I’ve been thinking about beginnings a lot recently. Which, admittedly, makes a pleasant change from worrying about how we’re all tootling along towards our (hopefully eventual rather than imminent) end.

The beginning of Modern Magic looked very different at first. My original opening didn’t survive the final edit. It was, if I’m being honest, more of an introductory history lesson. My editor, quite rightly, instructed me to start where things actually happen (or, more accurately, where things aren’t happening, much to Ivy’s frustration).

Looking back, I can see that while my discarded opening wasn’t necessary for the reader, it was necessary for me.

Before I could write about a world where magic is regulated, I needed to understand why those rules existed. The world of Kirin, like our own, grew out of what came before.

After all, as Semisonic put it: “every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

So, if you’re curious about that earlier version, the one that shaped the real beginning, I’ve shared my original opening passage below.

In other, more recent beginnings: last weekend I went to my first Fantasy and Science Fiction convention, the marvellous Eastercon. I met a brilliant group of writers, attended some excellent panels, and confirmed that, much like legal conferences, the best networking still happens at the bar. Unlike legal conferences, the merchandise is better, and so are the t-shirts.

And speaking of new beginnings, Trading Futures is now in its final proof. Once that’s done, I’ll be sharing a sneak peek of the opening to that very soon.

For now, as promised, here’s where Modern Magic originally began…

(This was the original proposed opening.)

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Limitations

On the continent of Kirin, magic once flowed as freely as a river. Some races, such as goblins and trolls and sprites and suchlike, had magic in their blood, woven into their being. Their abilities were limited, having evolved to suit their needs.

Other races, such as the humans, had no natural magic, but a few could channel the power that sloshed around the edges of reality. Those humans were the first mages, and they set about reshaping Kirin to their needs.

However, not all beings were particularly pleased with the result, and the mages’ methods ranged from distasteful to plain barbaric.

Eventually, after a war that was both extensive and (according to the mages) ill-advised, a cautious peace emerged. Mages were permitted to continue to practise magic, provided that they would use their gift to serve the greater good.

At least, that was the version Ivy Armstride had been told as a child.

The tale was of course fundamentally true, but it skipped over a lot of rather important detail. And detail was important in a mage’s line of work.

It was the sort of over-simplification adults often feel compelled to offer children, rather than equipping them with a sensible set of working instructions for the universe, even if they don’t understand all of the long words.

The truth was messier. The mage wars spanned decades, tangled in political and racial conflict, and culminated in a period of absolute anarchy which left the world noticeably emptier.

After that, even the humans accepted that magic might benefit from some degree of restraint (the non-humans had reached that conclusion rather more quickly, without requiring mass annihilation to convince them that unchecked magic was Not A Good Thing).

Delegates travelled to the last remaining Citadel in an effort to control the use of magic. The result was the Citadel’s Chamber of Supervision and Regulation of Magical Practice, known colloquially as the Regulator (among several other even more colloquial names).

Mages were required to register to practise magic with the Regulator. They were also required to abide by the basic principles it set down: the Wolf Accords.

The Accords did not remain basic for long. Because people rarely achieve a set of rules that work on the first attempt, the Accords evolved over time, amended and supplemented until understanding them became a life’s work in itself.

One principle, however, remained clear: magic was to be used reasonably, proportionately, and for a defined purpose.

It would also come at a price.

Naturally, the problem with putting a price on anything is that it encourages those setting the price to act in their self-interest. However, the dangers of this were dismissed as being just how the world worked anyway, and the Regulator got on with the business of producing all the very important guidance notes required to support its new rules.

Penalties for non-observance of those rules were strict, although in practice the most effective deterrent was the risk of professional embarrassment in front of one’s peers and rivals (which were effectively the same thing).

Ivy had come to realise the world was filled with limitations. During her apprenticeship, she had been drilled in how to channel magic responsibly and - most importantly - profitably.

Now, as a junior mage, she knew far more about what she couldn’t do than what she could. She often wondered whether, within the regulated constraints of her existence, she would ever be able to accomplish anything interesting at all.