Son of Avonar Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Praise for the acclaimed Rai-kirah saga

  “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 Magazine

  “The prince’s redemption, his transformation, and the flowering of mutual esteem between master and slave are at the story’s heart. This is handled superbly.”

  —Time Out (London)

  “Vivid characters, a tangible atmosphere of doom, and some gallows humor.”

  —SFX Magazine

  “Powerfully entertaining.”—Locus

  “An exotic, dangerous, and beautifully crafted world.”

  —Lynn Flewelling, author of Traitor’s Moon

  “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

  “Carol Berg is a brilliant writer who has built her characters carefully and completely. The magic is subtle and vivid, and the writing is compelling.”

  —BookBrowser

  “A much-needed boost of new blood into the fantasy pool.”

  —Dreamwatch Magazine

  OTHER BOOKS BY CAROL BERG

  The Rai-kirah series

  TRANSFORMATION

  REVELATION

  RESTORATION

  SONG OF THE BEAST

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,

  Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads,

  Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  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.

  First Printing, February 2004

  Copyright © Carol Berg, 2004

  All rights reserved

  eISBN : 978-1-101-09874-5

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  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 scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For teachers, the overlooked heroes and heroines who illuminate and nurture young minds, who inculcate our values and teach self-discipline, who shore up our freedoms, remind us of the lessons of history, and ensure the future of the arts. For a few in particular—Elizabeth Paar and Carol Roehl, Jane Conway, Marcia Stefan, Sister Francesca, Sister Anselma, Robert Patten, David Minter, Katherine Brown—and many others at OLV and Nolan and Rice, who inspired, who shared their devotion to art and literature, or who just flat expected their students to do the difficult, the boring, and the necessary in the name of learning.

  CHAPTER 1

  Midsummer’s Day—Year 14 in the reign of King Evard

  The dawn wind teased at my old red shawl as I scrambled up the last steep pitch of the crescent-shaped headland the villagers called Rif Paltarre—(Poacher’s Ridge. A brisk walk to the eastern edge and I seated myself on a throne of rock as if I were a Leiran duchess attending a midsummer fete. But whereas my girlhood friends might celebrate the longest day of the year by watching jugglers, fire-eaters, and tittering ladies stepping through the spiritless mimicry they called “rustic dances,” I beheld color and shape being born from a vast and silent wilderness of gray.

  Stretching west for two hundred leagues, stood the snow-capped peaks of the Dorian Wall, their brilliant rose brightening to eye-searing white. To the north swelled the ocean of dark green forest. To the east the ground fell away gently in a stone-bordered patchwork of meadows and farm-land to the bronze ripples of the Dun River and the haze-shrouded village of Dunfarrie squatting on its banks. It was a splendid desolation.

  As the light grew, I stuffed my water flask into the cloth bag hanging from my belt, snugged the rags I’d wrapped about my hands, and took up the true business of the day—hunting dye plants to barter in the village. The first lesson I’d learned on coming to Dunfarrie, when I had scarcely known that food grew in the ground, much less that it must be coddled and coaxed and worried over, was that those whose bellies are pinched by hunger know nothing of holidays.

  In early afternoon, back aching, hands dirty and sore despite the rags, I abandoned the glare and blustering wind of the heights for a shady clearing of pine trees and oak scrub. I ate a few dried figs, hard and half turned to sugar, and refilled my water flask at the stream that mumbled through the weedy clearing, trying to decide whether to return to the ridge top to dig another bundle of scabwort roots or head down to the cottage and the uncountable tasks that needed doing before sunset.

  A spider skittered across the scuffed leather of my boot. A jay screeched. Beyond the stream,
something large rustled the bracken—one of Evard’s deer, no doubt. No predators, human or beast, frequented the wooded hills behind Jonah’s cottage. Nor did enemy soldiers. Leire’s current battles were being waged in faraway Iskeran. Nor did sorcerous enchantments lurk in the wild forest, threatening to corrupt the soul. As the priests and people of the Four Realms had demanded for four hundred and fifty years, the dark arts and those who practiced them had been exterminated.

  I lifted my head. The rustling came louder, closer, and now accompanied by a muted, rhythmic pounding. Running footsteps . . . human . . . that halted somewhere in the trees to my right. “Who’s there?” I called out, scrambling to my feet.

  As if from nowhere and everywhere sounded the blast of a horn, the clamor of a hunt sweeping through the forest on three sides: racing hoofbeats, jangling harness, a shouted command not ten paces from where I stood. The runner was closer than that.

  “Stay away from me,” I said softly, trying to look everywhere at once, “or I’ll scream and let them know you’re here.”

  A branch snapped. I whirled about, but saw nothing. Backing slowly away from the hunt toward the downhill side of the clearing, my hand moved slowly toward my slit pocket where I could reach the knife sheath hidden under my skirt. But whatever I thought to do with my pitiful weapon was left undone. A muscular arm reached from behind and wrapped itself about my neck, while another grabbed my waist, crushing my elbow into my ribs. I fought to keep my footing as my assailant dragged me downstream through the water and into a dense tangle of cedar, pine, and juniper. Twigs and sharp, dry underbranches caught in my hair, slapped and stung my face.

  My captor’s arm was fiercely sunburned, the skin scratched and abraded. The heart pressed so close to my back was thudding ferociously, and his sweat soaked the back of my tunic. He stank of unwashed terror.

  I slammed my unrestrained elbow into his belly, tore at his arms, stomped my boot somewhere in the region of his foot, and flailed at his flank—discovering to my surprise that he seemed to be entirely unclothed. When I reached over my head to claw at his eyes, he used my own right arm to bat away my left and tightened his hold on my throat.

  The pursuit careened through the woodland, the riders so close, I could almost smell the leather harness and feel the cool steel of their blades. Yet even if I could have mustered a shout or a scream, I wouldn’t have done so. I had no illusions that those giving chase were more benevolent than my captor. Such was the state of the vile world. I just wanted to get loose, to get out from between pursuers and pursued. A bizarre struggle . . . both of us wordless, desperate.

  My chest hurt. Feebly, I tried jamming my fingers between my windpipe and his arm, but he trapped both my wrists in one broad hand and pinned them to my breast. But just as the black spots before my eyes started swirling together, he shifted backward a few wobbling steps, jolting to a stop as if he’d backed into a tree. My knees buckled and left me sagging against his arm, and either the change of position or some release on his part allowed me to gulp a bucketful of air.

  The day fell unnaturally quiet. The noisy pursuit had passed us by, but the more ordinary sounds—the bawling of crows, the rustle of rabbits scrabbling through dead leaves—had not yet resumed. Only the faint mumble of the stream accompanied my captor’s breathing. While his chest heaved with harsh, shuddering gasps, painfully muffled, I dangled from his grip like a scrawny chicken waiting to have its neck wrung. Filthy bastard. I knew how desperate men were likely to release pent-up fear and anger when a vulnerable woman was within their reach, and I was having none of that. The slight quiver beneath his flesh hinted at weakness, and the sweaty hand that held my two wrists was trembling. One chance, perhaps . . .

  I wrenched my hands from his grasp, clawed at his arm, and tried to duck my head under it. But weakness is a relative thing. With devastating speed, and strength that came near cracking my spine, the man growled and spun me about, grabbed my wrists again, and slammed my back against the bole of an oak, his other hand clamped about my throat.

  He was big—tall and broad in the chest and shoulder. His face was a blur of white, red, and brown: fair hair, blood, sun, dirt, terror . . . no . . . fury, not terror. . . . I assumed I was going to die before I could see him with any clarity. But all at once, as if wrenched by an unseen hand, he snatched his hands away and staggered backward.

  I took a full, satisfying, sight-clearing breath, and willed bone back into my knees. The naked young man—indeed he wore not a stitch—stood motionless. His limbs and torso were powerfully muscled and threaded with bloody scratches, his pale hair unkempt, and his eyes a startling blue, the deep, rich color of lapis, fixed on my face as if he had never seen a human person before.

  Trying to hold his eyes engaged, I slid sideways a finger’s breadth. My skirt snagged briefly on the tree. Another step. Then I felt nothing behind me. I spun on my heel and bolted.

  Damn and blast! Two steps and I was sprawled on the forest floor, my mouth full of dirt and pine needles, my chin stinging. I scrabbled forward, trying to get my treacherous feet under me, half turning backward, expecting to see his hands reaching for me again. But the man had not moved a step. Instead he had extended his hands palms up, as if dedicating a sword at the temple of Annadis. Ripping my skirt loose from the brambles, I lurched to my feet and backed away, then turned and darted a bit more carefully down the hill. One last glance over my shoulder showed him take a single step in my direction, sway drunkenly, and crumple earthward. I didn’t stay to watch him hit.

  By the time I reached the lower boundary of the forested hills, neither feet nor pulse were racing any longer, but my thoughts lingered back on the ridge. Those unbelievably blue eyes might have been the single spot of color in a painting rendered entirely in shades of gray. He hadn’t the look of any poacher I’d seen locked in the Dunfarrie pillory. Desperate, but without the ravenous derangement of a starving peasant. Skilled at violence, but lacking the reckless competence of the professional thief. He hadn’t broken my neck.

  The stream pooled in a weed-choked depression at the edge of the trees before meandering sluggishly across the dry meadow. Shooing away a cloud of gnats, I dropped to my knees by the pool and doused my face and neck, wincing as the cool water stung my scraped chin and the skin left raw and bruised by his wide hands. I didn’t care what else he was. He was a brute. I’d wager that all of them were brutes—villain and hunters together.

  Mumbling oaths like a common soldier, I straightened my skirt and yanked at my shift, which had gotten uncomfortably twisted beneath my shapeless tunic. As if my clothes weren’t threadbare enough, I’d have to pull out my cursed needle to repair the rips. Drying my hands on my skirt, I set out across the meadow toward the squat, sod-roofed shack that was my home and the weedy garden that kept me living.

  After a few hot hours of work, the immediate annoyances of turnip beetles and wire-like threadweed had pushed the incident to the back of my mind. The threats of persistent drought and harsh Leiran winters hung over my head like a heavy-handed schoolmaster, requiring me to work as hard as I could manage from dawn to dusk every day of the year. The work occupied only back, shoulders, and hands, though; my intellect was as dull as the flat, unvarying landscape east of the river. As I yanked at the stringy weeds choking my tender plants, I kept a wary eye on the ring of trees that bounded the meadow, but the morning’s misadventure soon took on the quality of an uncomfortable dream . . . until the hunting party arrived.

  In late afternoon, five horsemen came galloping across the meadow from the direction of the village path. I kept at my work. No use in running. No use in wishing for a weapon more serious than my scratched dagger, still solidly and discreetly fixed to my thigh under my skirt. I didn’t even look up when the dust of their arrival settled on the turnip leaves, and the massive presence of five snorting, overheated horses surrounded me. We take small victories where we can.

  “I don’t get many visitors,” I said, yanking a snarl of threadweed from
the dry soil.

  “Isolation does not suit you, my lady.”

  My eyes shot upward to the trim, dark-haired man who urged his mount into the middle of the garden and halted right in front of me. “Darzid!” I searched deep for the proper expressions of contempt, of wounding, of hatred, furious that words of sufficient pith and clarity would not come at my beck. Captain Darzid—my brother’s right hand, his chief aide, his lieutenant in all things despicable.

  He jerked his head at the cottage. “After all these years, my first visit to your charming little refuge, and, sadly, I’ve no time to dally.” As ever, amusement glinted in eyes as cold and sharp as black diamonds; the smile that creased his tanned, trim-bearded face held no more warmth. “I’ll have to return for a tour another day.”

  “Are you here to exhibit your wit, Captain? Or perhaps to demonstrate your skill at confronting dangerous women? I’m sorry no infants are available to slaughter, or you could display your inimitable courage. But then, you didn’t bring Tomas to show you how it’s done, did you?”

  Darzid’s smile only broadened as he waved his companions toward the cottage and the solitary copse of willows and alders clustered about a muddy spring two hundred paces away. Two soldiers dismounted and entered the house; two rode for the copse. “Your brother is otherwise occupied today. He’ll be as surprised as I to learn that this hunt has led me past your doorstep.” His long thin hands—the grotesque scarring on the palms the result of some long-ago battle, he’d once told me—stroked the neck of his restless stallion. “Ah, lady, when will you realize that your battles are lost and your grievances long forgotten? These men don’t even know who you are. Our search has nothing to do with you.”