I've begun my books in all sorts of different ways. Some of them, perhaps, I might have started differently if I were writing them now. Or perhaps not. I went with what felt right for the story I was telling, and second-guessing myself based on how a book ought to start might not have worked nearly so well.
But here is one that I liked at the time I wrote it—a long time ago now—and I like it just as much today:
The Lord of Mochdreff was dead: an arrow through the heart and no man knew whose hand had pulled the bow. He had been a stern man, iron-eyed, clutch-fisted, as close and secretive as stone; not even his widowed mother wept when they draped him in scarlet linen and lowered him into the ground. Yet the Mochdreffi felt his loss. They were lordless again after a single year of cold but meticulous rule, and no heir stood ready to take his place.
Three young kinsmen, each with an equal claim according to the ancient law of Mother Right, three young boys with a family of ambitious clansmen ready to spill heart's blood on his account. Lord Morcant had not been minded to single out any one of them as his heir. "A man is a fool, who sews his own shroud," said the Lord of Mochdreff.
Yet Fate spun the linen for his winding sheet even while he spoke—and the thread was exceedingly strong. He took an arrow in his breast as he walked his own battlements at Caer Ysgithr, and the plots were already boiling as he breathed his last.
But here is one that I liked at the time I wrote it—a long time ago now—and I like it just as much today:
The Lord of Mochdreff was dead: an arrow through the heart and no man knew whose hand had pulled the bow. He had been a stern man, iron-eyed, clutch-fisted, as close and secretive as stone; not even his widowed mother wept when they draped him in scarlet linen and lowered him into the ground. Yet the Mochdreffi felt his loss. They were lordless again after a single year of cold but meticulous rule, and no heir stood ready to take his place.
Three young kinsmen, each with an equal claim according to the ancient law of Mother Right, three young boys with a family of ambitious clansmen ready to spill heart's blood on his account. Lord Morcant had not been minded to single out any one of them as his heir. "A man is a fool, who sews his own shroud," said the Lord of Mochdreff.
Yet Fate spun the linen for his winding sheet even while he spoke—and the thread was exceedingly strong. He took an arrow in his breast as he walked his own battlements at Caer Ysgithr, and the plots were already boiling as he breathed his last.
