A lot of readers like series. They get to know and like the characters, they enjoy the world in which the characters function, and they are eager to see what happens next. This is why some authors keep a series going for dozens of books (mysteries are especially wont to do this), and why both TV shows and movies keep bringing out the same people to have new adventures.
I like a good series myself! And I write them. When I first wrote and published A Bad Spell in Yurt, I assumed it was a stand-alone. At first I resisted suggestions that it become a series. I'd seen too many series in which the problem solved in the first book turns out not to have been solved after all in the second book, thus undercutting what had been the first book's happy ending, or the same problems being presented repeatedly and unoriginally (as in the classic, Defeat the Dark Lord in book 1, defeat the Purple Lord in book 2, and in book 3, look, there's the Plaid Lord), or the author becoming so fond of his characters that he won't let anything exciting or dangerous happen to them. But my husband persuaded me that my characters could mature and grow and face entirely different challenges, so "Yurt" ended up being a series, with 6 novels (and 3 shorter novellas).
But the series wrapped up well in the sixth novel, all the long-term plot lines resolved, our hero in a very different place than he had been at the beginning. I didn't want to continue the series with lame adventures.
So instead I went with "Yurt, the Next Generation." This series focuses on the hero's daughter, offspring of a witch and a wizard with the skills of both. The Starlight Raven, the title of the first book about Antonia, has become a series in itself, with three books published and a fourth on the way. It will probably be five or maybe six books in all.
These are quite different, I've found, than the original Yurt series, even if set in the same world. A teenage girl (Antonia) is quite different from a perhaps overly-confident young adult male (her father when his series begins). She has to worry about sex discrimination and unwanted attention from the opposite sex, things which never bothered him in the slightest. I've added the dimension that witchcraft, female magic, is quite different from male wizardry, and Antonia has to try to find her way in both, while still being a girl. Although the wizards' school gets mentioned a lot in the original Yurt series, Antonia's stories are actually set there, at least in part. I've also done a lot more with inter-generational issues.
The result of introducing real teen-girl issues into fantasy is that a lot of people think of "The Starlight Raven" series as darker and for more mature audiences than the original Yurt, even though Antonia begins the series at age 14, whereas her father began his own series in his late 20s and has been killed at least once, although she's never been killed a bit.
Anyway, I hope that both "Yurt" fans and people who just enjoy teen fantasy will like "The Starlight Raven." A sample is given below to whet your appetite. Here's the link to the book on Amazon.
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Of course I knew my mother was a witch.
She never needed a match to light the fire. She knew immediately if someone new had come to town, even if she had spent the entire day at home, sewing. Sometimes in the evening, after she had finished tailoring a new ballgown for the mayor’s daughter or embroidering a new altar-cloth for the church, women would knock quietly on our door, giving quick glances up and down the cobbled street, and Mother would tell them if they were going to have a baby boy or a girl.
But I had no intention of living an uneventful life as a small-town witch. I was going to study to be a real wizard.
That would be easy, I thought. My father was head of the wizards’ school in the great City, a much more interesting place than our little town of Caelrhon. He’d said himself that I could come and study there when I became fourteen, the first girl the wizards’ school had ever admitted. Already I knew how to turn someone into a frog, something even my mother couldn’t do.
But on my fourteenth birthday it all became much less easy.
It started two weeks earlier. A gentle hand on my shoulder interrupted my dreams. “Antonia, wake up.”
“It’s too early to get up for school,” I mumbled into the pillow.
The hand remained on my shoulder. “It’s not a school day.”
Then I remembered. “We’re going to the City!”
I was out of bed with a bound, and then, with another bound, right back under the covers. The air from my casement window was cold. “It’s not even morning yet!”
Mother flicked a flame into life on my candlestick. She was already dressed, her brown braids neatly wrapped around her head. I loved her hair, smooth where mine was always tangled, darker than mine but showing golden highlights in the glow of the candle.
“I want to go there and be home again before it gets late,” she said firmly. “After all, tomorrow is a school day. In fact I hear,” she added with a smile, tugging the quilt off me, “that at the wizards’ school they give the new students only one warning. Then, if they aren’t on time for the first early-morning class, they set the dragons on them.”
I swung my legs out of bed and kept them out. “Sometimes I think everyone’s seen dragons except for me. Father even killed one once when he was young, even though he won’t talk about it. And there was the time we arrived in the City just too late to see a whole flock of them.”
“I’ve never seen a dragon either,” said Mother. She had the brush and was working the snarls out of my hair. “I think it would be more terrifying than exciting. And I’m not at all sure they come in ‘flocks.’”
I let her work on my braids, thinking that once I was a wizard I would go visit dragons myself, rather than waiting for them to come to me. A herd of dragons? A pack? A clutch? I was fairly certain it wouldn’t be a gaggle.
“Besides,” I said after a minute, “I know they don’t punish students for sleeping late. Father told me that when he was a student at the wizards’ school, he hardly ever made any of his morning classes.”
There was a chuckle behind me. “Antonia, your father is an admirable man in many ways, and he’s made himself an excellent wizard over the years, but I would not recommend using him as your model when you become a wizardry student.”
I shrugged and laughed myself. Having my hair braided was very pleasant. I glanced toward my window, still nearly dark, and was hit by a sudden memory. “I had the strangest dream,” I said slowly. “It was about a bat. He tapped at my window and squeaked this really high squeak, but when I sat up he flew off. And for some reason I wasn’t frightened at all.”
“Of course not,” Mother muttered through hairpins. “Bats won’t hurt you. I’m glad you knew that, even in a dream.”
“And the strangest thing of all,” I went on, “was that he had a little cylinder tied to his leg—you know, like the carrier pigeons wear.”
“Who would send messages by a bat?” said Mother abruptly. The last pin went sharply into my hair. “Really, Antonia, you’re old enough to know that nobody finds someone else’s dreams very interesting. Get dressed and come downstairs.”
She slammed my door behind her, leaving me wondering why she could possibly be so irritated by a dream.
No time to worry about it. I splashed cold water on my face from the washbasin, pulled on a school dress, and laced up my boots. In front of the mirror I smoothed out the hairs disarranged in getting dressed. I grinned at my reflection and blew out the candle. I was the daughter of a witch and a wizard, almost fourteen years old, and I didn’t think there was anything I couldn’t do.
When I clattered down the stairs into the kitchen, Mother was frying bacon and smiling again.
But then I saw it, lying on the table amid dressmaking scraps: a tiny piece of parchment, half unrolled. It looked like the kind of message usually brought by a carrier pigeon.
© C. Dale Brittain 2015, 2022
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