Mask of Falling Stars – begins!

A year after I outlined it, I’m starting the first actual writing on a new standalone M/M fantasy novel or novella:

Mask of Falling Stars

Nearly-blind expert maskmaker Parril Morni ignores his better judgment and travels to the city of Altenlida to help his aunt secure the winning bid on some very important festival masks. He arrives to discover his aunt has been murdered, a gorgeous investigator wants to make a shambles of Parr’s vow of chastity, Parr’s travel companions on the journey might be his saviors or his worst nightmare, he’s going to have to replace the rare magical artifact he’s been using to enhance his vision, and no one is precisely who they seem. Parr wins the commission, but the honor brings him far too close to the web of sex, intrigue, and human sacrifice that is the once-a-century festival called Starfall. 

I really wanted a smart, talented, differently-abled main character for this, and Parr just stumbled into place.

The story’s inspired a little bit by Joan Vinge’s amazing Snow Queen, by the settings of Scott Lynch’s ‘Gentleman Bastard’ novels and Melissa Scott’s ‘Point of Hopes’ novels, and by an obscure 1990s fantasy by Felicity Savage called Humility Garden, as well as my love of antique theatrical costuming. It’s not set in the Moro space opera universe or my sprawling fantasy Lonhra sequence. This one will probably have some steampunk motifs, but I’m really just making it up as I go along. It will be a romantic thriller, with a Happy Ever After ending, and a lot of sex on the way there.

As I work on the Moro books, I need a side project that isn’t as big as Lonhra, or as self-absorbing as fan fiction. This could do the trick. Since Mask doesn’t have a home yet, and may well end up being self-published, I’m comfortable with releasing small snippets as I go.

Here are the first few pages of the first draft, rough as they are:

Parril Morni clutched at the limnstone hanging in the hollow of his throat, taking familiar comfort from the smooth weight of the gem and the textured silver bezel and chain. As his eyesight sharpened, he squinted to focus it just a little more. Enough to give him a blurred view of the Altenlida harbor. Masts, rigged and empty, forested the nearer skyline. Beyond the busy docks, Parril thought he saw the unbroken bulwark of merchant palaces and warehouses, their plaster facades and glazed windows burning gold with the reflected sunset. A distant purple blot rose eastward, its summit fretted with towers and domes: the Redoubt Alten and the palace called Crown of Stars.

“Altenlida Evenside docks. How much do you see, lad?” said the tall, massively built man beside him.

“It matches the engraving, Sof,” said Parril. “Beyond that, I cannot tell.”

His eyes ached from the strain. He couldn’t hold onto the pendant forever. Once Parril let his fingers slip from the stone, his world shrank to its normal twelve-foot radius of reasonable clarity. Altenlida turned back into a sunset-colored haze.

“Heh, we’re staying not so far from your kinhouse. What is safe on a ship is not safe on dark and teeming streets. We’d count it discourtesy to the Handmaiden if we did not escort you to your door, little brother.”

That solved one pressing problem. Parril relaxed and said, “I would be very grateful for it. But you have your own duties. I’d not wish to impose too much, and I do not know how -”

Sof made a low raspy sound that was as close to laughter as he seemed to get. He cracked the knuckles of first one large brown hand, then the other. “No fear, little brother. The great Emande Morni is not pious enough to invite a pack of professional torturers in for tea. We do this not for her honor, but yours.”

Aunt Emande had sent the engraving along with her last wheedling letter, a ticket on the wheelship Foros, and the tidy sum of coin she’d spared for his travel expenses. Parril had saved a little more of the latter by transferring from the private stateroom to a berth among a reserved, austere group of Colimbanese leatherworkers heading to the festival. They’d not robbed, threatened, or propositioned him in any way.

The Foro’s class-conscious steward had taken them all aside once Parril made his request.

Parril wondered how that conversation had actually gone. He couldn’t be sure, but he’d thought the steward looked more sallow than before, after hastily exiting the shared bunkroom. That had been a week ago. He’d felt as safe as sleeping in his old house back in Rainton.

One of the Colimbas, Burunad Sof, had actually struck up a sort of friendship with Parril, once Parril revealed a passing knowledge of the smelly, exacting art of crafting leather masks. Parril was not ignorant of how Sof used that craft in far different ways than his own. Professional courtesy linked them, as well as their respect for the Handmaiden who looked out for all who worked in the arts of making and unmaking.

When the docking bell finally sounded, the sunset had faded to a swirling purple-brown twilight sparked by amber lanterns and the brighter white of witchfires. Parril was more and more glad of the Colimbanese escort. His limnstone worked better in brilliant light, and the thought of walking near-blind in a strange city made him nervous. He’d known every inch of Rainton and all its little landmarks. Altenlida was vast, according to the maps he’d tried to memorize.

“Your gear, little brother.” Sof tapped Parril’s right shoulder, before swinging the strap over it. Parril grunted as he took the weight of his few clothes and his chosen tools. There were things he’d not trust Emande’s workshop to stock, Altenlida’s size and wealth be damned.

He heard quiet footsteps ringing him, Sof’s brethren establishing a cordon between Parril and the world. He should not have felt safe. He knew they carried swords and clubs for everyday defense, and more wicked tools to ply their trade. But he knew the law limited their chosen prey to condemned murderers, rapists, and traitors.

Parril was a maskmaker, nothing more.