by Carol Berg
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
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
CHAPTER 39
Gerick
Seri
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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 for the reader with enough time to appreciate it.”
—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 stand-alone 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
“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
“Lively, original, this trilogy explores a richly textured, multicultural world through an exceptionally inventive and insightful exploration of multiple angles of magical and human conflict—Carol Berg has created a story with tempestuous, complex characters that will absolutely touch the heart!”
—Janny Wurts, author of the Wars of Light and Shadow series
OTHER BOOKS BY CAROL BERG
The Rai-Kirah series
TRANSFORMATION
REVELATION
RESTORATION
SONG OF THE BEAST
The Bridge of D’Arnath series
SON OF AVONAR
GUARDIANS OF THE KEEP
THE SOUL WEAVER
ROC
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, September 2005
eISBN : 978-1-101-11810-8
Copyright © Carol Berg, 2005
All rights reserved
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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.
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It’s time to acknowledge all those who have helped me bring Seri, Karon, and Gerick to life. First and foremost, Linda, the eternally patient listener and perceptive questioner, Pete, who told me all the right things and consulted on myriad technical issues, and Andrew, who asked the magical question, “Have you written any more of that story, Mom?” Then there are the Word Weavers old and new for being my extra eyes, Markus the Fighter Guy and his henchwoman Laurey and henchman Bob for assistance with combat, and Susan and Di for additional horse lore. Much appreciation to the New York crew, as well: Lucienne Diver, Laura Anne Gilman, and Anne Sowards. And roses all around for my faithful readers all over the world, especially the Roundtable and the Warrior group. You, too, are family, and your enthusiasm and encouragement brighten every day.
PROLOGUE
J’Savan stared, unblinking, at the dark blotch moving slowly across the dune sea, out where fingers of green grass were reaching into the desert. The young Gardener stared, not so much because he was concerned or felt any urgency about his assignment to watch for Zhid stragglers; after all, no Zhid had been sighted in southern Eidolon for almost two years. But he knew that if he so much as lowered one eyelid, the utter boredom of his post was going to put him to sleep. A man could appreciate only so much of the burnt copper sun and the heady scent of moisture, and the cool storm clouds the Weather Workers sent out from the Vales ensured that the blustering wind never ceased. The reawakening desert was beauty transcendent, life reasserting itself over the dead lands of Ce Uroth. But enough was enough.
He squinted into the western brightness. The blotch was likely a wild goat or perhaps a lame gazelle—too slow and erratic for a healthy one. At worst it was a scavenger wolf. The creature disappeared behind a dune, reappeared, vanished again.
J’Savan yawned and stretched out on his back, propping his head on his rucksack. The grassy dune underneath him was warm and comfortable, the day pleasant, but he would have preferred to get back to his regular duties of digging, planting, and coaxing the earth to do his will. He enjoyed his work. Even better would be an early start to his coming leave days and his planned visit to the charming young Singer he’d met at his aunt’s house before the autumn’s turning. Her waist was plump, her laugh as musical as the patter of spring rain, her spirit tart and flavorful like new-cut limes. Yawning again, he lowered his chin to rest on his chest, closed his eyes, and envisioned her breasts . . . soft . . . curving above the neckline of her gown like a sweet sunrise . . . flushed . . . warm . . .
“Kibbazi teeth!” he yelled, as a fiery sting on his neck startled his drooping eyelids open. “Who are you? What do you think you’re . . . wait . . .”
He scrabbled his feet for a moment, but fell still at once when a few warm droplets dribbled down his neck from the sharp edge pressed against his throat. A filthy, ragged woman of indeterminate age hunched over him, rifling his pockets with one hand while threatening his heart vein with the other. A scavenger . . . but no wolf.
She wrenched the small leather tool packet from his belt, sniffed it, and threw it aside, then yanked his rucksack out from under his head. She needed both hands to untie the leather thong that held the sack closed. J’Savan used the opportunity to scramble away, backing up the reclaimed dune like a nervous spider until he was out of her reach.
She didn’t seem afraid of him, now she had his things. Greasy tendrils of hair hid her face as she ripped the sack open and pulled out the stone water flask. After yanking the stopper, she cradled the flask in trembling hands and took a sip, no more than a taste. She moaned faintly.
“You can have it all,” said J’Savan, peering at her anxiously, desperate to see her eyes. No matter how much he would rather run away, he had to discover if she was Zhid. He was responsible for his fellow Gardeners’ safety, for the camp . . . Summoning power, he shaped a simple enchantment of confusion and delay, holding it at the front of his mind lest she attack again.
The woman set the stoppered flask aside and rummaged in the rucksack. She stuffed a crumbling biscuit into her mouth, and after it the bruised pear J’Savan had decided not to eat earlier as he didn’t like them so ripe. Only after she’d consumed every morsel, thrown down the empty rucksack, and taken a second sip from the flask did she seem to remember the young Dar’-Nethi. She stood up slowly, clutching the water flask in one hand and her knife—a crudely worked strip of bronze—in the other.
She was tall for a woman, so thin that her sunburnt skin stretched over her bones like silk across the spars of a sailing ship. Sand caked her arms, her bare feet, and her legs that stuck out from her stained, shapeless gray tunic. A dirty cloth bag the size of a man’s fist hung from a thong around her neck. She moved toward the Gardener.
J’Savan backed away slowly. “Who are you? Show me your face. I can get you more water and food, but I’ll defend myself if need be. I don’t mind what you took . . .” His tongue would not be still, as if chattering might set her at ease—or maybe it was for himself. She was so mysterious, so intense. “. . . or where you’ve come from. I can help. Find you clothes. Are you hurt? Are you . . . ?”
She stepped closer, using the hand with the knife to push the salt-stiffened locks of hair from her face, and J’Savan’s voice dwindled away. Her eyes might have been windows on the sky. Huge, blue, limitless. So young, much younger than he’d thought, no older than himself. Her cracked lips moved slightly.
“What? Sorry, I couldn’t—What did you say?”
“Regiré. S’a nide regiré.” Her soft voice was as dry as the rocky wastes.
She was clearly Dar’Nethi, not one of the warrior Zhid or their Drudge workers. Her eyes said it all. Yet she was not a Dar’Nethi slave, freed by the victory over the Lords, for she wore no collar nor the wide terrible scar from one. Perhaps a Dar’Nethi fighter, lost in the last battles? Surely not. Not after five long years. And her language was unfamiliar, some corrupt dialect, just on the verge of understandable.
“Regiré. Desene, s’a nide regire.” Even rough with thirst, her voice was commanding, urgent.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand you. Look, come with me to the camp. There’s water—all you could want—and food. Not a quarter of an hour’s walk from here. We’ll help you. Find someone who can understand what you’re saying.” Never quite turning his back on her, he beckoned, using gestures to guide her toward the Gardeners’ camp. He breathed easier when she trudged after him, her steps weary and slow, as if she didn’t believe he could help, but had nothing better to do.
It was difficult not to run ahead. No one would believe this, someone wandering out of the wasteland after so long. Rumor had it that Zhid still lurked in the jagged mountains of Namphis Rein, the Lion’s Teeth, far to the north. But in these first years after the fall of the Lords, the Zhid had been aimless and leaderless. Everyone believed that those not captured were long dead. Was this woman even real?
Quickly J’Savan turned and swept his mind over the woman. Her lank hair had fallen down again, masking
her marvelous eyes. But she was no illusion. He sensed no enchantment about her at all.
When the woman squatted down and began pawing at the sand in the middle of the rootling grove, J’Savan averted his gaze, embarrassed to keep staring at her when she clearly needed privacy. He walked through the slender trees more slowly for a few moments, until he heard her plodding along behind him again.
The other Gardeners spotted them while they were still five hundred paces from the camp. Three women and two men stood up from the mounds of dark earth they were working and shaded their eyes. A gust of wind snatched away their calls of greeting.
“Eu’Vian!” shouted J’Savan. “This woman’s come out of the Wastes. She’s starving and parched. Sun-touched, I think.” He ran toward his comrades in fits and starts, slowing whenever he glanced over his shoulder to make sure the woman hadn’t vanished, then speeding up again.
A sturdy, capable-looking woman in a dusty yellow tunic and brown trousers stepped out from the other Gardeners and extended her palms to the stranger.
“Welcome, wanderer,” said the gray-haired Eu’Vian.
“How may we help you?”
“Be careful!” said J’Savan. “She’s not Zhid, but she’s fierce. Those stains on her tunic . . .” He hadn’t noticed the rust-colored blotches earlier. His neck hadn’t bled that much.
The woman pushed her straggling hair aside and looked from one kind, curious face to the next. “S’a nide, regiré.”
