A Muddle of Magic
Fledgling Magic #2
by Alexandra Rushe
Genre: Epic Fantasy
Pub Date: 10/2/18
Whisked from humdrum Alabama to the fantastical land of Tandara by a mage who won’t take no for an answer, Raine Stewart finds herself tangled in a muddle of magic. A Dark Wizard is out for her blood, a demonic golem has orders to dispatch her . . . and she stinks at magic. Being a wizard, even a baby wizard, is harder than Raine thought.
Raine and her companions find sanctuary amongst the famed warriors of the snow-capped nation of Finlara, and Raine is reunited with her dear friend, the frost giant Tiny Bartog. In short order, she unearths a magic mirror, a dread curse, and a tragic, ill-fated love affair.
Safety, however, is an illusion. The dreaded Magog’s Eye is still missing, and war looms. It seems an entire world hangs in the balance, waiting to see whether Raine will be able to harness her magic. But with a little help from her friends, she’ll survive . . . she hopes.
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Bedtime for the Mablet
A blizzard raged outside the thatched cottage, rattling the shutters like an angry frost giant, but the boy was unafraid. His mother was strong and fierce, and mighty in magic. She would keep him safe. Sitting at the table eating his supper, he watched her throw another log on the fire. Sparks shot up the chimney and fire imps danced in the flames.
“Finish your milk, boy,” she said in her gruff voice. “Bed time.”
“I’m not sleepy. I want a story.”
“There are more stories than hairs on your head. Which do you want?”
“You know, Mor. Finn and the Troll.”
“Again?” She sighed. “I should think you’d weary of that one.”
The boy shook his head. “It’s my favorite.”
“Very well.” She heaved her bulk into a sturdy chair by the fire. “Come here.”
The boy jumped down from the bench and climbed onto her lap. Settling him in the crook of her arm, she said, “Finn and the troll, having bested the god Trowyn in a contest of wits, were given the task of—”
The boy wrapped his small fingers around one of his mother’s tusks. “No, Mor. From the beginning. I want the whole story. Starting with Magog and Xan.”
“Cheeky cub.” The troll tickled his ribs until he squealed. “As you know, the gods of Tandara once numbered ten.”
The boy sat up in her lap. “I can name the gods. Brefreton taught me a poem about them.”
“Did he? I’d like to hear it.”
He regarded her from beneath lowered brows. “If I tell you, I still get a story?”
“You drive a hard bargain, but the answer is yes.”
The boy nodded. Taking a deep breath, he recited,
Once upon a time, ere the world was changed,
The gods numbered ten and these are their names:
Kron the Smith, god of forge and flame,
Seth, Lord of Darkness, turmoil, and change.
Reba the Bountiful, goddess of dawn,
Bringer of light and things that are grown.
Gar, fierce Hunter, god of rivers and rain,
Esma the Healer and easer of pain.
Valdar the Merry of poem and wine,
The sweetest nectar born of the vine,
Tam is the goddess of sea, hearth, and lore,
Trowyn the Bear--
The boy broke off. “Trowyn’s my favorite, ʼcause he can turn into a bear,” he confided, curling his fingers like claws. “But Finn bested him, all the same.”
“Yes, he did. Go on.”
The boy nodded, and continued:
Trowyn the Bear god wields his Hammer of War,
Last come Magog and his twin brother Xan,
They loved one another, then Magog raised his hand.
Magog the Comely--
The boy wrinkled his nose. “Comely makes him sound like a girl, and Magog is a boy god.”
“Take it up with the poet. I didn’t write it.”
“Bree says Magog was handsome. Handsomer than Xan.”
“Aye, Magog was beautiful to look upon.” The troll tugged one of her long ears. “By human standards, at any rate.”
“Until he ripped his face off.”
A Meddle of Wizards
Fledgling Magic #1
Raine Stewart is convinced she’ll die young and alone in Alabama, the victim of a chronic, mysterious illness. Until a man in a shabby cloak steps out of her mirror and demands her help to defeat a bloodthirsty wizard.
Raine shrugs it off as a hallucination—just one more insult from her failing body—and orders her intruder to take a hike. But the handsome figment of her imagination won’t take no for an answer, and kidnaps her anyway, launching her into a world of utmost danger—and urgent purpose.
Ruled by unpredictable gods and unstable nations, Tandara is a land of shapeshifters and weather-workers, queens and legends. Ravenous monsters and greedy bounty hunters patrol unforgiving mountains. Riverboats pulled by sea-cattle trade down broad waterways. And creatures of nightmare stalk Raine herself, vicious in the pursuit of her blood.
But Raine isn’t helpless or alone. She’s part of a band as resourceful as it is odd: a mage-shy warrior, a tattered wizard, a tenderhearted giant, and a prickly troll sorceress. Her new friends swear she has powers of her own. If she can stay under their protection, she might just live long enough to find out . . .
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What now? Raine thought, closing the door. Hurrying into the library, she found Mimsie standing by the window, her slim form shining in the dim light. The ghost raised her arm and pointed to the mirror over the mantel. The glass rippled like wind-tossed water.
Raine gasped in shock as the billowing folds of the mirror parted and a man with shoulder-length auburn hair stepped out. He held a brilliant jewel in one hand and he was dressed in some sort of costume—a tattered brown cloak, a knee-length rumpled brown tunic worn over loose leggings of the same color, and scruffy brown boots. He was handsome, Raine’s stunned brain realized, but he was not the man on the ship. Oh, no. This was an entirely different apparition. She stumbled back, tripped on the hem of her pajamas, and crashed to the floor with the grace of a hippo . Ignoring her aching rump, she gaped at the stranger.
“Do you see what I see?” Raine asked Mimsie, her gaze on her brain’s latest manifestation. Boy, when she had a meltdown, she had a doozy.
“If you’re talking about the man in the funny getup, absolutely,” the ghost said. “Call the police.”
“And tell them what? ʼScuse me, officer, could you send someone over? A man just broke into my house through the library mirror? They’ll lock me up and throw away the key.”
The man gave Raine a quizzical look and said something in a strange language. He waved the jewel at her and took a tentative step closer.
“Forget the police,” Mimsie said with a hiss. “Run. I’ll create a diversion.”
Raine scrambled to her feet and backed toward the door, her gaze on the stranger. He spoke again and the jewel in his hand flared, bleaching the library walls white. Raine’s muscles went stiff and hard as rock. She froze, unable to move, pinned to the floor like a bug.
“Let her go,” Mimsie screeched.
She flew at the man, passed through him, and came out the other side, but if the intruder noticed, he gave no sign. With a despairing wail, Mimsie disappeared, leaving Raine alone with him. Closing the space between them, he lifted Raine’s arm and examined the splotch on the underside of her left wrist. She stared at him, dizzy and disoriented. His hands were strong and uncallused, and his palms were hot against her skin.
He felt awfully real for a dream. No matter, she told herself. Tomorrow morning when I wake, he’ll be gone.
The stranger regarded her, his gaze troubled. “There must be some mistake.”
English, the man had spoken English, though his accent was peculiar. He released her and stepped back. “You are not what I expected, but you have the mark.” He stroked his chin. “Still, best to be sure.”
He waved the stone again. Raine’s petrified muscles relaxed without warning, and she crumpled to the floor.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” The man bowed. “I am Archimedes Brefreton, a wizard of the order prime. You may call me Brefreton, Bree, or Red—anything but Archie, which I detest. What is your name?”
Wizard? The guy was a total nutter. Correction: she was the nutter. She’d had a complete brain melt.
“There’s a good girl.” Brain Tumor Boy gave her an encouraging smile. “Tell me your name.”
Raine struggled to her feet and straightened her pajamas. This was ridiculous. She would not be controlled by a lump on her brain.
But, to her fury, the words tumbled out of their own accord.
“Mary Raine Stewart, but that’s my adopted name,” she heard herself say. “No idea who my birth parents were. They left me on the steps of Saint Mark’s Episcopal Church when I was a baby. My father’s aunt raised me after my parents died.”
She stamped her foot and glared at this latest fancy of her beleaguered brain. “Stop that. You’re making me talk and I don’t like it.”
“Then I suggest you stop fighting me and cooperate.” He looked her up and down, taking in her ashen complexion, frizzy locks, and gaunt frame. “You are unwell?”
“Wow, someone give Captain Observant a free T-shirt.”
“What ails you?”
“Ding, ding, ding. That’s the fifty-million-dollar question. The only thing the doctors know for sure is that I’m dying.”
“Dying? Inconvenient, to be sure, but hardly insurmountable.” He brandished the gemstone at her. “Do you know what this is?”
“You got a shiny rock. Yay.”
“It is not a rock. It is a god stone and very powerful. With it, your vitality can be restored.”
Talk about denial. She was so desperate to be well that her psyche had cooked up this garbage. Pathetic.
“Come with me.” He held out his hand. “Help me save my homeland and you will be made healthy and whole.”
“Mister, I wouldn’t go to the corner store with you, even if you were real. Which you are so not.”
His handsome features hardened. Grabbing her by the arm, he pulled her close. “You are under a misapprehension. You have no choice. One way or another, you will accompany me. There are more lives at stake than your own.”
Lifting the jewel, he began to murmur in that strange language, and the mirror over the mantel shimmered and pulsed in response.
Something clattered outside the window, and he turned with a start. “What the–”
Good old Mimsie. She’d promised to create a diversion and she had, rattling the garbage cans around and making one hell of a racket.
Raine jerked free of the man’s hold and punched him in the nose. Hard.
“Ouch.” She shook her throbbing hand and glared at him in outrage. “What gives? Dreams aren’t supposed to hurt.”
He winced and prodded the bridge of his nose. “Now, see here, young lady,” he said as she drew back her fist. “Do not—”
Raine took another swing at the man. He cursed and made a defensive move, and her fist glanced off his upraised arm and slammed into the jewel. It blazed bright as a miniature sun and flew into the air.
A tremendous wind howled through the library. Books tumbled off the shelves. Vases and bric-a-brac crashed to the floor. The couch skidded across the room and Mimsie’s favorite Queen Anne chair smashed into the wall. Raine was lifted off her feet like a papier-mâche doll and tossed toward the mantel mirror. She screamed in helpless terror as the glistening surface of the glass parted like a pair of grotesque lips and swallowed her whole. She tumbled, head over heel, through darkness.
Stars melted around her. Down, down she plummeted, toward a distant shard of light. The splinter of brightness widened, and she caught a fleeting glimpse of mountains and an ocean of trees. Then something slammed into her head and Raine knew no more.
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My name is Alexandra Rushe and I write the Fledgling Magic series, the story of Raine Stewart, a sickly young woman who gets swept through a portal to the world of Tandara. Magic permeates the world of Tandara, but, instead of wands, the wizards in Tandara channel magic through wizard stones. A Meddle of Wizards, the first book in the series, is a fish-out-of-water story. Raine is yanked from her not-so-comfortable existence and thrust into an unfamiliar world where she’s forced to step outside her comfort zone to survive. Unchanneled magic is dangerous and lethal, and Raine, a neophyte wizard, has a series of magical misadventures.
Frankly, she sucks at magic. Fortunately, she has a wizard named Bree to tutor her and a textbook called A Beginner’s Guide to Mastering the Glow: Incantate—Don’t Incinerate. The Beginner’s Guide is part how-to manual, part history, and part cautionary tale warning would-be adepts of the fate awaiting those that lack a healthy respect for magic.
Like Dorfus the Doomed, for example, who accidentally turned himself inside out.
Readers often ask me how I write. That’s a tough question, because the writing process is weird and differs from person to person, but I guess you could say that I’m a plotser, a combination of pantser—those writers who write by the seat of their pants—and a plotter--those who plot first and write after. I’m also a linear writer, meaning that I start at the beginning of the story and bully my way through to the end, with a lot of hair pulling and anxiety in between. What amazes me is how the subconscious mind works. Some tidbit I drop at the start of a story will wind up being significant. Weird, huh? Or, I’ll be writing along, thinking I know where the story is going and wham! A character will appear with no warning, like the frost giant in my story. Tiny Bartog showed up, unannounced and fully formed in the first book, and it was love at first sight.
Species also have a habit of appearing unexpectedly, leaving me scratching my head. In A Muddle of Magic, I write of the aratuk, battle hags that reap the souls of the unworthy, and snow devils, rapacious creatures that live in the mountains and feed on lost sheep and travelers. Neither the aratuk nor snow devils were planned or plotted, and that’s why I keep a bible, an index of characters, places, and terms I make up. When I first started writing, I used to put everything on note cards and kept them in a box. Now, I keep a running index in a separate Word document, though a spread-sheet is another option. Some writers of my acquaintance are fond of sticky notes, Scrivener, and flow charts. Different strokes for different folks.
Humor is another element that pops up unexpectedly in my writing, maybe because my dad was a funny guy. He hated the beach, hated the sand and the sun and the crabs. I can still hear him saying, “If I had a house at the beach and a home in hell, I’d go home.” And, once, while sweltering in a hot car at a funeral, he quipped, “When I die, shove a hambone up my ass and let the dogs drag me off.”
Daddy never got the funeral he wanted—we couldn’t afford it. He was a big guy, see, and three-dog funerals are pricey. We cremated him, instead, and threw ink pens into the hole when we buried his ashes. But, that’s another story . . .
Or maybe humor finds its way into my stories because I’m Southern, and Southerners are funny people. We talk slow and sweet, like caramel, and we have a colorful way of expressing ourselves. We can’t just say somebody’s ugly. We say, “She’s uglier ʼn a mud fence daubed with lizards.” We don’t say someone lacks intelligence. We say, “He’s dumber ʼn a bag of frog turds.” Southerners can’t get right to the point. Language is the point, and ours is rich and colorful, and ever-changing. We don’t talk. We sing in syrupy cadence, our voices caressing each word and drawing it out, taking a one-syllable word and making it into a sonnet. “Damn,” becomes day-yumm. “Lord,” becomes Low-ward-duh, and “hell”, becomes hay-yull. And don’t even get me started on the “S” word. That one goes on for days.
If you asked me how to write funny, I couldn’t tell you. Don’t have a clue. It’s a mystery, humor, like writing. I don’t know where it comes from, but I’m glad it’s there.
It keeps the darkness at bay.
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