I was just now struck with a what I think is a great way to begin a novel I’ve had kicking around in my head for a while. A short story I wrote a few years ago sparked the idea. I was trying to add depth to the short story by giving history and background, and it was pointed out to me that a novel was possible from the background I’d hinted at. I may put up the short story at some point, but for the moment, here is the opening page of the novel. (Those with a knowledge of mythology may recognise the main character.) All comments (criticism or praise) are welcome.

The Sorcerer’s Tale

They say I born of a witch’s consorting with a demon. I never knew the truth of that. By the time I was nine I had heard my mother tell so many different stories of my parentage that I knew only one truth: my mother was a liar, and not to be trusted.

Trusted no, but respected, definitely. Because I saw how my mother’s lies gave her power. (It was a technique I learned early, and good that I did. Before my twelfth birthday, it would save my life.) My father was one of her favourite lies. If she wanted sympathy, he was a rapists or her lost true love. If she wanted respect, he was a powerful lord who continued to watch over his bastard son and secret lover. If she wanted mystery, he was not to be spoken of, except for dark hints. And if she wanted fear, well then he was demon.

Whatever the truth about my father, my mother was most definitely a witch. And not one of the nicer kind. A lot is said about witches, and it’s all true. Not the details of course. The rituals talked about in taverns usually bear far more resemblance to the listeners’ wishes and desires than to any truth. But the essence of the tales are true. That they are healers who respect balance, or that they are ruthless women who ally with darker side of the world. Both are true, because witches are people. There is a power that comes from witchcraft and different women will use it for good or ill, by their natures. In my childhood I saw only the darker side.

So my mother had power from her witchcraft and her lies. (And her lies were part of her witchcraft, since witches make no distinction between truth and lies; the healing properties of a plant are the same as the healing properties of a person’s belief in the plant, they both work.) But it was a small kind of power, though it seemed large to me then. A whole village under sway, expertly manipulated to give her what seemed like wealth in comparison to the other villages.

Some say that all lies are eventually revealed, and I agree. For I have studied witchcraft (as much as a man can) and come to this conclusion: when a lie is found out, all this means is that someone has been given the opportunity to make it a truth, and has failed. When one such opportunity came to me, it defined the rest of my life.