Excerpt from “Portrait of a Pretender”

“You were always a moody one, Othy,” said Forthia. “Even as a child. A stray child, mother called you, last born, when she thought her time for bearing past. You were born the same year Arnthom married Tulthana, and during all the years they tried and failed to conceive a babe of their own, Arnthom would pat you on the head and promise you his throne. It was a blow to you when Drajorian was born. Suddenly you went from heir apparent to being packed off to a lonely school on a distant moor.”

“It was a relief to me, not a burden, to be spared the throne, Forthia,” Othmordian said. “And as for the school, that was my request as well. I wanted to study magic. And I first went when I was thirteen, three years after Drajorian’s birth.”

“Yes,” Forthia said, “I know. After you tried to kill him.”

Othmordian frowned.

“No one told me,” she said. “I have my ways of knowing.”

“So I have discovered,” he said dryly.

“If you were willing to kill your nephew when he was but a toddler, how much more so now that he is almost twenty-five and the only remaining threat to your power?”

“And you think I killed our brother too?” Othmordian asked, his anger barely controlled.

“There is more,” she said.

“Say it then.”

“No one allowed the glamourers to perform an investigation of our brother’s death. Nonetheless, I secretly asked the Head Glamourer of Mangcansten Lodge to report his findings to me. He confirmed that Arnthom was killed by a brink. He also told me about your time as a student at his school, before you were expelled. And why you were expelled.”

Vivid memories flashed across Othmordian’s mind: the drunken smell of paint thinner, the sound of scribs on linen parchment, the giggles in the dark after the proctors extinguished the candles in the boys’ dorm. Most wonderful of all, had been the early mist-filled mornings walking out alone on the moor, with only a sketch pad and a pack of wild dogs for company.

“He told me,” continued Forthia, “That you were a mediocre artist, not a true glamour caster, except in one area. You could draw dogs like no one else, all kinds of dogs. He said that you even inquired into a forbidden area, how to make a certain kind of brink called a Smoke Hound. The Smoke Hound must be drawn with a burning coal. When it is brought to life, the hound moves with a hide of flame and smoke. The artist, however, is left with a burnt hand.”

Forthia held out her palms. “Put your right hand in mine, Orthmordin.”

He did so. His right hand was swathed in bandages.

***

Cover Art for “Portrait of a Pretender”

Amazon does the cover design for the Shorts, but here is a hypothetical cover for “Portait of a Pretender.”

Anti-heroes?

I belong to a writer’s discussion and critique group, the Online Writing Workshop. (Long ago, when I first joined, it was the Dell Rey Online Writing Workshop, but that’s a story for another time.) I’ve added the link to my sidebar for your edification. To any aspiring sf/f/h writers out there–I highly recommend it.

The discussion on the OWW list today concerned anti-heroes. What distinguishes an anti-hero from a villian? Is an anti-hero just a hero with a few flaws (boastfulness, bashfulness, bad acne)? Or does he do truly reprehensible things (lie, cheat, steal, kill, rape), but somehow is redeemed by other aspects of his character or actions in the plot?

Because of our love affair with rebels and the glamour of rebellion, I think we often mistakenly call a hero with flaws an “anti-hero” to increase his mystique. A regular old hero sounds stuffy. What, a person who tries their best to be good all the time? Yawn.

I think that comes from a mistaken impression about how easy it is to do good, even if one wants to.

My short stories, “Drawn to the Brink” and “Portrait of a Pretender” establish several characters, each of whom is trying to do good, but who inevitably come in conflict with one another.

Othmordian, the protaganist of “Portrait of a Pretender,” could be described as a villain or an anti-hero. He is cast in the typical villain’s role–that of the conniving uncle who usurps the throne of his nephew.

But Othmordian has his reasons. Are they sufficient to redeem him? That’s the question…