Architects of Illusion (Echoes of Olympus, #1): Quill of Gryphus

Castle in the Mountains by Gray Artus

Welcome to Olympus, where the Muses of Greek Mythology are charged with the responsibility of discovering, inspiring, and guiding the young incarnations of legends past until they once again take the form of greatness.

Embark on an enchanting journey through Architects of Illusion (Echoes of Olympus, #1), a YA fantasy novel series inspired by my backyard neighbors, Biltmore Estate, in honor of George Vanderbilt‘s extraordinary legacy.

Join me, and a cast of brilliant film composers, as we awaken your imagination to the magic of the mountains during this year’s international A to Z Challenge (representing #TeamDamyanti).

▶ For a detailed PHOTO TOUR of Biltmore Estate, including the library’s large allegorical figures carved into the walnut overmantel by sculptor Karl Bitter, click HERE! Want to read more? Visit my A to Z “Sneak Peeks” page!

Quill of Gryphus

THE CLEAR crystal sphere in the Oracle’s wooden palm darkened with swift swirling clouds that swallowed sparks of blue lightning.

“That looks…foreboding,” I whispered to Tariro. “Should I be worried?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen it react like this.”

“What does it mean?” I asked, nodding towards the chanting Pythia, the meaning behind her words lost in the buried breath of history.

Tariro turned her head. I followed her gaze to a weighty and weathered book sitting open atop a walnut desk. Dancing over the parchment pages with phantom hands, was a downy golden quill. “The Gryphus Quill deciphers Pythia’s visions.”

“Who’s holding it?” I asked, thinking perhaps an apparition was added to the mix.

“It’s created from the feather of a Griffin,” Tariro replied, her tone implying I was grossly uneducated. When I failed to react, she added, “They’re a powerful guardian of the divine forged from the king of beasts and the king of the skies. There’s enough magic in one feather to transcribe prophecies for centuries.”

My knowledge of feathers was forged on a farm, where they were found on fowls and the occasional pillow. “What is the beastie feather scribbling?” I asked impatiently, straining my neck to see the letters.

“It’s no use trying to read it,” Tariro sighed. “It’s written in the language of the Gods.”

“I know some Latin,” I offered.

“It’s not in Latin.”

“Pig-latin?”