J. Dianne Dotson is the author of the The Shadow Galaxy collection, The Inn at Amethyst Lantern, and The Questrison Saga. She’s also the only person to write, not just in my world, but for one of the characters from my novels. In my first book, Frostborn, my co-lead Thianna has a frost giant father named Magnilmir. He’s one of my favorite characters, a rather unassuming craftsman with a rambling way of speaking and a gentle demeanor. Dianne wanted to write for Magnilmir, and I nervously agreed. She handled him beautifully in a story about friendship. Here is a preview of “The Tower and the Raven,” though Magnilmir doesn’t appear in the excerpt below.
Hrafn Sjósson was a solitary man, known for his careful eyes, slate gray in color like the clouds before a winter storm; the eyes of a watchman, keen and alert at all times. For this, he held the position of sentinel in a watchtower overlooking the town below. It perched upon a high promontory on the far side of a fjord, where nothing could grow but for stubborn outcroppings of lichen. He held the town in his care, for his was the first watch from afar, and on a clear day (rare as they might be north and east of Wendholm), he could even see for miles in all directions. No one had better vision than Hrafn. He assumed his role in the tower as a volunteer. Any town would be so fortunate to have that quiet watch above, ready to light a beacon at a moment’s notice.
But he was lonely. The ravens alone kept him company. He rarely interacted with town folk, only accepting the goods he kept on regular order in return for his silver. His words, to strangers, might come across as brusque. But to those few who knew him well—as well as anyone could, in his solitary existence, that is—his eyes could shift into a crinkled smile, and sometimes the thin mouth hiding in his fading ginger beard might curve upward as well. His laughter was rare but rich, and to bring it out of him brought joy to the few who could.
Friend to people and giants, avoided by trolls and haunts of the wood, he was reliable, loyal, stoic, and all the qualities one would want in a watcher. It might have been enough, the wind whistling about his tower, the ravens wheeling and dipping, sometimes landing, sometimes proffering their strong beaks for him to stroke. But sometimes he wanted more. And sometimes he missed a tale by a crackling fire in a mead hall, where he could lean back and watch the bustle and gaiety of a town, its locals and its wayfarers alike, with little interaction, but always with sharp eyes. He missed one particular brew; Dvergrian ale. Dvergrian ale was made by the dwarves in the Dvergrian Mountains, on the border of the neighboring country of Araland. This ale was highly prized, and the last time he’d had it was at Dragon’s Dance.
Just now he gazed up at the heavy sky, as warm as it ever would be in the summer, but prone to rain showers, and spied Blárvængr, a raven of middle age. Much like me, he thought idly, as the great, sleek, blue-black bird dipped his wings and descended. With tiny, crisp flaps, Blárvængr landed next to him, and promptly lowered his head. Hrafn laughed softly and scratched the bird’s head at the neck. The raven croaked, and extended his wings a bit, lifting his head upward; obligingly, Hrafn bent his head and touched the bird nose to beak. Blárvængr clicked and croaked.
But Blárvængr did not rely upon traditional raven speech alone; he was a remarkable bird that could speak as humans and frost giants could.
“What news of the air, friend Blárvængr?” asked Hrafn.
In his unique, rasping voice, Blárvængr said, “Snow is coming. But you did not need a raven to tell you that.”
“Aye,” said Hrafn.
“So is the anniversary of your hatching day, if the days are correct,” remarked the bird.
Hrafn widened his eyes and exclaimed, “In a fortnight! But how would you know that, my friend?”
The raven ruffled its iridescent feathers, muted only by the dark clouds, yet no less striking. He said, “The shadows are the same, and the weather patterns, and all the things that you know, and some that we ravens understand that your kind cannot.”
“So passes another year, soon, then,” said Hrafn, and he sighed. “My bones tell me thus as well. I do not make the long walks to Dragon’s Dance anymore.
The bird watched him with eyes sharper than those which brought him his renown and his position.
“What do you miss about the place?” Blárvængr asked him suddenly.
To find out what happens next, consider backing Tales from Stolki’s Hall on Kickstarter.