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Firebrand Chapter 1, Interview with Mary Walz & Making of Firebrand & More




Firebrand is a novel that took a little under seven years of working on and off to see published. I’ve been writing stories since I was a child and have self published a novel and a few short stories in the past. However, this was the first of my stories that I actually thought might stand a chance at getting published traditionally, so I was in no rush to self publish it.


The first inklings of the story that would become Firebrand began around 2013 or 2014. I’m a sucker for redemption stories (to the point where I stayed up half the night once finishing a novel series that I thought would have a redemption arc for a particular character, only to find out it didn’t have that arc and be unable to sleep for the rest of the night because I was so disappointed). And I thought it would be interesting to write a redemption story, one that explores the ripple effects of one poor choice. I had an idea for a story of this sort in my head, only it… wasn’t very good. Not at all. It was cheesy and full of plot holes and it just didn’t work. So I shelved the idea in my mind, and moved on.


Fast forward to the summer of 2015. This was the year that I got into larp (live action roleplay, for the uninitiated). My husband had been an avid larper for years, and by this point a good number of his larp friends had become my friends as well. So I decided to give it a try, and I was introduced to the world of Medieval Chaos Productions. I spent a summer running around in the woods playing various characters, fighting goblins and casting spells and setting things on fire (all within the game system, of course). And it was that summer of nerdy fun that made me revisit my old story. What if, I thought, I took the base concept of the story but put it in a fantasy world?


And thus Firebrand was born.


The main character I played at Medieval Chaos was a wizard who had a bit of an obsession with fire, so I figured that having a main character with fire abilities was a good place to start, since I already had some idea how to “think with fire”. Then I began the process of planning out my novel. I wrote out a very rough outline, some basic character concepts, and important backstory details. I wasn’t ready to actually start writing yet, though. I had an important trip coming up in early 2016 so I decided to just let the story concept sit and marinate in my brain for a few months.


In March of 2016 I took my first ever transatlantic trip, and visited Scotland for two weeks. It was this trip that helped me envision the world in which Firebrand would take place. The incredible old buildings and cobbled streets of places like Edinburgh, Glasgow and St. Andrews helped me envision what Sylvenburgh, the city where the story begins, would look like. And my three day trip to the breathtaking Isle of Skye was inspiration for the Isle of Dundere. (The Shrouded Woods, however, were very much based on the tall, dense forests of the Pacific Northwest where I live, with some fantasy elements thrown in). After returning from the trip, I dove into my writing.


Unlike many writers, I am not one who starts at the beginning of a story and writes sequentially. No, I tend to write scenes as they come to me, and this was the case with Firebrand. As per usual for me, the first scenes that I thought of were important conversations between characters. Then I started writing the scenes where important backstory was revealed, so that I wouldn’t forget all of it. I then began to write additional scenes as they came to me, and then finally I began filling in the gaps with the scenes that I found less inspiring to write, to join it all together (this is the most tedious part of the process for me). Once my rough draft was finished, I began the editing process. For Firebrand, it took about six months for me to have a somewhat edited rough draft finished.



In the fall of 2016 I took a class via Continuing Studies at UVic that was about polishing your middle grade or young adult novel. I met some wonderful people in this class, learned a lot, and got some valuable insight on my first few chapters. There was also a point in late 2016 or early 2017 where I let my friend’s teenage daughter (who was around 13 and very into Harry Potter) read my story, to see what a young teen would think of it. She quite enjoyed it, and her mom overheard her talking to some friends about it, which was a huge compliment for me.


2017 was a rough year for me. I was not in a good space for a large part of that year, and so I did very little work on Firebrand during that time. I had officially reached the Hard Part, finding a way into traditional publishing, and this has always been a process that intimidated me. Things began to look up in 2018, but it wasn’t until May that anything shifted. It was then that my friend Holly contacted me. Holly had gone to school for a writing degree and was working on a publishing course, and she and two other friends who were interested in working in the same sorts of fields were looking for a guinea pig to use their newly acquired skills on. Holly and her friends Christine and Maia took Firebrand and gave me extensive feedback on the plot and characters. This is where the bulk of the changes that I made to the manuscript took place, and their work helped turn it into something far, far better than it was originally. They also helped me with my query letter and synopsis, and basically got me ready to start sending out queries.


I queried about dozen agents and publishing houses over the course of 2019. It was a process that was, admittedly, a bit discouraging. In late 2019 I ran into my friend whose daughter had read my book three years before, and she told me that her daughter still talked about the book. This led to me reconnecting with her daughter, letting her read the updated version, and getting some feedback (the new version made her cry, which I think is a good thing?). This inspired me to send out even more queries- all of which were met with rejections.


Then 2020 happened, and with the onset of the pandemic came some serious writer’s block. You would think that being locked up inside would be a great time to write, but no, apparently not. Firebrand sat idle for the next year and a half, while I was busy with other things. I would often think about it, and every now and then I would send out a query, or consider self publishing. I knew I would have to do something with it eventually. Both others and myself had put so much effort into it, it wouldn’t be fair just to walk away from all of that.


Then in the fall of 2021, I saw a Facebook post from a friend of mine about how her book had been picked up by a publishing company called RCN Media, and I thought, why not give this one more try? So I sent off my manuscript.


And so it began.


Now I find myself in the middle of a new stage of work on the novel. I have just finished my edits following beta reader feedback and will be onto the stage of working with RCN editor soon. Super grateful to everyone who has helped me get to this place, and looking forward to finally holding a copy of Firebrand in my hands.


-Mary Walz,

Feb, 2022




Chapter One



Watch the video to listen to the author read the first chapter of Firebrand or read it below.



Banishing Day was my least favourite day of the year.


I might have liked it more if I was living at home with my family— if I had a family, that is. Growing up I'd always heard stories of families spending their Banishing Day visiting the country or the seaside, holding extravagant tea parties at their homes, or exchanging gifts at large get-togethers. And those things sounded nice to me.


Here at Sylvenburgh Academy, though, Banishing Day traditions followed a certain sequence of events, most of which I hated. That morning, as always, I'd been sorted into a team of kids who didn't like me, and as always, we'd spent the day engaged in silly physical competitions— tug of war and ball toss and archery and three-legged races. And as always, I'd been the weak link on my team, my gangly limbs and clumsy feet slowing us down, and the others in my group resented me even more than usual by the time the activities were done.


The one good thing about Banishing Day was the food, and now I sat in the dining hall at one end of a long table, dressed in clean, though uncomfortable, clothes. My dress was too small; the sleeves rode partway up my wrists, and folds of the stiff blue fabric pressed into my armpits and waist, as if demanding that I shrink back to my younger self. But Banishing Day dinner traditions demanded my best clothing, so I would wear the dress for the remainder of the day. Trina and I had beaten most of the other students here; she wasn’t able to participate in the earlier activities, and I hadn't bothered to preen and fuss and put on makeup like most of the girls my age.


Trina shifted next to me, leaning her head back and inhaling the aroma of cooking food, her hair falling in perfect black waves around her shoulders. “Tell me about the colours, Saray,” she said.


I looked around our enormous, high-ceilinged dining hall, which would later tonight become a dance hall. “Well, there’s paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling; most of them are red this year, same as the tablecloths. And they’ve hung purple and gold fabric on the walls.”


“Mmm,” she said wistfully. “I miss purple. It was my favourite.”


“You tell me that every time I mention it.”


“Because it's true.” She sighed. “The decorations sound lovely. I'm sure the dancing will be splendid, too. I wish I could go.”


“No one’s stopping you,” I replied, knowing exactly what her response would be.


“No one would want to dance with the blind girl,” she answered. “I’d fall all over the place and make a fool of myself. It’d be a disaster.” Her shoulders drooped, a faint blush colouring her tawny skin. Then she straightened up and grinned at me. “You could go to the dance, though. You should go to the dance. You shouldn’t be spending all your time with a thirteen-year-old kid.” Her voice had a bossy tone to it.


I snorted. “You know I’m not welcome. And I don't think the clumsy orphaned bookworm is any more likely to get dances than the blind girl.”


She shrugged. “The others might be friendly to you if you spent more time with them, you know. They were nice enough to Carrie, and she was an orphan like us.”


“They were only nice to Carrie because she was pretty,” I argued. “I mean, the girl could walk into class five minutes after getting out of bed and still look like a princess. You should have seen her at her graduation last year; I swear the boys’ eyes were falling out of their heads. Whereas me...” I grimaced and tugged at a strand of unruly red hair. “Sometimes I think the only reason you stick with me is because you can’t see me.”


“That’s not true, and you know it,” she huffed. “I’m sure you’re lovely. At least you can look in a mirror and decide to do something about how you look.”


“I can only do so much,” I argued. “But it doesn’t matter; I don’t want to go to the dance anyway. I’d rather stay in our room and read.” I glanced down at the book in my lap. “Books are better than people. Well, most people.”


The students were beginning to trickle into the dining hall now, disturbing our quiet. The girls moved in packs, giggling, their hair done up in curls and jewels sparkling on their throats and ears. Several boys marched into the room, yelling and cheering, and I recognized them as members of Team Kirstein, this year's winners of the Banishing Day Games. Our table filled up slowly with the rest of Team Flavalan; like Team Kirstein, we were named after one of Breoch’s major ports. The teachers randomly picked the teams every Banishing Day, we were told, but somehow each team always had an equal assortment of ages represented, from the giggly, pimple-faced kids a year below Trina to eighteen-year-old boys who already shaved. Our team captain, Jack, was one of those boys, and he met everyone at the table with a wide, obviously forced smile. No one was thrilled to be part of Team Flavalan today. A few of the kids threw glares in my direction, no doubt recalling my fall on the obstacle course and the fact that I hadn't been able to figure out how to nock an arrow during the archery competition. The two seats next to me were taken by girls in my grade, Lizzie and Becky. They sneered at me as they sat; I returned the gesture.


On the large stage that overlooked the dining hall, Miss Cockle, the school principal, was arranging her papers. I glanced at her and then leaned over to Trina. “Miss Cockle is wearing a really ugly brown dress, with a matching ugly brown hat,” I whispered. “She looks like a giant mushroom.” We both giggled at my description, and Lizzie and Becky rolled their eyes at us. I clamped my mouth shut just as Miss Cockle straightened up, giving Trina a nudge with my elbow to signify she should do the same. The dining hall fell silent; we all knew that in order to partake in the coming feast, we first needed to sit through the annual Banishing Day Storytelling. Miss Cockle looked over the tables of students with her sharp grey eyes and began to speak.

“Students and staff of Sylvenburgh Academy,” she said in her shrill voice, “welcome to the annual Banishing Day feast! Before we eat and exchange gifts, we will pause to remember the events of the first Banishing Day forty-eight years ago, when our great nation of Breoch was freed from the tyranny of magic.”


She began to talk at length about the significance of the holiday and how lucky we children were to be living in the current day and age. I squirmed in my seat and toyed with the fabric of my dress, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in my stomach and the tantalizing aroma of roasting meat and garlic. I sighed with relief when she finished her monologue by saying that this year, our vice principal Mr. Jeffries would be telling the story of the Banishing. Mr. Jeffries would make it concise, I knew, instead of turning it into one of the long-winded diatribes that Miss Cockle was renowned for.


I watched as Mr. Jeffries made his way up to the podium. Unlike Miss Cockle, he was dressed simply, in his classic black top hat and crisp white shirt. His brown mustache was impeccably waxed, and as he took the podium, he surveyed the room with a pair of keen, deep-set brown eyes. Mr. Jeffries was my history teacher as well as the school's vice principal, and even though he was just as strict as Miss Cockle, everyone knew he was one of the better storytellers at Sylvenburgh Academy. A group of girls at the Kirstein table began giggling as he took the podium; Mr. Jeffries silenced them with an all-too-familiar glare before beginning to speak.


I felt my mind begin to wander as Mr. Jeffries started telling us the familiar story of the events leading up to the Banishing, the punishment for those who did not comply, and its outcome. Everyone knows this story; I don’t see why they feel the need to retell it every year. My stomach was beginning to rumble audibly as Miss Cockle took the podium once again to make a few closing remarks. I noticed that her mushroom-cap hat had gone slightly askew, and I giggled and informed Trina of what I saw.



It felt like another hour before she stepped off the stage to polite, forced applause from the student body, and the kitchen workers began to circulate the room with carts of food. Team Kirstein was served first, followed by the second- and third-placed teams. We would be served second last, in accordance with our placement in the games. We would also be second-to-last when it came to picking our first dance partners later that evening; I'm fairly certain this was the reason Lizzie and Becky had been throwing disgusted looks my way ever since we'd sat down.


The food finally arrived, and I dug in eagerly, securing plates for Trina and me before the rest of the team could devour everything. I filled our plates with roast beef, potato pancakes, meat pies, and vegetables in a spicy bean sauce. Then I handed Trina her plate and began to eat as the others served themselves. I grinned as I noticed a chubby blond boy from the year below me stuffing rolls into the pockets of his trousers.


“Hey! Where’d all the bread go?” a boy demanded as the blond boy pocketed another roll.


“Fredrick’s taking them!” another boy said, pointing at him.


Frederick blushed, planting his arms firmly against his sides to cover his bulging pockets. “Am not.”


“Well then maybe you’re making them disappear by magic,” the first boy suggested. “Are you a witch, Freddie? Do we need to turn you into a krossemage?” He grabbed his dinner knife and brandished it, grinning. “Seems like a fitting thing to do on Banishing Day.” I glanced around nervously, looking for a teacher to come end the teasing.


“Do it, Mickey!” the second boy chimed in, his mouth full of potatoes.


A boy in my grade named Albert let out a nervous laugh. “Keep it down you two, or you’ll end up bringing the wrath of The Mustache down on our table.” A group of younger kids snickered at his nickname for Mr. Jeffries.


“Oh, I’m sure The Mustache would want to know if we had a hildakin at our table,” Mickey’s friend retorted.


Beside me, Becky gasped. “A what?” asked one of the younger kids.


“A hildakin. An elfieblood. A witch.” Mickey’s friend smirked. “All the things that Fredrick is.” He turned back to Frederick. “Once Mickey’s done with you, you can go clean the school with Walter! You'd like that, wouldn't you?” Next to me, Becky and Lizzie began to laugh, clearly enjoying the show. I glanced at Jack; he rolled his eyes at the younger boys and ignored their theatrics, turning instead to flirt with the blond girl on his right.


“Hey, stop it!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. “This isn’t funny anymore!”


Everyone ignored me. I watched in horror as the first boy— Mickey— stood up and moved towards Frederick. Grabbing Frederick’s right hand, he pinned it to the table and let his knife hover over his wrist. I spotted Mr. Jeffries standing up a few tables away, but before I could call him over, Frederick let out a panicked screech that made the dining room go quiet. Mr. Jeffries whirled around; his dark eyes set on our table.


“What exactly is happening over here?” he demanded as he strode over.


Mickey let go of Frederick, whose eyes were brimming with tears. “They… they were saying I’m a witch,” Frederick told Mr. Jeffries, emptying his pockets of several squished rolls as he spoke. “He was going to turn me into a krossemage.”


“I was joking!” Mickey protested. “You can’t actually cut off someone’s hand— or cut out their tongue for that matter— with a knife like this.” He gestured to his dinner knife.


Mr. Jeffries’ eyes narrowed. “Even so, you’ll be coming with me,” he said sternly. “You know better than to joke about such things.”


The other boy who’d been bullying Frederick stuck out his tongue at him as Mickey was led away. “We should’ve cut your tongue out first so you couldn’t tattle.”


Dinner continued without any more incidents, and when dessert was served, it was accompanied by a basket for each child containing brightly wrapped gifts. The students at my table hollered and cheered as they opened up their packages to find expensive toys and goodies from their parents. Trina’s and my baskets were provided by Lacey, our dorm mother, who was getting quite good at buying us presents. My basket contained new boots— which I was sorely in need of— as well as a fiction book and some candy. Trina’s also had clothing and candy, along with a small pipe flute. On my other side, Lizzie examined the pair of designer earrings in her basket. “These are lovely,” she exclaimed to Becky. “It’s so nice of our parents to send us these things, don’t you think?” I didn’t miss the glance she threw at Trina and me.


“Oh, yes,” Becky agreed, grinning wickedly. “Did you know that my parents are taking me to the seaside next week? We’re so lucky to have such generous families! Don’t you think, Trina?”


“Don’t you bring her into this!” I snapped, my face flushing hot.


Lizzie turned to face me. “All right then, Saray. Don’t you think our parents are lovely for giving us these gifts?”


I glared at her. “I doubt your parents would even get you presents if they knew what a snobby little brat you can be,” I muttered.


Lizzie’s eyes popped at my choice of words. “Did you hear what she just called me?” she said, looking around the table. The boys, minus Frederick, all nodded gleefully. “I could get you detention for talking to me that way.”


“Go ahead, tell a teacher,” I challenged her. “Tell all the teachers. Tell them that you were picking on the orphans over things they can’t control!” My voice rose as I spoke, and students at several nearby tables were watching us. I felt familiar heat on my hands, and I balled them into fists and shoved them under my legs, my anger suddenly mingled with fear. No. Not now.


“Saray.” Trina put her hand on my arm. “It’s all right. Let’s just get our things and leave.”


I stood up in a huff, fists still balled. “This,” I said to Trina, “is why books are better than people.” I tossed the table full of students one last glare and then gathered my gifts and stormed out of the dining room, Trina in tow.


As soon as I cleared the doors, I broke away from Trina and began to run. Hot tears brimmed in my eyes as I flew down the long, high-ceilinged halls. By the time I reached the grand entry hall, with its curved staircases and massive chandelier, I could barely see through my tears. And perhaps that's why I collided with Walter.


I hit him head-on and then stumbled backwards, my books and boots and candy flying from my basket and landing all over the polished wood floor. I stared at the mess, momentarily dazed, and then looked at Walter.


Walter had dropped his broom when I ran into him, but he was ignoring it in favour of picking up my fallen books, placing them in the crook of his maimed arm, his sleeve hanging loosely where the stump of his right forearm ended. I grabbed my basket and began scrambling around on the floor, collecting pieces of candy, my cheeks burning.


“What happened?” Trina had just arrived in the foyer; her pace somewhat slowed by having to navigate the halls using only her cane. Now she was standing in the doorway, head cocked.


“It’s fine. I just ran into Walter and dropped my basket,” I mumbled. The door to Mr. Jeffries' office was open, and I threw a nervous glance in its direction, wondering if I was going to earn a lecture for leaving dinner early.


“Oh.” Trina turned and stared vaguely in the direction of where Walter was working. “Hi Walter,” she chirped. Trina was one of the only students who was always kind to our janitor.


Walter let out his strange, throaty chuckle, the only way he could communicate with Trina, and I tried not to cringe. He’d collected all my books and my boots and was standing over me as I picked up the last of my candy. I got to my feet and took my gifts from him. “Thanks,” I muttered.


Walter nodded and picked up his broom and then turned back to me and cocked his head. I didn’t miss the concern in his dark eyes, but any true gratitude I might have felt was overshadowed by a darker emotion as I looked at the rest of his face. Walter couldn’t have been much older than Mr. Jeffries; his hair was still dark save for a few glints of grey in his beard, but his face was prematurely lined from years of hardship, his cheeks oddly sunken, his shoulders bent.


Removal of the right hand and tongue and a lifetime of hard labour was the sentence given to offending magic users, Mr. Jeffries had reminded us in his speech. The amputations kept them from casting, though I only partially understood how this worked. The second part of their sentence, hard labour, was a source of confusion for me. Rumour had it that most krossemages were sold to the wealthy as slaves, but I’d never heard any talk from my rich classmates about their families owning one. Walter, for whatever reason, had been bought by the school, and had been a fixture here for as long as I could remember. Krossemage, I’d learned in history class, meant shattered mage in Cherinese. It was a fitting description.


Now looking up at him, my stomach knotted, and I tried not to shudder. “I’m fine,” I told him, annoyance creeping into my voice. “Thanks for helping me, I should go.” Then I turned and fled the entryway, trying not to think about Walter’s sad eyes or the things that had happened to make him who he was.

My stomach was still in knots two hours later as I lay in my bed. After we’d reached our room, Trina spent the rest of the evening amusing herself with her pipe, and I’d tried, and failed, to read my new book. My mind roiled with questions, the same questions that I’d had since I learned six years ago that my parents weren’t likely actually dead. True orphans were rare at our school, Carrie had told me; most of us were actually unwanted children whose parents had had the decency and wealth to leave us somewhere we’d be well cared for, instead of abandoning us to the streets or to one of the city's overcrowded orphanages. Most of the other kids knew this too, she explained, and this was why they were so cruel to us.


Trina’s breathing had begun to even out, and I stared at the flickering candles, then at my hands, remembering how hard I’d had to fight the burning on my palms earlier. I need to get this under control. And the only way to do that, I figured, was through practice.


My gaze returned to the candles. “Flamina finita,” I whispered the familiar string of syllables as I willed the candles in the room to go out. All obeyed without hesitation. I glanced over to make sure Trina was definitely asleep and then spoke another phrase. “Nalalae rainarae flamina.” I watched as a small, fist-sized ball of flame appeared in front of me. I turned it over and over in the air, caused it to grow and shrink a few times, then extinguished it with the first set of words I’d used.


This, of course, was the other reason I hated Banishing Day.


My thoughts returned to my parents once again as I lay back down. Maybe they abandoned me because they knew. My talents hadn’t shown up until I was eleven, but I had to wonder if perhaps they had looked down at their infant daughter and somehow seen what she would become, a freak who could control flame.


Maybe I was dangerous, and that was the real reason I was an orphan.





*Please note that this preview is not fully edited and will not be the version that will make the final print.

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