Novels begin in many different ways, drawing their
“motive energy” or “visions of ultimate coolness” from varied sources. Which is
a high-falutin’ way of saying that there is no one right way in which to begin
a story. It can start with a visual image (very common with me, as I’m a visual
writer), an emotional turning-point, or an idea that grabs the imagination. Or
a line of dialog or a melody. Many writers experience a tango-like dance with
their creative inspirations, which ranges from the times the source dictates
its own story in total defiance of genre boundaries and market demands, to
those instances when the writer summons a story to fit certain specifications.
The world of The Seven-Petaled Shield
began with the latter.
My first professional short story sale was to Marion
Zimmer Bradley for the debut volume of Sword
& Sorceress. (It was, of course, an occasion of much rejoicing!) When the
anthology became an annual series, I kept submitting stories, and looking
around for different cultures and situations. For one of the later volumes (XIII),
I wanted to explore the tensions between a nomadic horse people and a
city-based culture like Rome, and their different values and forms of magic. I
did not call them Romans and Scythians, but these models were very much in my
mind. As I delved further into my research, researching aspects of life and
warfare that spoke to me, I learned that although Scythian women were
definitely second-class citizens, the Sarmatian women rode to battle and were
likely the origin of the “Amazons” of legend. Thus began a
series of “Azkhantian” tales, in which the women of a nomadic horse people battle
against the relentless incursions of Gelon (this world’s Roman Empire) What could be more perfect for a
sword and sorcery story featuring a strong woman protagonist?
For the first of these stories, I wanted to depart from
the usual swordswoman or sorceress heroine: a woman who is young, physically
fit, and unattached to family. I’ve often been astonished by the number of such
protagonists who appear to be orphaned only children. In cultures like my
Azkhantian nomads, however, family, clan, and tribe form the core of an
individual’s identity. A host of possibilities opened when I chose a point of
view character who wasn’t physically
involved in the battle, but was deeply emotionally
involved. Hence, most of “The Spirit Arrow” was told from the perspective of an
aging mother, bound to her warrior daughter by more than the natural
enchantment of the heart.
Three more stories followed. The world of the Azkhantians
got bigger as more cultures and histories made themselves known to me. Meklavar appeared on the map, at first
as a remote, mysterious location, a place held in superstitious awe. I had no
plans for exploring Meklavar further, although clearly Meklavar itself, abode
of witches and prophets, had other ideas. It kept nudging me, even when my Sword & Sorceress stories departed
for other worlds.
When at last Azkhantia, Gelon, and Meklavar convinced me
they deserved a novel of their own, I brought the legacy of those early stories
and their female protagonists – mother, warrior, shaman, sister, or daughter,
leader or rebel, outcast or respected elder. Soon it became apparent to me that
this was a really big story-landscape and I couldn’t do justice to the theme in
a single volume.
From the outset, I knew the story must be told primarily
through the experiences of the women. The action begins with the armies of
Gelon laying siege to the citadel of Meklavar, but I was interested in what the
women of the city were doing. The defense and conquest of a walled city has
been related many times in many ways, but usually from the perspective of the
male kings, soldiers, generals, with the occasional wizard assisting either
side. For my initial viewpoint character, I created Tsorreh, the young second
wife of the aged king. She’s inexperienced but neither helpless nor idle; she
organizes medical care for the injured and housing for refugees from the lower
city. She counsels her husband and treats his own wounds, and most of all, she
worries about her adolescent son in his first battle. All of these are
traditional “female” roles. Because she is an educated person and a woman with
initiative, however, she also takes it upon herself to save the library. Shortly after the city falls, she whisks her son
to safety through the mountain tunnels, and she herself becomes the bearer of
the mystical gem that will later play a pivotal role in defeating the
incarnation of chaos in this world.
Along the way, Tsorreh encounters various other women,
some her own age, others elderly, and some who conform to traditional roles but
whose everyday acts of courage and compassion make them noteworthy. Short
stories need to be tightly-focused, with limited space for minor characters,
but novels (or in this case, a trilogy) offer a wealth of opportunities for
cameo appearances, especially those that show the variety of individuals within
different cultures, and personal choices of those individuals. A warrior woman
from the Fever Lands (never named) deliberately provokes a fatal encounter
rather than live as a slave. The teenage daughter of a physician acts quickly
and in a level-headed manner as she helps Tsorreh to escape from the emperor’s
elite guards. Tsorreh makes friends, but she acquires enemies, too, and some of
these are women. The ruthless ambition of one of these becomes the motive for
an important plot point.
The second and equally important woman hero rides onto
the pages of the next book, which is also her namesake: Shannivar. Shannivar is recognizably heroic; she’s a warrior of the
Azkhantian steppe, skilled in archery and horsemanship, determined to
accomplish great feats of valor. She’s the grandchild of the clan matriarch, a
strong and self-reliant woman.
From the very first “Azkhantian tale,” I set up different
systems of magic and of spiritual beliefs in the various cultures, contrasting
the pantheon of the empire-building, city-dwelling Gelon and the nomadic horse
peoples of the steppe, loosely organized into clans (each named for a different
totem animal), living in harmony with the land and its seasons. Their primary deities are, of course, the
Mother of Horses and her consort. Both girls and boys learn to ride and fight,
and young women are expected to participate in the defense of their clan. Then
custom dictates a divergence of roles, for at a certain age women are expected
to set aside their lives as warriors, marry, bear children, and attend to more
domestic chores. Although married women do not hunt or ride to battle, or sit
in formal council at clan gatherings, they wield a great deal of influence.
Only women can own the yurt-like dwellings of willow and felt; men live either
with their mothers or wives or other female relatives.
Shannivar and her best friend, Mirrimal, have reached the
age when they are expected to choose husbands and retire from fighting the
Gelon. Neither is happy about this – Shannivar because she refuses to surrender
her dreams of glorious deeds, Mirrimal because marriage itself is abhorrent to
her. Both women insist on their own self-determination, although with quite
different results. Shannivar’s courage and quick-thinking place her in a succession
of leadership roles, first of a war-party, then of a diplomatic mission, and
finally of a expedition to trace the incursion of uncanny forces into her
world.
In tales of fantasy as elsewhere, we have a tendency to
measure heroes by their physical prowess instead of, for example, their
foresight or moral authority. This approach inherently puts women in non-industrialized
cultures at a disadvantage. Very few women are as physically strong as men or
have the same mass, height, and reach. We can step a little outside the strength=heroism model if we allow that
in some instances, the differences can be minimized by training, appropriate
weaponry, or other advantages. Shannivar is a superb horsewoman and archer. The
height of her horse (and she has two wonderful horses that are heroes in their
own rights) and the reach of her arrows help to mitigate her lesser muscular
strength. More than that, she has the ability to see patterns in battle and to
think in ways that use the assets of her riders – speed, maneuverability – to
best advantage. She has a clear vision of her goals and does not let temper or
ego get in her way, unlike her hotheaded cousin. This enhances her ability as a
strategist and organizer.
All of these qualities can apply to male warriors as
well. What then distinguishes Shannivar as a hero? The quality of her
character, her vision, and her determination to defend her people against
enemies human and supernatural, regardless of cost. Instead of being a
handicap, her refusal to “settle for less” lifts her deeds to extraordinary –
heroic – heights.
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