Newsletter Archive | May 1st 2024

Wow! It's May Already!

A third of the year gone. Soon, delicate blossoms will give way to the sweltering summer fun and sunshine. Already the temperatures are rocking past 80°F. Time to break out the old AC units and maybe some of the reserved bourbon for the weekend celebrations to come.

One such celebration will be for the second book of the Silver Fox. As I’m writing this, the first draft of the sequel stands about 340 pages—close to being finished! The themes of this book differ from the upcoming book the Doppelgänger Queen releasing this year. It moves from the heady themes of grief and betrayal, the sequel dives into immortality and the legacy left behind from such efforts. The crew ventures forth into the Iounese desert to contend with mechanical monstrosities known as the Mannequins. The book also focuses on the priestesses of the Morning Lord, a religious order that focuses on motherhood and luminary worship.

With Mother’s Day coming up, I wanted to impart a scene that was cut out from the Doppelgänger Queen. Just like the movies, scenes will be cut out to help the story coalesce. While I loved showcasing the environment of the Abbey through Rhyllae’s eyes, it was sadly redundant to the news shared with Aramis. Thus, it got the boot.

Lucky for you, dear readers, you get to see this scene. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing.

Shine on,

K.N.Fitzwater

High on the northern slope, the Abbey of the Rising Dawn towered over all as the bastion of hope. Built long before Amaveriel’s founders took refuge, even before the Morning Lord’s return for his kingdom, from the ancients’ time, the people before the cataclysm. They had a different tradition back then based on penance and self-sacrifice. Now, the priestesses contemplated upon the rise and fall of the sun and the life it illuminated. Carved into its limestone edifice, the sculpture of the sun gazed upon all who came and went. Its rays radiate across the entire building, with the central beam becoming the main frame of the two-story stained glass window. Only the minaret, the prayer tower, was higher, far at the end of the building on the eastern side.

As the flock continued to ascend toward the front entrance, Rhyllae diverted from the path and went behind a low retaining wall. There was a side door overshadowed by a bramble of wild roses, past their bloom. A porter with a wagon of goods was going over a list with Mother Adelin. Both were hunched over the long scroll trailing about their feet.

Rhyllae decided not to bother them, seeing how engrossed they were in their work, and plucked a pear from the closest barrel. The crisp sweetness sparkled on her tongue, causing her to roll her eyes—far superior to the rations and jungle roots they had to survive upon. Sister Rhyllae noshed on the fruit as she made her way through the cellar and into the kitchen.

Many sisters spend most of their duties here. They turn the giant cauldrons lining the wall with their ladles as they slice and dice delicious morsels in the center of the room. Then every dusk, a rotating team to venture out on the streets to feed the poor. It was never enough, but they all do what they can and pray for the rest.

Here, Rhyllae chucked the pear core into the composite bin and wiped her palms on a towel hanging nearby. Rhyllae made her way into the hall, dodging around her fellow sisters, who were too busy to notice her. The chiseled flagstones gave way to the familiar black-and-white checkered marble that defines the historic abbey.

Along the way, she spied freshly clean laundry stacked in baskets by one of the garden’s many arches. Rhyllae donned herself a saffron cloth from the bundle, taking care to wrap it about her head and neck as pre-ordain of the order. Then she scurried out into the cloister garden. Here, as was in any humble home, the garden was divided into four quadrants, etched deep into the Earth. In the northern section, orange and lemon trees come to hip-high. Opposite, fresh bundles of rosemary, thyme, lavender, and sage had been cut to dry on staves in the sun. To the west, their crop of tomatoes and strawberries fair well above rows of spinach and garlic. Closest to Rhyllae were roses, used to bless their waters and perfumed their bodies. Here, a statue of Lune sat among them, a fresh cut placed on her lap.

But the most sacred of them all was the water itself; spilling forth from a humble, levitating, circular dish. The pure liquid spilled over the edge into the irrigated lines, dividing and supplying the life-sustaining force in all quadrants. Here, too, in the circle dish, petals of roses lay on top. Rhyllae bobbed quickly in a curtsy in front of Lune’s statue while touching her forehead. Then she went to the fountain and rubbed away the grime of the Anglorian Jungle. Once gone, she slaked her thirst from the fresh sprout. She plucked fresh petals, whispers a word of thanks, and spread them on the fountain before she dashed off.

It was nearing the sixth hour past zenith, a time to do one of the five meditative prayers. A priestess, such as Rhyllae, must halt in their doings and kneel facing the sun’s glory (which is west for the rest of the day). The sister wanted to get to the letters before such prayers for Mother Cecil will close up the office, and she then she would have to wait for the next day. Her grieving heart could not spare another night.

Rhyllae hiked up the tunic’s skirt and ran up the minaret’s spiral staircase and hop out on the second floor. At last, she reached the office. Her hand was upon the lever when it turned. One of her sisters, Rajeulle, yelped in surprise when she opened the door, then cried out in joy. Rhyllae rolled on her heels from the sheer force of the embrace, then she sighed and returned it in kind. After all, she is a big sister to many due to the longevity of her elvish heritage.

“You’re alive!” Rajuelle said and dropped the volumes to the floor so she can embrace Sister Rhyllae with her one arm. “I knew it. I knew what they said was untrue. By the Lord’s Light, you’re alive.”

The bells rang out. The prayers for the setting sun had begun.

Rhyllae said, “Sister, let us pray in here. Then you can help me find the letters.”

“The letters?” Then Rajuelle’s eye widen in understanding. “The wills. Yes, I was about to send them all out.”

“‘Send them all out?’ You thought we were dead?”

Sister Rajuelle looked away. “Not just Ruth’s company. Come.”

Rajuelle guided Rhyllae into the office to confide in her the terrible news. The situation was worse, much worse.