monastic life of Buddhism and the intense spiritual insights and powers that its devotees attain after years of meditation. Western magic should have been no less.
Let me say here that when I talk about Europe and Asia, I don’t mean to deny the existence of the native spiritual systems of Africa and the Americas. I simply don’t know enough about them to discuss them intelligently. The roots of all these spiritual systems, however, including what should have been the European, probably lie in some common ground, the developing shamanism of Paleolithic hunters some fifteen thousand years ago, or maybe even farther back than that. I doubt very much that anyone will ever know, and you should all be extremely skeptical of anyone who says he or she does, particularly if these claims involve flying saucers, the lost continent of Atlantis, or other such sensational plot elements. What we do know is that by the time the art of writing was slowly spreading through the Eurasian continent, around about 2000 B.C. or so, shamanism had developed into a vast variety of spiritual disciplines, which in Asia had the good fortune to become firmly woven into the religious lives of their cultures.
In Europe, Mediterranean Africa, and the Middle East these spiritual disciplines flourished only until the spread of monotheism. We know their remnants as pagan mystery cults, such as those of Eleusis; we see fragments in Hellenized Egyptian religions such as the worship of Isis; we have a handful of texts of the Gnostic mystery schools, some Christianized, others not, that have miraculously survived the organized persecutions and suppressions of the Orthodox, whether Christian or Moslem, or later years. But what we have are, by and large, hardy fragments of roots left from a mangled plant, cut down before its full flowering by the sort of priest who puts his temporal power above the spiritual health of his flock. The one true magical system we do have is the Jewish Kabalah, kept alive by a people of enormous courage in the face of slander and persecution. In those dark years, Judaism was the only major Western religion to realize that different kinds of souls have different needs, that there will always be some who want to know and to experience the truth for themselves and who are willing to leave safe territory behind to do so. Those of us who believe the same owe it and its people a huge debt.
There is no space here to give the convoluted history of the various magicians and alchemists, Christian Kabalists and Rosicrucians, to say nothing of the Sufis on the Moslem side of the equation, who struggled to keep Western magic alive during the last eighteen hundred years or so. (If you’re interested, you can find books by the historian Frances Yates in any good public library.) That they succeeded at all is amazing enough; to point out that a lot of strange weeds took root and grew in the field cleared but never sown with proper seed seems unfair, but not everyone who claimed to be a follower of the true path was one. And of course the lies and slanders continued and still continue: that magic damns you or drives you insane, that witches worship the devil, and, most recently, that magic is nothing but New Age occult-babble on the one hand or illusion and fraud on the other. As readers, you’ll all have to make up your own mind on the truth of these things. It should be clear enough by now where I stand.
As for the structure of the Deverry books, a lot of people have muttered, either to themselves or directly to me, “Why do you use all those damn flashbacks?” Well, there is in this world more than one way of organizing a story—or a body of factual information, for that matter. The “start at the beginning and go through to the end” principle that we’ve all been raised with dates back to the classical Greeks as transmitted by the Romans, and as part of Aristotelian logic it forms the basis of modern science and the scientific world-view (though one that modern physics is beginning to undermine.) In this way of looking at the world, Time’s arrow flies straight and in one direction only. The magical tradition, however, teaches that you don’t necessarily have to move in a straight line to reach your destination.
Classic
al writers like Diodorus Siculus and Polybius state that the Celts who were their contemporaries believed in reincarnation, among other doctrines that are today part of the magical tradition. Certainly the art of the Gauls, and the later flowering of Celtic art in the early Christian era, are clear enough evidence that here is a people who organized information in a nonclassical, non-Aristotelian manner. Since I’m writing about ancient Celts, after all, I’ve borrowed their way of looking at the world, too, in the loops and spirals of my story line as it laces between and up the various lifetimes of the characters. I promise, on the gods of my people if you like, that I do have a plan in mind, even if it isn’t a linear one, and I honestly do think that if you try to see it as it unfolds, you’ll get some small reward, even if it’s only a taste of what it means to think in a nonlinear manner. If you’ve never seen any Celtic art, the flowing spirals and triskeli of the Gauls, the beautiful lacings and braidings of the Irish monks, by all means do yourself a favor and browse through a book about them in a library or a store. My own small craft is, I promise you, nothing compared to theirs.
A special preview of
The Dragon Revenant
by
Katharine Kerr
In Katharine Kerr’s fourth exciting Deverry novel, the wheels of Wyrd truly begin to turn. Though Nevyn is tied to Eldidd, fighting his own battles to maintain the peace, Jill and Salamander follow the sparse trail of clues that they hope will lead to Rhodry. Along the way, fed by her grief and anger, Jill’s dweomer talent begins to manifest itself in ways dangerous to the untrained. Ideally, these talents should be harnessed and shaped by a master. Jill’s only available tutor, however, is Salamander, whose less than complete knowledge leaves Jill with plenty of room for making mistakes….
“Where is Brindemo?” Salamander asked.
“Very ill, my lord. I am his son. I will serve you in his stead.”
“Ill? Is there a fever in your compound?”
“Not at all, not at all.” He paused to run his tongue over his lips. “It was strange. Spoiled food, mayhap.”
While Salamander considered him, the boy squirmed, his eyes looking everywhere but at the gerthddyn.
“Well,” Salamander said at last. “Tender my humble apologies to your esteemed father, but I insist on seeing him. I know many a strange thing, you see. Perhaps I could recommend a remedy.” He paused for effect. “I am the Great Krysello, Barbarian Wizard of the North.”
The young man moaned and squirmed the more, but he threw the door wide open and let them into the grassy yard, where a couple of young women sat together near the well in a dull-eyed slump of despair. When Jill realized that she was seeing human merchandise, her stomach clenched and she looked away.
“I must see if my father is awake.”
“We’ll come with you while you do,” Salamander said.
With a groan of honest terror the boy led them round the longhouse to a side door, which, it turned out, opened directly into his parents’ bedchamber. Lying amid a heap of striped cushions on a low divan, Brindemo raised his head drunkenly and stared at them with rheumy eyes, his dark skin ashy-gray from fear and fever. His stout wife stood frozen in the corner, her hands clasped over her mouth. Brindemo looked at her and barked out one word; she ran from the room. Salamander stalked over to the bedside.
“Look at my pale hair. You know I’m from Deverry. You had a barbarian man here for sale, didn’t you?”
“I did, truly.” The fat traders voice was a harsh whisper from a poison-burned throat. “I told your men already. I sold him. A spice-merchant, Zandar of Danmara.” He paused to cough horribly. “Have you come to kill me now?”
“Naught of the sort. I can smell the poison in your sweat and I know what it is. Swallow spoonfuls of honey mixed with butter or some other kind of fat. It will soothe the pains and sop the dregs up. Since the ben-marono plant kills quickly and you aren’t dead already, we may conclude that they gave you a less than fatal dose.”
“My thanks. Ai! Baruma is one of your northern demons, I swear it.”
“The son of one, at least.”
With great effort Brindemo raised his head to stare into Salamander’s eyes.
“You!” he hissed. “You’re not one of them, are you?”
“One of whom?”
Brindemo fell back, panting from his exertion, and looked away. Salamander smiled gently.
“I won’t force any truths out of you, my friend. If you mean what I suspect you mean, they’d kill you for certain. But in return, I shan’t tell you one word about myself, so they won’t be able to pry it out of you.”
“A fair bargain.” For a moment Brindemo lay still, gathering his strength to speak further. “Ease a sick man’s curiosity, good sir, if you can. The barbarian lad, the one they called Taliaesyn, who was he truly?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“He didn’t know. His memory was gone, completely gone.”
Jill muttered a foul and involuntary oath.
“I see.” Salamander turned grim. “Well, my friend, you had the honor of feeding a very important man. He was Rhodry Maelwaedd, Gwerbret Aberwyn, kidnapped and sold by his enemies.”
Brindemo made a deep gurgling sound, choked, and coughed in spasms of sweating.
“Calm yourself,” Salamander said. “You didn’t know the truth, so no doubt no further harm will befall you. I take it you know where Aberwyn is.”
“I don’t.” Brindemo could barely choke out the words. “Doesn’t matter. Know what a gwerbret is. Ai ai ai.”
“This Baruma,” Jill said to Brindemos son, “tell me what he looked like. Your father can’t keep talking. He needs to rest.”
“He was a fat man, you would say porklike, I believe, in your tongue. Very, very strange skin, very smooth, and his black hair and beard are always shiny and oiled down. He wore a silver beard-clip, too, and his eyes are like a snake’s, very narrow and glittery and nasty.”
“What do you remember about the slave called Taliaesyn?” Salamander turned to the boy. “Everything you know.”
“There was little to know, sir. We thought he was noble-born because he moved like a knife-fighter, and all your lords are soldiers. He remembered he was a thing called a silver dagger but naught else about himself.” He glanced at his father, who whispered out Zandar’s name. “Oh, truly, the caravan. It was going south. That was ten days ago. Zandar works his way through all the villages and so on to the south coast. He sells spices to the cooks.” He thought for a moment, apparently struggling with the not very familiar language. “The name of the drug in your tongue, it is … um, opium, that’s it! Baruma was giving him opium. Taliaesyn was very thin when we bought him, too.”
“Baruma is going to pay for all this,” Jill said quietly. “He is going to pay and pay and pay until he whines and screams and begs me to kill him and put an end to it.”
“Jill!” Salamander gasped in honest shock.
Brindemo laughed, a tormented mutter.
“My blessing to you, lass,” he whispered. “My humble but honest blessing.”
Salamander started for the door, then paused, looking back at Brindemo.
“One last thing. Why did Baruma do this to you?”
“I disobeyed him. He said to sell Taliaesyn to the mines or the galleys. I sold him instead to the decent master.”
“I see. Well, that act of mercy’s cost you dear, but you have my thanks for it.”
All the way back to their inn Jill burned with rage, and that burning translated itself to her vision, until it truly seemed that pillars of flame danced ahead of them through the streets. Although he kept giving her worried looks, Salamander said nothing until they were back in their chamber and the door safely barred behind them. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
“Stop it! I don’t even know what you’re doing, but stop it right now! I can feel power pouring out of you.”
“I was just … well, seeing things again. I don’t know how to
stop it.”
Yet the shaking and his very real fear had already snapped her mind back to a more normal state. The flames were gone, although the edges of everything in the room still shimmered with silver energy.
“Then don’t start it in the first place.” Salamander let her go. “Jill, you get to brooding on things, though I can’t truly say I blame you, mind. But, well, how can I explain it? When you brood, you summon power, because you have a dweomer mind, deny it all you want. When most people brood over things, they see pictures in their mind or hear the voice that they consider their self talking, but it all stays in the mind where it belongs. When you’ve got this raw power pouring into you, you begin to see the pictures and so on outside of your mind, don’t you?”
“I do.” She made the admission reluctantly. “I saw fire running before us down the street.”
“Well, that’s cursed dangerous. Dweomerfolk see images, too, and work with them, but we’ve learned how to control them. If you go on blundering around this way, you could go stark, raving mad. Images and voices will come and go around you of their own free will, and you won’t be able to stop them.”
Since Jill could barely control them even then, she went cold all over at the prospect. With a dramatic sigh Salamander sprawled onto the cushioned divan.
“Food,” he said abruptly. “Eating somewhat generally helps shut things down. It’s tediously difficult to work any dweomer on a full stomach. Drink dulls the mind right down, too. But I doubt me if that’s going to be enough. I’ve no right to do anything of the sort, but I’m going to have to teach you some apprentice tricks of the exalted trade.”
“And what makes you think I want to learn them?”
“Your basic desire to stay sane and alive, that’s what. Don’t be a dolt, Jill! You’re like a wounded man who’s afraid to have the chirurgeon stop his bleeding because pressing on the wound might hurt.” He paused, and he seemed to be studying the air all around her. “Well, you’re too worked up now to try a lesson. How about food, indeed? The Great Krysello is famished. If you wouldn’t mind assuming your guise of beauteous barbarian handmaiden, go down and ask the innkeep to send up a tray of meats and fruits. And a flagon of wine, too.”