Breath and Bone
Praise for Flesh and Spirit
“In Carol Berg’s engrossing Flesh and Spirit, an engaging rogue stumbles upon the dangerous crossroads of religion, politics, war, and destiny. Berg perfectly portrays the people who shape his increasingly more chaotic journey: cheerful monks, cruel siblings, ambitious warlords, and a whole cast of fanatics. But it’s the vividly rendered details that give this book such power. Berg brings to life every stone in a peaceful monastery and every nuance in a stratified society, describing the difficult dirty work of ordinary life as beautifully as she conveys the heart-stopping mysticism of holiness just beyond human perception.”
—Sharon Shinn, national bestselling author of Reader and Raelynx
Praise for The Bridge of D’Arnath novels
“A very promising start to a new series.”
—The Denver Post
“Berg has mastered the balance between mystery and storytelling [and] pacing; she weaves past and present together, setting a solid foundation…. It’s obvious [she] has put incredible thought into who and what makes her characters tick.”
—The Davis Enterprise
“Berg exhibits her skill with language, world building, and the intelligent development of the magic that affects and is affected by the characters…. A promising new multivolume work that should provide much intelligent entertainment.”
—Booklist
“Imagination harnessed to talent produces a fantasy masterpiece, a work so original and believable that it will be very hard to wait for the next book in this series to be published.”
—Midwest Book Review
“[Seri] is an excellent main heroine; her voice, from the first person, is real and practical…I’m truly looking forward to seeing what happens next.”
—SF Site
“Gut-wrenching, serious fantasy fiction.”
—Science Fiction Romance
“Excellent dark fantasy with a liberal dash of court intrigue…. Read this if you’re tired of fantasy so sweet it makes your teeth squeak. Highly recommended.”
—Broad Universe
“Berg excels at strong world-building and complex, sympathetic characters. Her world is realistic and reasonable despite the obvious magical elements, and heroes and villains alike have complex motivations that make them real.”
—Romantic Times
Praise for Song of the Beast
Winner of the Colorado Book Award for Science Fiction/Fantasy
“The plot keeps twisting right until the end…. Entertaining characters.”
—Locus
“Berg’s fascinating fantasy is a puzzle story, with a Celtic-flavored setting and a plot as intricate and absorbing as fine Celtic lacework…. The characters are memorable, and Berg’s intelligence and narrative skill make this standalone fantasy most commendable.”
—Booklist
“It would be easy to categorize it as another dragon fantasy book. Instead, it is a well-crafted mystery…definitely recommended for libraries looking for high-quality fantasy and mystery additions.”
—KLIATT
Praise for Transformation, Revelation, and Restoration
The acclaimed Rai-Kirah saga by Carol Berg
“Vivid characters and intricate magic combined with a fascinating world and the sure touch of a Real Writer—luscious work!”
—Melanie Rawn
“This well-written fantasy grabs the reader by the throat on page one and doesn’t let go…wonderful.”
—Starburst
“Berg greatly expands her world with surprising insights.”
—The Denver Post
“Both a traditional fantasy and an intriguing character piece…superbly entertaining.”
—Interzone
“Vivid characters, a tangible atmosphere of doom, and some gallows humor.”
—SFX Magazine
“An exotic, dangerous, and beautifully crafted world.”
—Lynn Flewelling, author of Traitor’s Moon
“Powerfully entertaining.”
—Locus
“Berg’s characters are completely believable, her world interesting and complex, and her story riveting.”
—KLIATT
“Epic fantasy on a gigantic scale…. Carol Berg lights up the sky with a wondrous world.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Ms. Berg’s finely drawn characters combine with a remarkable imagination to create a profound and fascinating novel.”
—Talebones
“A much-needed boost of new blood into the fantasy pool.”
—Dreamwatch Magazine
ALSO BY CAROL BERG
Flesh and Spirit
Song of the Beast
The Rai-Kirah Series
Transformation
Revelation
Restoration
The Bridge of D’Arnath Series
Son of Avonar
Guardians of the Keep
The Soul Weaver
Daughter of Ancients
Breath and Bone
CAROL BERG
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Carol Berg, 2008
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Berg, Carol.
Breath and bone / Carol Berg.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1954-6
I. Title.
PS3602.E7523B74 2008
813'.6—dc22 2007025729
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
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For all who dance
Contents
Acknowledgments
Part One:Tarnished Gold
Chapter 1
Chapter
2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Two:The Waning Season
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part Three:Ever Longer Nights
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part Four:Canon
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Part Five:God’s Holy Book
Chapter 36
Acknowledgments
Again, incalculable thanks to Susan, Laurey, Glenn, Brian, Catherine, and Curt for two years of hard-nosed reading, to Linda for listening; to Markus, the Fighter Guy, for combat review; and to the doc-on-the-net, Doug Lyle, for more gory consultations. No words can express gratitude for my family’s support, especially this past year. And last, but certainly not least, to those ever in the hunt for inspiration, my thanks to National Public Radio for a small feature called “The Last Lighthouse” that launched me into these wild and wondrous realms.
Breath and Bone
PART ONE
Tarnished Gold
Chapter 1
“I don’t understand why I must remain locked in this god-cursed chamber all morning, dressed like a ducessa’s lapdog,” I said, scraping the frost off the window mullion. The distorted view through the thick little pane revealed naught but the snow-crusted ruins of the abbey brew-house, a sight to make a stout heart weep. “You seem to forget that I’m yet a vowed novice of Saint Ophir’s Rule. I should be helping the brothers rebuild their infirmary or salvage their stores if there’s aught to be found under the rubble.”
Storm, pestilence, civil war…the world was falling apart all around us. Abbot Luviar’s hope to protect the knowledge of humankind against this growing darkness dangled by the thinnest of threads. A monk I had believed holy…and my friend…had abducted a child I’d vowed to protect. And I was stuck here in Gillarine Abbey with a guard who never slept, awaiting who knew what. I needed to be doing something useful.
I wrenched the iron casement open and let the snow-riddled wind howl through for long enough to remind me of the dangers abroad. Setting off alone on a mad chase through the worst winter in Navronne’s history was a ludicrous idea for anyone, much less a man who was like to lose his mind at any hour. My unlikely nursemaid, a warrior whose presence turned men’s bowels to water even before they glimpsed his mutilated face, blocked the doorway of the abbey guesthouse bedchamber. A pile of velvet and satin garments draped over his arm, and a pair of low-cut doeskin court boots—large enough they might possibly fit my outsized feet—dangled from his thick fingers. He waited until I slammed the casement shut before vouchsafing a comment.
“His Grace wishes you to dress as befits his pureblood adviser. You must be ready whenever he summons you, so you should do it now.” Voushanti twisted the unscarred half of his mouth in his unsettling expression of amusement. “And you’re as suited to be a Karish monk as I am to be a pureblood’s valet.”
Though my dealings with Voushanti were anything but amusing, I could not but laugh at the bald truth stated so clearly. My novice vows had bought me a haven here two months previous, when I’d been a wounded deserter with no prospects of a roof, a meal, or a kind word anywhere. That my attachment to Gillarine Abbey had grown into something more was a virtue of the people here and no reversal of my own contrary nature. Circumstances—the law, my loathsome family, and the contract with which they had bound my life’s service to the Bastard Prince of Evanore—had halted my brief clerical career…and every other path of my own choosing.
I peered into the wooden mug on the hearth table, discovered yet again that it was empty, and threw it across the chilly room. “Let me dig graves, if naught else, Voushanti. The brothers have not had time to bury their dead since the Harrower assault. Prince Osriel has not yet arrived at Gillarine, so he couldn’t possibly need me before afternoon. I’ll not run away. I gave him my word. Besides, I’m still half frostbit and wholly knob-swattled from the past seven days, so I’m hardly likely to wander off into this damnable weather again.”
Were I the same man who had claimed sanctuary at Gillarine two months past, I’d have broken my submission to Osriel the Bastard, bashed Voushanti in the head with a brick, and gone chasing after the villain monk and his captive, be damned my word, the weather, and the consequences. But for once in my seven-and-twenty years, I had tried to think things through. Brother Gildas wanted Jullian for a hostage, a tool to manipulate me, thus he would keep the boy alive. I had already sent word to the lighthouse cabal, people who were far more likely to be able to aid my young friend. And in my own peculiar interpretation of divine workings, I believed that breaking my oath of submission, given to save Jullian’s life on another day, would somehow permit the gods to forsake the boy. Two months past, Jullian had saved my life. Perhaps the best service I could do for him was to behave myself for once. Dear Goddess Mother, please let me be right.
Voushanti tossed the fine clothes on the bed. “Dress yourself, pureblood. Remain here until you are summoned. You don’t want to know how sorely Prince Osriel mislikes disobedient servants.”
I pulled off the coarse shirt the monks had lent me and threw it to the floor. Propping my backside on a stool, I began to untie the laces that held up the thick common hose so I could replace them with the fine-woven chausses Prince Osriel expected to see on his bought sorcerer. Deunor’s fire, how I detested playing courtier to a royal ghoul who wouldn’t even show me his face. Though, in truth, if Osriel’s visage was more dreadful than Voushanti’s purple scars and puckered flesh, it would likely paralyze any who saw it. His Grace of Evanore had the nasty habit of mutilating the dead, and was reputed to consort regularly with the lord of the underworld.
Argumentative murmurings on the winding stair slowed my fingers and stiffened Voushanti’s spine as if someone had shoved a poker up his backside. The prior of Gillarine, a black-robed monk with a neck the same width as his shaven head, swept into the room, laden with drinking vessels and a copper pitcher. A ginger-bearded warrior burst through the doorway on Prior Nemesio’s heels.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the frowning warrior, a robust Evanori by the name of Philo. “The monk insists on seeing the pureblood. I know you said to keep everyone away, but to lay hands on a clergyman—”
A second warrior, also wearing my master’s silver wolf on his hauberk, joined his fellow. Their drawn swords appeared a bit foolish with none present but one stocky, hairless monk, one gangle-limbed sorcerer wearing naught but an ill-fitting undertunic and one leg of his hose, and their own commander.
“For mercy’s sake, Philo, Melkire, sheath your weapons,” I said, stuffing arms and head back into the shirt I had just shed. “Father Prior! Iero’s grace.” Hose drawn back up and laces retied, I jumped to my feet and touched my fingertips to my forehead. “I was shocked to find such devastation here, holy father. If I can do aught to help…”
Though protocol ranked any pureblood, even an illiterate, incompetent one like me, above nobles, clerics, or any other ordinary, I prayed my respectful address might prevent Voushanti and his men from hustling Nemesio away. The prior was my only link to my friends of the lighthouse cabal. I hoped for news of Jullian.
Nemesio’s nostrils flared as if an ill odor permeated the room. Difficult to imagine this unimaginative and slightly pompous man conspiring with the p
assionate, aristocratic Abbot Luviar to create the magical cache of books and tools they called the lighthouse.
The prior set his copper pitcher on the table and arranged the five cups beside it in a neat row. “Indeed, I have come to request your aid, Brother Valen.”
Voushanti rumbled disapproval.
I acted quickly, lest protocol violations end the visit. “You must not address me directly, Father Prior, but only Mardane Voushanti, as he represents my contracted master, Prince Osriel. But I’m sure the prince would hear your petition favorably in appreciation for your hospitality.”
I held no such assurance, of course. Though I had served him less than a fortnight and met him only twice, Prince Osriel seemed even less likely than most of his ilk to express gratitude of any sort. But perhaps he liked to pretend he was reasonable.
Prior Nemesio’s thick shoulders shifted beneath his habit. He clutched the silver solicale that hung about his neck as if the sunburst symbol of his god could protect him from these minions of the Adversary. The dark blots in his wide, pale face spoke of a sleepless night. “Mardane, a few weeks ago, one of our young aspirants disappeared. We have searched, questioned, and expended every resource to find him without success. We fear greatly for his life. Perhaps you remember Gerard, Brother Valen? A good, devout boy, just fourteen.”