K. L. Moran: The Heritage of the Sorceress
A „Heritage of the Sorceress” az utolsó tűzvarázslók világába kalauzol el minket, ahol nem létezik éjszaka, ahol a tűznek még a fogalma is homályba vész és az emberek várható élettartama már születésükkor tudott – meghatározva ezzel sorsukat. Az egyre forrongóbb tömeg által szított forradalom és a természeti környezet összeomlása közepette Lyra otthonát megtámadják, így menekülni kényszerül. Ám anyja révén olyan örökséget hordoz magában, amelyre a két utolsó tűzvarázsló és a Mágikus Magasegyetem is szemet vetett.
Ha szívesen olvasnád, ide kattintva tudod megrendelni a könyvet!
A közös munka
Molnár Kitti egy igazán eredeti hangvételű kézirattal keresett meg. Néhány konzultációs alkalom során kialakítottuk a sorozat ívét, majd elolvastam az első, vagyis inkább nulladik kötet kéziratát. A lektori véleményben kiemeltem a fő dramaturgiai ív erősségét, valamint a plasztikus fogalmazást – könnyen el lehetett képzelni mindent, amit Kitti ír, és az érzelmeket is ügyesen kezelte.
Azt javasoltam neki, kezdje kicsit korábbról a történetet, mutassa meg Lyrát még akkor, amikor minden rendben van, amikor gondtalanul játszhat a mezőn, illetve amikor találkozik a híres tűzmágussal, Saladyrral. Ezen eseményeket ugyanis Kitti oly módon ábrázolta, hogy a főhős emlékeit írta le – de olyan érdekesek, az ilyesmit az olvasó jelenetben szereti látni, a saját szemével. Az írástechnikára kisebb hangsúlyt fektettünk, ugyanis Kitti eleve angol nyelvre lefordítva tervezte a publikálást, és a sorozatot is az amerikai piacra terveztük meg.
A lektorálás után a könyvkiadás csínjáról-bínjáról beszéltünk, a Heritage of the Sorceress pedig már e-könyvként és nyomtatott könyvként is elérhető!
A szerző így élte meg a közös munkát
„Régóta követtem Krisz munkásságát, így nem volt kérdéses, hogy amikor a könyvem kiadása mellett döntöttem, hozzáfordultam tanácsért. Sötétben tapogatóztam a külföldi e-book kiadással kapcsolatban, de Krisz hamar rendet rakott a tévhitek és pontatlanságok között. Emellett nagyon örültem, hogy első olvasásra is tetszett neki a történetem: ez számomra felért egy zöld lámpával a rajtvonalnál.”
Ha te is elküldenéd a kéziratodat véleményezésre, erről itt olvashatsz többet!
Olvass bele!
*a részlet csak angol nyelven érhető el*
The little girl was running at full speed, her disheveled braid slapping her back. She crawled like a snake through the thick wheat stalks; she felt her face heat, her nostrils and pupils dilate, her muscles tense. She knew Warrin. The man is sometimes easily fooled, but he is still clever. Lyra consumed a babysitter every lunar year. They were upset by her stubborn, mindless behavior and constant disappearances. Some left voluntarily, some with her father’s dogs at their heels. But none lasted as long as Warrin.
She gasped. She felt her skirt get caught, heard the tearing of the fine material. The heel of her slippers worn off, the ribbon came off from one of them. She ran. She loved to run. She imagined herself a proud wild horse, running free in the wilderness. Without nannies or babysitters. Without rules.
Wheat stalks were gone, she forgot the difference in level between the sunken road and the field. She stepped wrongly, her foot slipped, and she fell down on the dusty road, groaning. She felt the snap of the thin necklace, the pendant flew far away and settled on the other side of the road.
Burning pain ripped through her knees and palms as they broke her fall. She heard a frightened horse neighing in the dust.
She looked up. She was expecting Warrin’s horse, which he had left at the edge of the field. But instead of the beautiful grey horse, a black, lean one was pawing the ground. Somewhere above the dark mane of the animal, she heard a murmuring sound. The stallion stopped pawing, just snorting in displeasure. His rider jumped off. Lyra squinted through the dust at the burgundy scaly boots striding towards her, covered by a red cape up to the middle of the leg. The strange red glow of a curved sword caught her attention. The traveler’s whole head was cleverly concealed by the hood of his cloak, but his orange iris eyes almost glowed on the darkened face. He crouched down in front of her and spoke in a particularly calm, deep, masculine voice.
“You are on the right path, because there is no other path like this.”
Before Lyra could say anything, the traveler grabbed her shoulder. She clung to the stranger’s arm with both hands, as if she could untangle herself. But she had no strength left, only a gasp. Her lungs were filled with heat, her gullet was felt like biting a handful of raw black pepper. Pain ripped
into her clinging hands, as when she had fallen on the rough gravel and wounded her skin. Sweat beaded on her forehead, running down her temples. The traveler’s orange eyes pierced into her deep brown ones. Lyra’s voice was trapped inside, though she wanted to scream in the pain of her heating body, but she merely continued to pant heavily.
“Lyra!”
The traveler tore his gaze away from her, let go of her shoulder and turned towards the voice coming from the wheat field. The thundering pain left Lyra’s body, a pleasant sensation came over
her like bathing in the cool, red lake of Chalet on a hot day. The stranger stood up, and he was in the saddle of his dark horse in one leap. One last glance with his orange eyes at the girl lying in the dust, and then, with a barely visible urging, the fiery stallion, kicking up dust, galloped off down the road surrounded by wheat fields.
“Lyra!” Warrin almost burst out of the wheat field, bringing with him a few clinging stalks. “Now really, enough of this…!”
Warrin’s movement stopped in mid-air. Lyra sat in a cloud of stirring dust, her eyes fixed on the road to the Chalet.
“Lyra, what happened?” The knight knelt to one knee and reached under her elbow.
“Nothing. Just… someone got lost,” Lyra replied dully, letting the man pull her up from the sand.
She took a few shaky steps, then bent down for her necklace.
“Someone got lost?” Warrin squinted, trying to peer beyond the settling cloud of dust. “This is a
perfectly straight road from Bellem to Chalet. There are no forks, no way to get lost.”
“I think he got lost anyway…”
“Lyra! Your hand…”
Warrin caught her left hand and turned her palm to the sky. On the dirty, soft skin, black, red-
edged patches appeared at the finger bases, and thin purple veins ran to a point towards the wrist.
He touched it. The girl hissed, the pain ran like goose bumps down her arm.
“I fell,” Lyra said.
“I’ve seen a lot of wounds.” Warrin shook his head. “But this isn’t just a bruise.”
Lyra pulled her hand from the knight’s grip and rubbed it. She could feel her palm was hot, but her own touch was not painful.
“Warrin, what kind of person has orange eyes?” Lyra asked.
The knight stiffened like a statue for a moment, then looked from her to the road, where the dust was slowly settling.
“Someone who should no longer exist,” Warrin replied as he straightened up with crunching
knees.
“Why shouldn’t he…?”
“Let’s go home, Lyra. You have music class soon.”
Tetszett a részlet? Ha szívesen folytatnád az olvasást, ide kattintva tudod megrendelni a könyvet!
Ha még nem iratkoztál fel a hírlevelemre, kattints ide, hogy megkaphasd a legfrissebb híreket, értesülj az új blogcikkekről! Ha tanfolyam érdekel, kattints ide, ha pedig a kéziratodra szeretnél véleményt vagy szerkesztést kérni, ezen az oldalon találsz több infót.