Diversity Is Coming

By Nicolas Wilson, Michelle Browne, Mags Carr and 5 more

The days of unified culture and singular Great Kingdoms are over. In their place, bold new visions are redefining the world of fantasy. Eight authors tackle stories with a focus on diversity, finding heroism outside the familiar boundaries of farmhands and prince's castles.

Including original fiction from Nicolas Wilson, Carole McDonnell, Michelle Browne, Mags Carr, William Lenoire, Rachel Savage, Kirstin Pullioff, and Gail Villanueva, this collection goes where GRR Martin and Terry Brooks couldn't.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicolas Wilson
• Release date: Feb 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781502253033

Nicolas Wilson

Nicolas Wilson is a published journalist, graphic novelist, and novelist. He lives in the rainy wastes of Portland, Oregon with his wife, four cats and a dog. Nic's work spans a variety of genres, from political thriller to science fiction and urban fantasy. He has several novels currently available, and many more due for release in the next year. Nic's stories are characterized by his eye for the absurd, the off-color, and the bombastic. For information on Nic's books, and behind-the-scenes looks at his writing, visit nicolaswilson.com.

Book preview

Diversity Is Coming

The days of unified culture and singular Great Kingdoms are over. In their place, bold new visions are redefining the world of fantasy. Eight authors tackle stories with a focus on diversity, finding heroism outside the familiar boundaries of farmhands and prince's castles.

Including original fiction from Nicolas Wilson, Carole McDonnell, Michelle Browne, Mags Carr, William Lenoire, Rachel Savage, Kirstin Pullioff, and Gail Villanueva, this collection goes where GRR Martin and Terry Brooks couldn't.

Table of Contents

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World Map

Ayana, by Nicolas Wilson

The Witch's Curse, by Kirstin Pullioff

Seven Weeks, by Gail Villanueva

The Herders of the Roof of the World, by William Lenoire

The Reed-fish Girl of Comara Cove, by Michelle Browne

Vergreva, by Mags Carr

The Girl In The Dim, by Carole McDonnell

Children of Scale, by Rachel Savage

Afterword by Nicolas Wilson

Worldmap

Ayana, by Nicolas Wilson

My mother named me Ayana, which means journey. It's the only thing my father's ever told me about her. His name's Banto- and he hates that I call him that- and for as long as I can remember he's been a playwrite.

He tells me most playwrites can't feed a family, and that we've been very fortunate. One of his characters, the monkey prince Húsūn, has become quite popular locally, enough that he was able to build a small playhouse on the edge of town.

He's written a few other things, but people weren't interested. They like Húsūn. I can't blame them. I remember the first story my father told me about the monkey prince. I had a single female friend, and we were beaten by a group of girls from the center of the city. The deeper into the city you got, the wealthier the inhabitants were.

I wanted him to teach me how to throw a punch, how to fight dirty. Instead, he told me a story.

Húsūn was a renowned warrior, who traveled with several other heroes, including a tikbalang, and his princess bride. They fought many evils across the kingdoms, and while traveling through the area near Folei, he was contacted by a village of tauzak herders. They had trouble with raiders attacking their village, and offered Húsūn's party a bounty to deal with them. That night, Húsūn encountered an elderly woman on the road. She implored Húsūn not to attack the raiders; she knew that such an attack would only cause more bloodshed, that the remaining raiders would swear a blood oath to wipe out the village, until the last of each struck one another down in the rain.

Húsūn asked how she could know this. She explained that she was Kiritru, mother of the tauzak, and she would defend her herders, until the time she could secure a lasting peace for all. Húsūn returned the bounty the next morning, and told them that they had Kiritru's protection, and she would show the raiders the Way. They didn't listen. But the Goddess kept her word for Húsūn's abstinence. Perhaps the raiders would have been defeated, for a time, either way. But their acceptance of the Way guaranteed peace in the Roof of the World.

I was still young enough I didn't have much time for allegory. My father told me the story's point was that there are times when the wisest warrior does not fight. Even at that young age, I didn't believe in Kiritru, or any of the various gods. I think Húsūn simply realized that a war ends in destruction, so he chose not to start one.

The story did teach me that talking could be just as potent as a fist. So when next I saw the girl who attacked us, I spoke with her. At first, she put on a brave face, and tried to menace me. But the facade slowly crumbled, until there was only a crying girl. She didn't know why, exactly, but her father's business was doing poorly, and that made him act angrily. He hurt her.

We told Banto, and he agreed to have a talk with her father. The beatings stopped. I don't know what he said. Back then, I thought he told him a story about the monkey prince; now that I'm grown I'm not so sure.

My father says I've 'blossomed,' though aside from the bloom in my cheeks whenever Chitran smiles at me I don't think I really understand it. I know I'm old enough to ask questions. Like why aren't women allowed on the stage? Father mumbled something about dignity, and decency, before finally stating, Some folk have got a problem with women. Then he hobbled away on his one foot.

He's told me a dozen different stories about how he lost his other foot. Most were mundane, that it was trampled by a herd of tauzak, crushed working in a mine on Halbazo. On a few rare occasions, when a friend bought him too much ale, he'd tell wilder stories, how it was cursed by Aliashe, cut off by a tikbalang who, having only four hands to walk on, felt feet unnatural. My favorite was when he told me he traded it to the fae for a favor, and when I asked the favor he said, You, and touched my nose. That answer warmed me the way he said ale warmed him.

Whenever I confronted him over his shifting story, he'd grin. But if I called him a liar, he'd stop smiling and say, Writing is lying through truth; lying is how a playwrite practices.

I think my father felt badly, that women couldn't be on his stage, so he hired them for anything else that he could. Female carpenters, stagehands, whatever else we needed, he hired women, many of them widows who would otherwise test their fortunes on the street.

I knew how strict the laws were, in that regard. Several times a year, our humble theater was raided by the authorities because someone believed the men on stage were women. My father considered that a point of pride, a testament to his casting and direction. To aid in the illusion, my father hired pretty young boys, with soft features, and red, rosy cheeks. Boys like Chitran.

He had hair like flax, but that shined like the blade of a nobleman's sword, lips as full and fluffy as clouds ready to burst with rain, and eyes bluer and deeper than the Khilei Ocean. My father took me there to swim once, and reminded me that we were fortunate, for many of our neighbors could not take a day from work to swim. Dive though I did, I couldn't reach the bottom.

I found Father scribbling with his quill in the office above the theater. He wanted to be done with Húsūn; he'd said so many times. He had contemplated killing the character off. But every time he tried something else, people refused to come to see it. And you have to give the people what they want, he concluded. But this time he insisted, I've reached the end of Húsūn's journey.

It'll cause a riot if you kill him, I said idly. I was used to his manias, and usually he came to his senses largely on his own.

He doesn't die, at the end, he said.

Then how is it an end?

It's an end to the adventures, he said. His princess bride is killed, and he is grievously wounded.

So it's a tragic ending? I asked, suddenly perking up.

He smiled. Not at all, he said, and touched my face. Their daughter lives. It gives him time to raise her into a woman. It's a sad ending, because he loses his wife, but it's also a happy ending, because he gets to focus on building a life for his daughter.

His description made me tingle, and I knew his work was always stronger when it connected so directly to his own life. But I'd also lived long enough in the theater to recognize that one person's resonance was another's irrelevance. Do you think it'll play? I asked.

I think it connects to death, and renewal, he said. It will make those who've experienced the former sad, and give those who've known the latter hope; to most everyone, it will give both.

Can I read it? I asked. He didn't like to let anyone read his work; it was instructions for actors less so than poetry.

It isn't finished, he said. That went doubly for a work in progress. But perhaps it's time I teach you the family business.

You think I could be a playwrite?

You could be whatever your heart desired. But being a playwrite is something I could show you how to do.

Okay, I said.

He rolled out the parchment. It wasn't the first time I'd seen a play, but every time before it had been with the purpose of coaching the actors, usually reminding them of their lines. This was different, because the page was filled with possibilities. That awkward wording on the twenty-fifth line, I could change. For a moment I felt like a god, only for the weight of those decisions to come smacking down on me.

Go ahead, he said, and handed me his quill.

I got lost in the words. I made small notes in the margins, but mostly the dialog and action pulled me forward, until I reached the last uncompleted line. I wanted to know- I needed to know- where things proceeded from there. I knew from experience that he wrote as well and as fast as he did, and pestering him only made him move more slowly, with less certainty, so I tried to calm myself. But as that hot urgency faded, I was left with something else. I had always liked the character of Vaidehi, Húsūn's warrior bride. But as I grew into a woman, I felt her flaws more deeply. Too often she was made the subject of fun, but not a pursuer of it. Here she wasn't, and I asked my father why.

She's never been written for comedy, he said, and he seemed almost sad. Vaidehi was a warrior, as skilled with a sword as Húsūn, but twice as cunning, and fourfold as comely. The comedic... embellishment has always come from the actors. I fought constantly with her first actor, and threatened to pay him not a dime unless he did the lines as written. The night of that first performance, he didn't. His portrayal proved popular, so much that as I would have loved to fire him, I couldn't. He stayed for five successive plays, by which time the... unflattering mannerisms were considered canon by anyone not privvy to the words on the page.

Perhaps, I said, the problem was always that men took the role. That they could not find her strength inside her compassion, or the wisdom beneath her love.

Perhaps, he said, and smiled. And I hope the plays will last long enough to be performed again, with a more... faithful presentation.

What if we weren't to wait? I asked. He frowned at me. I could do it.

And flout the obscenity laws? he asked with a wry grin.

She's worth it, I said, and was surprised by the emotion in my own voice.

Even were I to agree, the part already has a master, promised and paid.

That was true. I could be his understudy.

He's never missed a show, and you've never acted before, he said.

I could try, I said. What's the harm?

Okay, he said. But a final decision hasn't been made. If Chitran can't go on, then we'll decide whether to put you on? All right?

I hugged him, and ignored the caveat, because I doubted that if the time ever came, he could deny me.

The next day I did another pass. This time I was less enthralled with the story, so I was able to make more substantive suggestions. He pursed his lips, reading above my shoulder. Well, this will never do, he said. He held up one of the pages of the manuscript. "I can barely comprehend the direction- and I wrote it. We'll need to write out another copy, incorporating your suggestions so the players can begin rehearsing the first act. And by we..." he handed me the quill.

I wanted to balk at the suggestion; it felt like a punishment for pointing out the flaws in his work. But I also knew he'd rewritten a hundred manuscripts a dozen times each. It was a test, yes, but a test to see if I could stick with the work, even the unglamorous portions. I took the quill from him, and looked into the well. We'll need more ink, I said.

I'm going to the market for supplies. Add it to the list, and I'll fetch some. 

I wrote and I wrote, until every one of my fingers ached from the scribbling. I wrote until the sun went down, then continued until my candle burnt out. In the morning I woke with the sun, and began writing again. I heard my father wake, and shortly after smelled breakfast cooking. He brought it to me. It smelled heavenly, but I could feel the pressure of finishing the draft; the players began today, and they would need the manuscript.

He looked over my shoulder at the work, and smiled. You needn't hurry further, he said. It will be days before they catch up. Now eat. We wouldn't want this to be your last play for starvation.

I set aside the parchment, and took up a wooden plate. I tried to shovel an egg into my mouth, but my fingers refused to close properly around the spoon. I switched hands, and while my weak hand was more clumsy, it still had the strength to grasp enough to get the bite to my mouth, even if it detoured slightly at my cheek. 

That's how you can know a playwrite from his dining- or hers, he said, with a smile, she eats with her off hand, messily. I put my tongue, still caked in eggy flecks, out at him. His expression turned momentarily serious. I'm going to need you, today. Fittings.

Fittings?

An understudy has to be able to fit in the costume, too. Lenor will make the necessary adjustments. I didn't like Lenor, or maybe I didn't like the way my father looked at her. With my mother gone, I'd grown accustomed to hoarding his affections for my own.

When? I asked.

Before lunch, he said, but not too far past breakfast. I frowned at him. Don't want to let it out too far, or hem it too tightly.

I finished eating, then went back to rewriting. After an hour, my father came in and took the first act for rehearsal.

About midday, Lenor knocked upon the door. Come in, I said. She had one of Vaidehi's battle dresses folded over her arm.

Put this on, she said, and handed it to me. She turned around, and closed the door, and kept her eyes averted while I changed.

Done, I said. But as she looked I became suddenly self-conscious, and examined the dress more critically. It's much too long, I said, and frowned.

The dress is an understudy, too, she explained. It's fit to Chitran, first. We need a few hems to make it fit you- things that can be quickly undone should his dress be torn or stained.

I doubted the idea, one dress fit to two people, especially someone as tall and lanky as Chitran, and someone like me, shorter, stouter. But Lenor worked diligently, and in silence. I imagined being Vaidehi, riding through the plains on tikbalang-back, taming the savage wilds of the Jedroi Plains, fighting beside her beloved prince.

And what do you think? Lenor asked. The question tore me from my reverie.

The illusion wasn't quite complete; at the seams you could see that the dress was a replica of the fashionable battlegown the princess wore, but still I felt her power and her beauty for an instant.

I think you've outdone yourself, my father said. I hadn't heard him