Marion Zimmer Bradley - Clingfire Trilogy 03 - A Flame In Hali

A FlameIn Hali

The Clingfire Trilogy Book 03

Marion Zimmer Bradley & Deborah J. Ross

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks, once again, to my editor, Betsy Wollheim, to Ann Sharp of The Marion Zimmer Bradley

Literary Trust, to Sherwood Smith, and to a multitude of others who have shown me how life can be

lived with dignity, respect, and serenity.

DISCLAIMER

The observant reader may note discrepancies in some details from more contemporary tales. This is

undoubtedly due to the fragmentary histories which survive to the present day. Many records were lost

during the years following the Ages of Chaos andHundredKingdoms and others distorted by oral

tradition.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Immensely generous with "her special world" of Darkover,Marion loved encouraging new writers. We

were already friends when she began editing the DARKOVER and SWORD & SORCERESS

anthology

es. The match between my natural literary "voice" and what she was looking for was extraordinary. She

loved to read what I loved to write, and she often cited "The Death of Brendan Ensolare" (FOUR

MOONS OF DARKOVER, DAW, 1988) as one of her favorites.

AsMarion 's health declined, I was invited to work with her on one or more Darkover novels. We

-decided that rather than extend the story of "modern" Darkover, we would return to the Ages of Chaos.

Marion envisioned a trilogy beginning with the Hastur Rebellion andA FLAME IN HALI, the enduring

friendship between Varzil the Good and Carolin Hastur, culminating in the signing of the Compact. While

I scribbled notes as fast as I could, she would sit back, eyes alight, and begin a story with, "Now, the

Hasturs tried to control the worst excesses of laran weapons, but there were always others under

development . . ." or "Of course, Varzil and Carolin had been brought up on tales of star-crossed lovers

who perished in the destruction of Neskaya ..."

Here is that tale.

Deborah J. Ross

PROLOGUE

Rumail Deslucido had cheated death before, but now it had come for him at last. He lay on a cot, as

sagging and creaking as his failing body, in the dingy room that had been his refuge and his prison, and

waited. Each breath had become a battle to suck air into his scarred lungs. With each passing moment,

his heart stuttered as if it, too, trembled with the exhaustion of having lived too long.

The door opened and the girl from the village stepped in, carrying a basket of bread and an earthenware

jar. He sipped the broth as she spooned it for him,then lay back. She spoke to him, things of little

consequence, not worth the effort of listening. Her voice faded, mingling with the memories of other

voices. Sometimes he spoke with men long dead-his royalbrother ...

Ah! There was the unbowed golden head, the eyes brimming with fire and victory. Once again, they

stood together on a balcony while below them, the white-and-black-diamond-patterned banners of

Deslucido rippled in the breeze. The morning sun burnished the King's hair to a natural crown. He spoke,

and his words painted visions in Rumail's mind, hope for a time when these Hundred Kingdoms might be

united into a single harmonious realm.No more incessant warfare, no more petty bickering while men

bled out their lives upon the ruined fields. Rumail's laran talents would be celebrated, his place as Keeper

of his own Tower, so long denied by those head-blind purists, secure___

The bright sky darkened, the vision blew away like winter-dried leaves, and now Rumail stood on the

battlefield at Drycreek, where his brother's army had clashed with that of King Rafael Hastur. His

brother's soldiers paused to gaze skyward. Hovering above the enemy, Rumail's mechanical birds

released showers of glowing green particles, as eerily beautiful as they were deadly: bonewater dust,

forged by the concentrated power ofGifted minds, bought at great cost from a renegade circle.

Even as Rumail watched the luminous poison drift toward the unsuspecting enemy, he wished there had

been some other way to stop the Hastur King and his witch-born niece, Taniquel Hastur-Acosta. By

treachery and psi-wielding servants of their own, they had turned the tide of battle.

I had no choice. None of us had a choice.

Rumail had relived the scene a thousand times, from the first moment victory slipped away with the

sudden shift of the wind that blew the bonewater dust back upontheir own forces. As if it were

yesterday, he remembered that mad scramble of retreat, men and beasts perishing within a heartbeat,

with thousands more doomed to a lingering death. He himself had narrowly escaped. Wounded, barely

able to maintain a psychic shield against the toxic dust, he had clung to the merest shred of hope.

He should have perished there, immobilized and helpless. But he did not. He had escaped death then, as

he had before, as he would again. The gods had another destiny for him, not as one more nameless body

on a field no one dared cross for a generation or more.

Now, in his memory, he stood high upon a Tower balcony, wrapped in the crimson robes of a Keeper.

At last, he commanded a circle of his own, and no matter how its workers might despise him, they would

obey. Their Tower was sworn to his brother the King, and it was by his orders they now mounted their

attack upon aHasturTower .

Screams echoed through the caverns of Rumail's mind. Around him, walls shuddered under blasts of

psychic lightning as each Tower unleashed its terrible weapons upon the other. Stones burst into

unnatural flame. He sensed the dying minds of his own workers and, echoed from afar, those of their

enemies. Blue flames shot skyward, rocking the foundations.

Rumail remembered stumbling from the ruined Tower, wandering in a daze,now a disembodied spirit in

the Overworld, now ragged and half-starved, through the wild lands where none knew him.

Now the memories flickered through his mind like candles guttering in a winter wind. He looked upon

the homely village woman he had taken to wife, gazed down upon the rounded face of a newborn son,

then another and another. The years blurred together. He looked upon the bright eyes of his sons and his

own vengeance mirrored in them. Felt a distant wrench as his oldest son's mind flared and fell into

silence. Saw the weathered face of a traveling tinker, bringing news that King Rafael Hastur had died

under mysterious circumstances.

Heard the voice of his second son: "Father, Felix Hastur of Carcosa has claimed the throne and he has a

healthy heir, his nephewCarolin ."

"Then Carolin, too, must die," Rumail had said, "so that their linebe obliterated. I will send my youngest

son, my Eduin, toArilinnTower , there to train as a laranzu, the perfect weapon against this Hastur

Prince."

Eduin...

"La! There!" said the village girl, smoothing the hair back from Rumail's forehead. "Feeling better, are

we?" He had no energy to favor her with a response, for the past pressed even closer now.

The face of his youngest son drifted behind Rumail's closed eyelids and it seemed that once more he

wandered in delirium, his body racked to the core with lung fever, his lungs weakened by his battlefield

ordeal. When word reached Arilinn of his illness, Eduin had rushed to his side. Rumail felt the touch of his

son's trained laran.

Father, please! You must live, if only to see yourself avenged upon the Hasturs!

Live ... he heard his own mental voice, dim and far off. Yes, I must live. And make sure that next time,

you do not fail me.

Eduin had cringed under the mental onslaught. His weakness, his guilt shone through. Rumail stormed

through each memory, each moment of betrayal. When Carolin spenta season training atArilinnTower ,

Eduin had a dozen chances to strike-a slip of the knife, a fall from a balcony, a heart suddenly stopped as

his fingers closed around Carolin's starstone. ... At each crucial moment, however, something had stayed

his hand.

It wasn't my fault! Eduin had cried. Always, Varzil Ridenow interfered, suspected me, protected

Carolin___

No excuses! With all the force of his Tower-trained mind, Rumail struck. Eduin, caught between

desperation and hope, was without defense. Rumail penetrated his son's mind, deep into the core of his

laran talent, grasped and twisted....

You will know no rest or joy until Carolin Hastur and everyone who aided him is dead.

When the deed was done, Rumail had opened his eyes to see his two remaining sons, Eduin the laranzu

and Gwynn the assassin. Eduin had become his instrument, wedded utterly to his purpose.

Rumail sent his sons back into the world. "Find the child of Taniquel! Kill Carolin Hastur and anyone

who stands in your way!

Fragments of laran memories rose in Rumail's memory, things he had sensed from afar, linked to the

minds of his sons. Gwynn struggled on a muddy riverbank with Carolin,then locked in a psychic battle

with Varzil Ridenow, who had foiled the assassination attempt. Varzil's mind pressed against his: Who

sent you? Who?

Even now, Rumail heard the echoes of Gwynn's final, anguished thoughts: WE WILL BE AVENGED!

From afar, Eduin surged with triumph as he uncovered the identity of Felicia Hastur-Acosta; his hands

moved, setting a deadly trap-matrix; he fled the ruins of Hestral Tower, hunted ... outlawed ... Rumail

could no longer tell whether these memories were Eduin's or his own-the cold, the fear, the constant need

to hide, to keep moving....

Father, I am here ... waiting for you....

Rumail blinked, as one vision overlapped another. Gwynn beckoned to him, and behind that ghostly

form stood another, the sons he had lost in his quest for vengeance. In each face, he saw the light of

recognition and welcome. There his brother stood, golden and kingly, beside his own son and heir ...

there the general who had led them . . . there the men fallen under the bonewater dust.Waiting, all waiting

for him to join them.

I cannot die, not yet, not while Carolin Hastur still sits on his throne! What accursed sorcery guards him?

Eduin's shadowy form shimmered in the old man's sight.

You were right, my son. Without Varzil Ridenow, you would have succeeded.

With the dregs of his strength, Rumail struggled for speech, but could not form the words. His vocal

cords, like his body, had gone numb. Grayness lapped at him, hungering.

We are waiting for you....

"Sir, you must rest."A light voice, girlish.

Rest.Soon enough.Rumail closed his eyes, summoning the laran that had once been his in full measure.

He had trained atNeskayaTower before its fall, before Varzil the Good had rebuilt it with the help of

Carolin Hastur. He could have been a Keeper in his own right.Should have.

No time for that now. His thoughts were becoming disjointed, falling into rust.

The Hasturs.Must be destroyed, he sent. Kill them ... kill them all! Across the leagues, he sensed Eduin's

response.

Varzil Ridenow, Rumail insisted, even as his thoughts frayed into tatters. He is the key to Carolin's

power. Without his strength ... Hastur will fall....

Yes, Eduin replied, with a hatred that mirrored Rumail's own.

Avenge us ... the ghostly figures pressed even closer now, their voices growing as strong as if they stood

before him. Joinus ...

"Swear-" Rumail could not be sure whether he projected the command mentally or spoke it aloud. His

breath whispered through his throat, the faintest of sighs. "Swear it will be done!"

The grayness rose about him and the faces grew clearer, their skin and clothing as colorless as the

landscape beyond. The Overworld closed its jaws about him, and this time there would be no return.

I... swear...

BOOK I

1

That year, the long Darkovan winter seemed to last forever. Month after month, ice clouds masked the

swollen Bloody Sun. Snow fell, hardened like glass, and then fell again, until the compacted layers

encased the land in armor. The passes through the Venza Hills above Thendara closed. Even traders,

whose livelihood depended upon travel, lost all desire to venture beyond the city walls. Comyn lords and

commoners alike barricaded themselves behind their doors, hunkering down for the season.

Midwinter Festival came, and with it, a flurry of merrymaking. King Carolin Hastur threw open the

doors of his great hall for a tenday, with music and feasting enough to lift the heart of the meanest street

beggar. He had but lately moved his seat from Hali, where his grandfather had ruled, to the larger

metropolis of Thendara. Hastur Kings had lived here, too, the last being Rafael II at the time of the

Hastur Rebellion. By moving his court to Thendara, Carolin let the people know that he meant to rule all

of Hastur. He was no longer Hastur of Carcosa or Hastur of Hali, but High King in Thendara. To

celebrate his new seat, he distributed holiday largesse with a generosity that inspired thanksgiving in some

quarters and suspicion in others. When he appeared in public, whether addressing Comyn lords or

commoners, he spoke of the Compact that would bring about a new age of peace and honor for all of

Darkover.

The traffic of carts and wagons through the traders' gates dwindled. Grain merchants raised their prices,

hoarding their shrinking supplies. One bleak gray tenday followed another, and the festivities blurred into

memory, pale against the unrelenting cold. King Carolin established a series of shelters, much like those

maintained along mountain trails for travelers, where poor people might find refuge in the bitter nights.

Distributions from the royal granaries to the poor continued for a time. On those days, people gathered

in the darkness before dawn, shivering in their layers of woolen cloaks and shawls, jackets and

much-patched blankets, clutching their jars and baskets. Their breath rose like plumes of mist. On some

mornings, each was given a portion of grain, dried beans, and a measure of cooking oil or sometimes

honey. Lately, there had not been enough for everyone.

Thick dark clouds hung low above the city, as if the sky itself were frowning. The King's guards, warmly

clad in Hastur blue and silver, cleared the area in front of the doors and tunneled the people forward, one

by one. They gave preference to the weakest, the women and the elderly. More than one man was

turned away, especially those wearing thick, fur-lined wool over their ample bellies.

"Why throw away good food on the likes of them?" shouted a man who had been pushed to the side.

He pointed to a woman clutching a pottery jar now filled with grain. Her skirts and shawls were so

threadbare that several layers showed through in patches. She looked like an overdressed doll, except

for the pinched thinness of her cheeks; clearly, she wore every tattered garment she owned.

"She'll only waste it-"

"And you'll only sell it to some wretch who's even poorer or more desperate," the guard at his elbow

replied. "The King means this food to go to those who truly need it. You don't look to me like you've

ever gone hungry."

"Zandru's scorpions upon you!"Cursing, the man jerked his arm free from the guard's grasp.

"Not so long ago," one of them grumbled, meaning the reign of King Carolin's cousin, Rakhal, "things

were different. There were avenues open to a sufficiently resourceful man, bargains to be made, favors

exchanged. More than one of us had a friend in the castle. But those times are gone. There's no doing

business with Carolin's bunch." He shrugged philosophically. "As soon as the roads open in the spring,

I'm off for Temora. There's nothing here for the likes of us."

"You mean we'll have to turn honest to earn our bread!" a third man joked. Waving to the others, he

disappeared down one of the side streets.

"They don't go hungry.Or cold, or in want of any comfort." A stranger who had been standing a little

apart from the others moved forward. He glanced towardHasturCastle and then the rich residences of

the Comyn lords. The sun was not yet full up and shadows lay in frigid pools along the streets. Tower

and Castle blazed with light, powered by laran-charged batteries.

"They throw us a bit of bread and expect us to be grateful. All the while they sit up there with their satin

cushions and their heated rooms and their matrix screens. Poison and plague and spells of torment, they

care nothing-nothing-"

"Come, friend," the man bound for Temora said, holding out his arm. "Come. I'll buy you a drink."

"A drink will not cure what ails this city." The hooded man pulled away, lips drawn back in a snarl. The

hood of his shabby cloak partly masked his face, revealing only the line of an angular, cold-roughened

chin.

The other man paused, eyes narrowing in appraisal. The stranger's clothes, though stained and torn, had

once been of good quality, and he did not hold himself like a man accustomed to the gutters.

"Then let me see you home, away from-"

"Home?"The hooded man's voice rasped, dark and bitter. "It is their doing that I have none. But the time

is coming when it is they who will beg for bread and sleep on cold stones-"

"Hold your tongue, man!" the man hissed. "Or if you cannot, then go your way alone, for I'll not be a

party to your seditious talk.It's one thing to take the King's largesse or strike a bargain with his men, and

quite another to stand here in the open, courting treason with such words. Any one of those guards could

hear us, and they're Carolin's to a man." He strode away without a backward glance, as if eager to

distance himself from any troublemakers.

The first man, the one who had been so angry, gave the hooded man a coin. "Best get out of the cold."

Then he, too, departed without waiting for thanks.

The hooded man stared at the coin in his palm, while the people who'd been given food hurried away

and those who had come too late turned back with sagging shoulders. His hood concealed his

expression, but something in his carriage kept even the grumblers at a distance.

"You there!" one of the guards called as he locked the granary doors. "We're done for today." He

added, in a more kindly tone, "Come back tomorrow, earlier next time, and we'll try to give you

something."

"I don't need anything from the likes of you," the man snarled. "You and your accursed sorcerer

masters-"

The guard's face hardened and he took a step forward. The hooded man whirled with surprising

quickness, spat out a curse, and scurried away. The guard turned to his partner, who still wore the sash

of a cadet.

"Keep an eye out for that one. I've seen his kind before. They make trouble wherever they go."

"We have enough of that this winter without some madman drumming up more," the boy replied, shaking

his head. "Should we tell the captain?"

"What should we say, there's yet another malcontent on the streets? We'd as well inform him the sun

came up, or there is an excess of mice in the granary!" The first guard barked out a laugh. "Comeon, let's

get back to the barracks. A drop of hot spiced wine sounds good to me."

"Friend."

Sound shaped into word, repeated now, along with a gentle shake of the shoulders. Eduin's head felt as

if it had swollen to several times its normal size, and with each pounding of his pulse, an answering jolt

erupted behind his eyes. Hands slipped beneath his arms, lifting him. He opened his mouth to protest, for

the slightest movement only intensified his headache. He realized his eyes were still closed, and a bright

light shone directly on his face.

Day.

He mumbled a curse. It had been day when he found oblivion beneath the tavern bench, but now it was

day again. Probably not the same one, but he neither knew nor cared.

"Come on, sit up, that's the way," came the voice again.

Go away. Leave me be.

Thought came slowly, as if the cheap ale still flooded his veins. Somehow, he found himself on his feet,

eyes slitting against the brightness. He made out the blurred shape of a man-one head, two arms, two

legs-enough to convince him this was probably real and not another drunken hallucination.

"Aldones, you stink," the stranger said. "But you're soaking wet and I can't let you stay out here. Night's

coming on. It'll be a cold one, enough to freeze Zandru's bones."

To freeze.It was a painless death, he'd heard. To sleep and never wake, not with some interfering

stranger yammering at him. It sounded wonderful.

No more forcing down ale so raw a dog wouldn't touch it, guzzling the stuff until the knot in his belly

finally eased and the voice in his head fell silent. Nomore petty , demeaning jobs or stealing small coins,

begging for the next round. He'd long since ceased to care about a bed or food or the taunts of the gutter

urchins. The only thing that mattered was the next drink, and the next.And stillness, blessed stillness.

His body was moving now, partly by its own reflexes, partly propelled by the gentle, uncompromising

hands. About him, an alley came into focus. He didn't recognize it; he could have been anywhere in the

poorer areas of Thendara.Or Dalereuth or Arilinn, for that matter.

No, not Arilinn.For in that place, he could not hide. They would know him, no matter how dirty or drunk

he was. They would know his mind, the leronyn of the Tower. Even with the psychic shields that long ago

had become as automatic as breath, they would know him because he had once been one of them.

Here in the anonymous squalor of Darkover's largest city, no one would think to look for him. Here he

could drown himself in a river of ale. No one would know if he lived or died. No one would care. Only in

the bitter winter would some passerby or alehouse keeper pull a nameless drunkard out of the snow, for

no one could survive such nights.

"We're almost there," said the voice.

"Wh- where?"His voice came out in a croak.

He felt rather than saw the stranger's smile."Someplace safe."

They passed between two buildings, deep in shadow.A wind, ice-tipped, gusted down the narrow

space. It would snow again tonight. His body shivered, and he thought how he might crawl into a drift

and pull it over himself like a blanket of costly wool, gather it to him until it turned warm and dreamy. He

would have to be thoroughly drunk to do it, almost in a stupor, or the pressure in his head would stop

him. He had tried several times to seek permanent oblivion, but each time, his second conscience, like an

old and evil companion, kept him alive, chained to its own purposes.

A door swung open and warmer air surrounded him. He put out one hand to catch his balance and

touched the cracked, weather-splintered planks. Inside, light flared. He staggered free of the stranger's

grasp and slumped into a crudely wrought chair.

He was in some sort of servants' quarters, an old scullery perhaps, though he could not make out

anything beyond a rickety table along one wall. A pitcher, its rim cracked and jagged, sat beside an

equally decrepit bowl. He couldn't make out the rest of the room's contents without turning his head, and

that meant risking another wave of nauseating pain.

"Drink," he pleaded, gesturing with one hand.

The stranger bent over him, and it seemed a mantle of blue light rested across his shoulders. The hood of

his cloak hid his face. He placed one hand on Eduin's forehead.

Rest.Rest now, and forget. We will speak tomorrow.

Eduin woke again to a dim, watery light. He had been drifting in and out of strange, restless dreams in

which faceless men pursued him, and each time he tried to hide, he was discovered. Now he lay on a

crude pallet on the floor of a room that should have been strange, but felt familiar.

Aside from his physical discomforts, the urgency of his bladder and the thick cottony film in his mouth,

he could not remember a time when he felt more at ease. More inwardly still. It was as if a voice that had

been raging at him, night and day, had suddenly fallen quiet.

He sat up, his spine crackling, muscles stiff. The light came through a window, layers of oiled cloth

instead of glass. A candle, thick and irregular, shone from the other side of the room. On the floor beside

his pallet, he spied a mug. It contained water rather than wine or even rotgut ale, but he drank it down.

There was a faint lemony taste that cleared his head and eased the dry-ness of his throat. It gave him the

strength to haul himself to his feet, to the door and outside. The drifted snow burned his bare feet. The

alley was deserted, and he discovered with some surprise that this mattered to him. He relieved himself

against the side of the building.

As quickly as he could, he scurried back inside. There was no fireplace, only a small stone brazier filled

with ashes. Still, the walls kept out the worst of the wind.

Heartened, he explored his surroundings. The pitcher contained more of the lemony water, and beside it

was bread, only slightly moldy on one side, and hard cheese. He could not remember when he had last

eaten. Chewing slowly, he finished it all, except for the moldy part. Once he would have eaten that, too,

but now the smell disgusted him.

Several circuits of the room revealed no trace of its owner's personal effects. The floor was bare wood,

stained and gritty with dried mud. The sleeping pallet was of the poorest sort, layers of straw and

blankets too tattered for any other use, laid over a frame of wooden slats to keep it off the floor. The

back of the door bore a row of wooden pegs, some broken off like rotten teeth, and herehis own jacket

hung. The worst of the surface filth had been brushed off and the padding stuck out in threadbare

patches. He found his boots shoved into a corner. As he pulled them on, he reflected that for all

appearances, the room was his, and yet he had no memory of ever being here before. Certainly, if he had

come upon the few reis for rent, he would long since have spent them at the ale shops.

Again, he remarked on the clearness of his head and the unwonted silence in his mind. He felt no craving

for drink, although there was every reason why he should. His memory presented him with numberless

mornings in which his first and only thought was how he was going to get drunk again. In his time in

Thendara and before that on the road, he had known many men who lived as he had, stumbling from one

stupor to the next. They swore the only cure for the nausea, the headaches, and the nightmarishvisions

was more of the same.

Eduin had never drunk to escape the aftermath of drinking. This was what he had sought, this blessed

stillness. Was it some property of this room, although it seemed ordinary and shabby? He saw no trace

of a telepathic damper. From experience, he knew how useless a damper was against his inner

tormentor. Properly attuned, it would keep psychic energy from entering or emanating from the room. It

could not protect him from what already lay within his own mind. He had used one when he lived in a

Tower, first at Arilinn, where he was trained, and later at Hali for a brief time, and then Hestral until its

destruction.

Hali.Only a short half-day's ride from Thendara, it might have been on another world. At the far end of

the city, at the foot of the mysterious cloud-filled lake, a Tower lifted toward the heavens, a finger of

graceful alabaster. In it, as in every other Tower, psychically-Gifted men and women joined their minds

to work unimaginable feats, everything from the creation of weapons to the healing of hurts. Relays sent

messages across the reaches of plain and mountain; laran-charged batteries powered aircars, lighted

palaces, and guarded the secrets of kings.

Hali.She had once been there. Might still be, for all he knew.

Pain washed through him, but not from any physical cause.

Eduin sank down on the pallet and buried his face in his hands. His breath came ragged as he struggled

for the control he had learned in his years as a laranzu, a master of the psychic force called laran. Images

flashed behind his closed eyes, bits of memory he had washed away with the bottle. The pale translucent

stone walls that created the sense of light and endless space ... the ever-restless mists ofLakeHali ...

Dyannis warm and supple in his arms.

Sweet and bitter, feelings he had thought long dead stirred in him-longing and loss and things he could

not put a name to. He lay back upon the pallet. Soundless weeping racked him. Some long time later, it

seemed that someone held him, rocked him,stroked his matted hair.

For this pain, too, there will be a healing.

Again, he slept.

He wandered through a dreamy landscape of gently rolling hills and a knoll overlooking a river. Although

he could not remember ever having been here before, something about the place tugged at his heart. The

air was almost luminous, the warmth hypnotic. Time itself seemed to be holding its breath. Tree branches

stirred and dappled brilliance danced across his face. Around him drifted transparent shapes, like figures

of the Overworld. They drifted in and out of his sight. He felt no sense of threat.

He thought he heard singing in sweet bell-like tones, so faint it might have been only the breeze through

the leaves. Shapes took on substance. Out of the corners of his eyes, he glimpsed slender bodies and

cascades of silvery hair. Eyes and skin glowed with colorless radiance, as if sculpted from moonlight.

Marion Zimmer Bradley - Clingfire Trilogy 03 - A Flame In Hali

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