Dust and Light
Page 1
PRAISE FOR CAROL BERG AND HER NOVELS
“Carol Berg is an absolutely gorgeous writer. . . . She does incredible, intricate world building that moves along like a deep, powerful river: It looks, on the surface, as though it’s carrying along at a reasonable rate, with occasional dips and swirls into eddies, but beneath that is an absolutely tremendous current pulling you along toward inexorable rapids, and you barely know it’s happened until you’re already over your head. And then, just in case that’s not enough, she does exactly the same thing with the character development, resulting in works of stunning scope that are also enormously internal journeys of discovery for not just the characters, but the reader.”
—C. E. Murphy, author of the Walker Papers series
“Among my favorite fantasies EVER! Carol Berg develops her characters, story, and world with a well-rounded brilliance seldom seen in fantasy, and a beauty that leaves a reader breathless.”
—Janny Wurts, author of the Wars of Light and Shadow series (on Flesh and Spirit and Breath and Bone)
“Carol Berg’s writing is some of the most lyrical and flowing I have run across. Her books all have some innate grace that serves as a marker against which I measure almost every other book I read. Berg’s books aren’t just books; they are art, and she’s a master of the wordsmithing craft. Her writing style gives all of her books a dreamlike quality that I love. Her stories are more real than real, and her characters are so vibrant, you live those moments as you read, and you learn so much about yourself as you do it.”
—Bookworm Blues
Dust and Light
“Carol Berg has spun a tale of magic and politics, of intrigue and betrayal. Set in a rich world, told through the eyes of a compelling and sympathetic hero, her story twists and turns, building to a conclusion that satisfies while hinting at more adventures to come. I eagerly await the next Sanctuary novel.”
—D. B. Jackson, author of the Thieftaker Chronicles
Breath and Bone
“The narrative crackles with intensity against a vivid backdrop of real depth and conviction, with characters to match. Altogether superior.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Berg’s lush, evocative storytelling and fully developed characters add up to a first-rate purchase for most fantasy collections.”
—Library Journal
“Replete with magic-powered machinations, secret societies, and doomsday divinations, the emotionally intense second volume of Berg’s intrigue-laden Lighthouse Duet concludes the story of Valen. . . . Fans of Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Avalon sequence and Sharon Shinn will be rewarded.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Berg combines druid and Christian influences against a backdrop of sorcerers, priestesses, priests, deep evil, and a dying land to create an engrossing tale to get lost in . . . enjoyable.”
—Monsters and Critics
“An excellent read . . . a satisfying sequel.”
—Fresh Fiction
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 Royal Airs
“Carol Berg has done a masterful job of creating characters, places, religions, and political trials that grab and hold your attention. . . . Don’t miss one of 2007’s best fantasy books!”
—Romance Reviews Today
“It’s challenging to create a main character who’s not exactly a good guy and yet still elicits reader sympathy. Carol Berg’s newest novel, Flesh and Spirit, features a man who has committed quite a few misdeeds and yet remains likable. . . . Berg also excels at creating worlds. . . . It’s like we’re exploring this world alongside its characters, and this technique works remarkably well. . . . I’m eagerly awaiting the duology’s concluding volume, Breath and Bone. This first installment is an engrossing and lively tale with enough action to keep you hungry for more.”
—The Davis Enterprise
The Daemon Prism
“[Berg’s] insight into the nature of human good and evil, the constantly ebbing and flowing relationships among lovers and friends . . . consistently raises this novel above sword-and-sorcery routine.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An amazingly complex and rewarding story. The Daemon Prism is certain to reward the devoted students of the Collegia Magica trilogy.”
—Booklist
“One of the best fantasies I have encountered in years. . . . Berg takes chances with her characters . . . that leave them imprinted indelibly in your memory and heart . . . wonderful.”
—Science Fiction and Other ODDysseys
“Enthralling and not to be missed.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Filled with action and feeling, as if it occurs in a Berg version of the Age of Reason; fans will appreciate this stupendous story.”
—Alternative Worlds
BOOKS BY CAROL BERG
THE COLLEGIA MAGICA SERIES
The Spirit Lens
The Soul Mirror
The Daemon Prism
THE LIGHTHOUSE SERIES
Flesh and Spirit
Breath and Bone
THE BRIDGE OF D’ARNATH SERIES
Son of Avonar
Guardians of the Keep
The Soul Weaver
Daughter of Ancients
Song of the Beast
THE RAI-KIRAH SERIES
Transformation
Revelation
Restoration
ROC
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014
USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China
penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
Copyright © Carol Berg, 2014
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Berg, Carol.
Dust and light: a sanctuary novel/Carol Berg.
p. cm.—(A sanctuary novel; 1)
ISBN 978-1-101-60309-3
1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Sorcery—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.E7523D88 2014
813'.6—dc23 2014004222
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.
Version_1
Contents
Praise
Books by CAROL BERG
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
PART I: THE BLADES OF WINTER
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
PART II: THE KILLING SEASON
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
PART III: THE WAKING STORM
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
PART IV: HARSH MAGIC
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
FOR ARTISTS AND HISTORIANS, AND ALL WHO SHOW US TRUTH
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks as always to my extraordinary posse—Susan, Curt, Catherine, Brian, Courtney—for keeping me thinking. And to the Fairplay gang—Cindi, Jeanne, Susan, Vicki, and yes, you, too, Michael, Stella, Richard, and all the crew—for enabling words with comradeship and hospitality. To Brenda, for constant encouragement and our days of magic in the Northwest. To my readers, for the connections and insights that keep me going. To agent Lucienne and editor Anne, for your trust and insights. To my mother, for the beginning. And to Pete, the Exceptional Spouse, for all these things and everything else, ever and always.
The blades of winter pierce root and stone, dust and light. Day sky sheened with silver; stars shattered with frost; life burrowed deep. The killing season. A fragile beauty, fraught with danger, hunger, and pain. Stripped branch and barren vine crack and shrivel. My heart yearns for warmth, for companionship, for glory. Yet waking is storm. ’Tis harsh magic to dance on ice.
—Canticle of the Winter
PART I
THE BLADES OF WINTER
CHAPTER 1
YEAR 1291 OF THE ARDRAN PRINCIPALITY
YEAR 214 FROM THE UNIFICATION OF ARDRA, MORIAN, AND EVANORE AS THE KINGDOM OF NAVRONNE
YEAR 1, INTERREGNUM, MOURNING THE DEATH OF GOOD KING EODWARD
EARLY WINTER
Rumors flew into Palinur on a malignant north wind. After seven bloody months, Perryn, Duc of Ardra, Prince of Navronne, had battled his contentious brother Bayard back into the northlands. While frozen roads and rivers locked Bayard in the river county, Perryn was returning triumphant to his royal city. For better or worse, King Eodward’s throne was his. Navronne’s brief war of succession was over.
Perhaps.
My unfocused anxieties felt somehow traitorous to my heritage. The politics of ordinaries shouldn’t touch me, a pureblood sorcerer, gifted by the gods to provide magic to the world. Were they yet living, my parents would berate me for unseemly distraction and my teasing brothers call me soberskull or grimheart. But the war had touched me, and would forever, no matter which prince won the prize.
The frigid air pricked like needles this morning. Another fretful night had left me nervy, as if bowmen stood on the rooftops, arrows nocked and aimed at my back. Ten times in the half quellé from my town house I’d spun around, imagining a pickthief fingering the gold chain about my neck. Now the babbling river of people flowing through the back lane of the Council District had come to a standstill, trapping me between a heavily guarded flock of squalling geese and a rickety tinker’s cart headed for some nobleman’s kitchen.
The blockage did naught for my composure. I’d determined to reach my studio at the Registry Tower early and had foolishly assumed the streets might be less crowded while the morning was yet dark as pitch. But refugees from the northern battles had swarmed into the city ahead of Prince Perryn’s legions. Barons and villeins, freeholders and crofters, monks, practors, and townsmen crammed the streets with wagons and carts, trading their belongings for what provision anyone could offer. What hopes people bore of sustenance in a famine year might be realized only in Palinur—and before the returning troops ravaged the remaining stores.
Fools, all. The new year had not yet turned, and Navronne already lay in the grip of yet another ruinous winter. Market stalls were bare, grain stores heavily guarded. Meat and fish commanded prices akin to rubies.
The poor light—a weedy torch here and a grimy wagon lamp there—scarce penetrated the murk. An escort to carry a lamp and clear my path was a luxury my purse could no longer support, and when my steward had offered to hire a linkboy, I’d refused, unwilling to wait. A poor decision. I was expert at those.
Exasperated, I squeezed past the tinker’s cart, only to end up ankle-deep in a stew of ice and muck, blocked yet again. Two men were pounding each other bloody, surrounded by jeering onlookers.
“Move aside!” Magelight blazed white from my hand, quieting the noise in the lane.
Most folk properly averted their eyes at the sight of my mask and claret-hued cloak and squeezed to the sides of the lane to let me pass. I could properly summon a constable to punish those who did not, but that wasn’t going to speed my progress.
Unfortunately, neither was the uncomfortably direct assertion of my prerogatives. A rag-topped cart crammed with women and children choked the lane ahead, while three men attempted to repair a broken wheel. The families had painted their foreheads with dung to appease whatever god they believed had brought this doom of war and winter on the world.
I considered reversing course altogether, but an alley sheering off to my left looked more promising.
The alley was certainly no garden path. I stepped over piles of unidentifiable refuse, a bloated cat, and a beggar, either sleeping or dead. But the empty quiet was a welcome contrast to the cacophony that rose again behind me. The wind sighed and whistled through the dark slot.
I dimmed my magelight. I needed to conserve power, rid myself of distraction, and focus on my work today. A portrait done the previous afternoon needed repairs before the Master of Archives inspected it.
Lucian . . . see . . .
I would not look back. Would not. The breathy words were naught but wind.
. . . meddling . . . end it . . .
. . . no saving him . . .
I made it halfway to the graying light at the far end of the alley before I whirled about and raised my light again to affirm that the touch on my shoulder and the footsteps—soft as bare feet on green grass—were mere imagining.
At six-and-twenty, I was a man of fit body and intelligent mind, a pureblood sorcerer of honorable bloodlines and with an exceptional magical bent for portraiture. Save for one small failure in discipline five years past, which had borne entirely unsubtle consequences, my conscience was clear. So why did I have this incessant sense of being watched? My eyes insisted that shadows darted away as I rounded corners and that wisps of colored light glimmered in the dark courtyards outside my windows. Only in the last tenday had my fancy added these whisperings just at the farthest limits of hearing. Warnings, but of what, I had no idea.
Not that I believed in them. That would be madness.
The sensations were not magic. Every day of my life was filled with magic. Nor were they ghosts. Were ghosts real, mine would be only three months raised and so numerous I could not mistake them. These oddities had gone on nigh half a year. Reason could explain none of it.
No matter reason or belief, my fears were undeniable. Reason did not always hold sway, and purebloods were not immortal.
Lucian . . . listen . . .
Without looking ba
ck, I raced from the alley into the busy boulevard that led uphill to the Tower.
* * *
By the time the city bells pealed ninth hour of the morning watch, I was glaring at the sketch propped on my easel. The subject, an overripe girl of fourteen, had come into the Pureblood Registry the previous day for her biennial portrait, which seemed a silly exercise in the face of such world-shaping events as war and disastrous winter. Instead of the pups and roses she wanted as her background setting, my fingers had insisted on drawing wrecked houses and hanged men. The girl’s grandfather Pluvius, Master of the Registry Archives and my own contract master, would most certainly disapprove, so I’d come in early to remove them with an unsatisfactory wash of ink.
Touching my pen to the portrait yet again, I raised the girl’s true image, shaped in my mind at her sitting. A quick comparison to the actuality on the page, and my will released the enchantment waiting in my fingers like liquid fire. A few quick strokes instilled a little more of the spoiled-daughter pout so clear in my mind’s eye. Better. Truth.
Even so mundane an evocation of magic filled me with awe and divine purpose. No matter personal grief or inexplicable megrims, magic held me centered—an inexhaustible source of wonder.
The fire in the grate had left the tower studio stifling. Blotting my fingers, I hurried across the cluttered chamber to the fogged casements and twisted the latch, welcoming a drift of cold air.
Better to be here than down below. My boots were dry. The air was quiet. A small fire blazed in the pocardon, the royal city’s ancient market—thankfully nowhere near the town house where my young sister remained secluded with our devoted servants—but I could not smell it. Here in the chambers of those who administered the lives of pureblood sorcerers, all was as it had ever been: serene, unhurried, and well disciplined, separate from the chaos of ordinaries, as the gods intended.
A bitter draft swooshed through the tower room, riffling fifty loose pages before the door slammed shut again behind a rumpled giant.