Christie Golden - On Fire's Wings
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2024-12-24
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Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
PART II - In the Shadow of Mount Bari
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 21
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
On Fire's Wings
Christie Golden
www.LUNA-Books.com
First edition July 2004
ON FIRE'S WINGS
ISBN 0-373-80208-0
Copyright © 2004 by Christie Golden
www.LUNA-Books.com
Printed in Canada
Praise for
Christie Golden
"In On Fire's Wings, Christie Golden leads us on a journey across the exotic
terrain of fantasy as well as through the complex landscape of the human heart. Her
Arukan is a land of magic, vengeance, beauty and fire, peopled by characters who
desire, fear, love, despair, lust and soar with joy as they discover that neither they
nor the world they live in are what they once believed.
From its gasp-inducing first pages to a rousing I-can't-read-this-fast-enough
conclusion, On Fire's Wings is a vibrant opener to a richly imagined new series."
—Mark Anthony, author of The Last Rune series
"Golden never pulls punches; she weaves a gripping tale of love and loss, which
is not for the squeamish. Yet the stubborn triumph of good over evil, combined with
eloquent portrayals of the human heart, should appeal to a wide range of fantasy
lovers. Highly recommended."
—Horror Magazine on King's Man & Thief
"With Instrument of Fate, Golden demonstrates her growing finesse as a spinner
of superb yarns, richly textured as a tapestry…
With this launch, may we see more of the universe through Golden's eyes!"
—Katherine Kurtz
"(Instrument of Fate) is ultimately a novel about the persistence of hope—even
though not all of that hope seems destined to be realized. The breathlessly-staged
climax is both ingenious and bittersweet… Christie Golden has written a thoroughly
memorable novel that deserves a wide and appreciative audience."
—Dragon magazine
This book is dedicated to every woman who has feared her own power… and
embraced it anyway
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
I would like to gratefully acknowledge the help and inspiration provided by the
following people:
Robert Amerman and Mark Anthony, for being such terrific "wise readers"
Lucienne Diver and Mary-Theresa Hussey, for their enthusiasm and faith in this
project
Michael Georges, my deeply supportive husband
Anastacia Chittenden, Lila Tresemer, Katherine Roske and all the women who
have walked the Path of the Ceremonial Arts, for opening so many hearts to the
Divine Feminine
… and my wonderful readers, past, present and future.
Prologue
The wind, cold and scented with death, seized the queen's hair with cruel fingers
and set it to dancing. Two weeks before, despite the queen's years and the children
she had borne, that long, thick hair had been only touched with gray. Now, there was
little ebony left in the mane. The white of fear and resignation had swallowed the
black, as the Shadow that loomed on the horizon had swallowed everything in the
world save this lone castle and the few terrified souls it still housed.
She was tall, and stood tall even now, staring not at the rolling fields and forests
and streams that would have met her gaze a fortnight past but at a pulsing blackness
that mocked her defiance. She leaned forward, resting her hands on the cool strength
of the stones that formed the wall of the parapet's balcony. This, at least, was real,
was solid—for the moment.
"It's only been two weeks," came a soft voice. The queen glanced down at the
beggar boy who stood beside her, staring as raptly at the Shadow as she. There was
puzzlement in the young voice, as if he, like the queen, could not truly believe that so
much had happened in so brief a time. She closed her eyes, straightened, and her
hands left the reassuring stone to wrap the thick embroidered cloak more closely
about her frame.
"Less than that, little Lorekeeper," she replied.
He did not say anything further, but she knew what he was thinking as if he had
shouted it aloud: I didn't know in time. Etched upon her memory, for the brief while
she had left to live, was the look on the boy's grimy face as he forced his way
through crowds and guards with reckless determination. He had clutched desperately
at her robe, uttering the words that chilled her to the bone: The Dancer needs help!
But the warning from the suddenly awakened memory of the base-born
Lorekeeper had come too late, the queen thought bitterly, though it was no fault of
the child's. The wind stung her face, brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them
back. Too late to save the Dancer, too late to salvage their own existence; too late,
too late.
Following the boy, the king, accompanied by an elite group of guardsmen and his
best healers, had stumbled across the body in an alleyway exactly as it had appeared
to the boy in his vision. The Dancer, a youth as well-born as the Lorekeeper was
base, had been robbed and murdered. His powers—probably unknown to him yet,
he was terribly young—had not been sufficient to protect him. But he had rallied
enough to exact revenge upon his slayer, it appeared, for the killer's body was little
more than a charred skeleton. The Dancer's pouch, still filled with coins, lay a little
distance away.
The king returned from his grim mission, seeming to her suddenly old, to tell his
wife the story. With him was the boy, still clad in the vermin-riddled clothes of the
streets, his thin body shaking and bowed with the weight of the world.
"It is not your fault, my child," the queen had soothed, fighting back her own rage
and despair. "You went for help as soon as you knew. The blame for… for what will
come must lie with the man who murdered the Dancer."
And who had, in that one greedy, violent act, destroyed their only hope to avert
oblivion.
Not long after that, the king had ridden off to fight the Shadow, their son, still
young, still unbloodied by war, at his side. The queen had kissed the hollow-eyed
man who had once been passionate and proud; kissed her round-cheeked son, who
was naive enough to think this a real battle, not a suicide.
And as they rode off, the queen thought with a spark of contempt: Cowards!
They did not have to sit and mind a castle full of terrified merchants, farmers, and
beggars. They did not have to watch the death of everything creep closer by the
hour. They ran to meet their doom, thus cheating it of the terror it doubtless craved.
The queen's eyes narrowed and she stuck out her sharp chin defiantly.
She was the last queen of the world. It was up to her now, how they would all die.
She reached out to the Lore-keeper, slipping her arm around his shoulders. By the
hitching and shuddering of those shoulders, she knew he wept.
"You alone will remember," she said softly.
The Shadow pulsed, coming nearer. It stretched upward, seething. Soon even the
sky would be gone.
"I—I don't want to," the little Lorekeeper whispered. He dragged an oft-mended
sleeve across his wet face.
"But you must," she continued, her voice still quiet, still calm. "You are a
Lorekeeper. You remember all that has gone before—all the other times when the
Dancers have come and lost, or won. You would have been drawn to that Dancer
had he lived, even as you were drawn to him in his death. You would have been able
to help and guide him, but… This time, they have failed. Yet there were times when
they succeeded, and their success has bought us a final chance."
The wind picked up. For an instant, forgetting herself, the queen reached up to
smooth her tousled hair. The knots will take Ahli hours to untangle, came the simple,
everyday thought. But Ahli tended the princess now, caring faithfully for the mad girl
whose mind would not let her see the Shadow. The queen would not look upon her
daughter again. That last time had been enough. She could not bear to watch the
gentle, once-intelligent girl sit and babble, rubbing her swollen stomach and chirping
happily of the son-to-be. The son who would, now, never be born.
Such simple problems as tangled hair were things of the past. The queen let the
wind have its way with her once-raven locks.
"Your Majesty."
Her seneschal. The queen turned. "Yes?"
He stood in the doorway, clasping and unclasping his hands as he searched for
the words. As it turned out, they were simple enough, if brutal. "The well… it's gone
dry."
The queen closed her eyes, forcing her face to be tranquil.
"Then let us open the wine cellars. I would not see my people without something
to wet their throats." And perhaps the drunkenness would take away the sting. Not
long, not long now.
"And light all the torches," she added. "Build fires." She turned again, her gaze
drawn to the encroaching Shadow. "Let us keep the light as long as we may."
The man bowed, retreated. They were alone again on the parapet, beggar and
queen, staring out as if mesmerized at their approaching destruction.
"Twice failed," whispered the Lorekeeper in a voice that cracked with fear and an
ancient grief. "Twice succeeded. Only one more chance."
"The fifth time the Dancers come," agreed the queen, "will be our final chance.
Eternal salvation… or nothing at all, ever again. It may well fall to you," she said with
a quiet urgency. "Do not forget."
"I won't," the boy promised. "I won't."
She folded him close, held him, as she would her own son. He was their hope.
He, and the other Lorekeepers, and the Dancers who would not yet be born for
another five thousand years.
The Shadow stretched, languidly.
The twin suns went out.
PART I
In the House of Four Waters
Chapter 1
The day was hot, and lines at the public well in the marketplace were long. Brown
faces shone with sweat, save where the dust had clung, turning bronze skin a shade
paler. In the distance, false oases beckoned, their shimmering heat lines tricking the
unwary into traveling just a little farther, just a little more.
People talked, among themselves, haggling with merchants, or crying their wares.
Horses jangled their tack, blew and stamped impatiently. The reek of horse and dung
vied with the rich fragrances of cooking meats, the tangy scents of fresh fruits, and
the sweet, heady aroma of a variety of incense and spices.
This marketplace was the most elaborate in the land. Merchants came from all
over Arukan to sell their goods. In one booth were fine daggers and swords, with
intricately carved hilts and embroidered sheaths. In another, an artisan displayed
carefully crafted jewelry to high-caste women. Unable to afford a booth, a man in his
middle years had spread out a carpet in front of the jewelry seller. His pots were
beautiful, but he did not appear to be selling many. By contrast, the weaver's booth
across from the potter and the jeweler was crowded, and customers exclaimed over
her blankets, carpets, saddle tack and horse regalia.
Other things were for sale, too—roasting meats, fresh and preserved fruits and
vegetables, breads, clothing, toys and games, and services of all varieties.
Kevla took a small sip from her waterskin. An unkind soul might have used the
word "scrawny" to describe the ten-year-old, but there were muscles beneath the
loose rhia that draped her body. Her hair, reddish in the harsh sunlight, was pulled
back into a braid that fell the length of her back. Her eyes, almost too large in her
small, sharp face, missed nothing. Kevla knew the visitors to the marketplace well,
and if Keishla had earned no coins today, the girl knew that it was hardly her fault.
Kevla had been calling since the first vendor opened for business shortly before
dawn, and her parched throat was testimony to her hard work. She could, of course,
stand in line for water at the well as others did, but that would take her away from
her prized spot at the intersection of the two main streets. She might miss a
customer. Better the thirst than her mother's wrath.
Keishla carried herself with a quiet, regal air. She was sometimes unexpectedly
gentle, and when she smiled, Kevla thought her beautiful. But more often Keishla
would sit silently, her thoughts far distant from the present, and if Kevla interrupted
her mother at such moments she knew Keishla would turn upon her, as if Kevla were
the cause of all her pain. Kevla didn't understand, but she was wise enough to
recognize these moods and be quiet when they were upon Keishla.
She permitted herself another miserly sip. The bag would have to last her
throughout the day, and it was only midmorning. Kevla retied the goatskin bag
around her tiny waist, dragged a hand across her sweat-dappled forehead, took a
deep, dusty breath, and resumed her task.
"Hey-la, hey-lo," she cried in a singsong voice. Her feet stamped in the dust, and
her little body swayed with the rhythm of the chanting. "Hey-la, hey-lo! Sweeter than
wine are the lips of Keishla! Keishla the fair, Keishla the wise, Keishla who knows
what a man desires! Soft are the thighs of Keishla, and the dance of pleasure played
out between them is known only to the most fortunate of men!"
She was engrossed in her cry now, and spread her arms, lifting the folds of the
shabby, oft-mended rhia to reveal the toes of her bare, dirty feet. It was as far as she
dared go. If she lifted the rhia to reveal a glimpse of calf or even ankle, she might be
accused of practicing the same skills as her mother. That would not do. Those skills
could be peddled in the marketplace, yes, but the actual conduct of business needed
to be done in private. And Kevla, despite her words and knowing moves, was not
skilled in such matters.
So Kevla, her eyes bright and darting about for anyone, male or female, who
might be a potential customer, kept the rhia at its proper, yet tantalizing, length.
"You there, uhlal," she cried, invoking the term of high respect, "you look like a
man who would enjoy sampling Keishla's charms!" She pointed a finger at him,
flashing teeth that were remarkably strong and white considering her poor diet.
The man looked about, stammering. "I—I—"
"Come, sir, lay your mighty staff in the sweet honeyed nest of passion!"
The man turned crimson, and too late Kevla realized that behind him, blocked
from her short-statured view, walked a woman who was undoubtedly his wife.
Quickly, the girl changed her approach.
"Hey-la, uhlala!" she addressed the woman, making a deep obeisance. "The
beautiful Keishla will gladly teach what she knows to any woman, for the right fee.
Will you come with me, and learn how to keep that man by your side from straying
for all time? It is a small price to pay, hey?"
It was a desperate attempt to salvage the situation, and Kevla was not surprised
when the woman glared at her and reached to clutch her husband's arm, steering him
away from temptation.
Kevla sighed. But when the man cast a furtive, apologetic glance over his
shoulder, her spirits lifted. Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after, he might come back
and sample Keishla's "wares."
In the meantime, she was not finding her mother customers, and without
customers, she would not eat. Kevla cleared her throat and was about to resume her
chant when a flurry of movement down the wide, hard-packed dirt road caught her
attention. A few stalls down, everyone was falling to their hands and knees, heads
touching the ground, heedless of the dust. That could mean only one thing. A very
high-ranking uhlal had decided to visit the market today instead of sending his
servants. It happened, from time to time, and Kevla rejoiced. Occasionally, the
uhlals, especially a khashim, one of the clan leaders, felt generous and scattered
coins and jewels to the lower castes. Keishla had once spoken with scorn of the
practice, claiming she'd rather keep her pride than scrabble in the dust for a
khashim's amusement.
Kevla, who had been gnawing on a dried piece of three-day-old bread at the time
of Keishla's statement, had said nothing. But she thought that one single gold kha
would have bought a week's worth of food, and a week's worth of food just might
be worth scrabbling in the dust for a khashim's amusement.
Praying to the Great Dragon that the approaching uhlal was in a generous mood,
the girl quickly fell to her knees. She heard the clopping sounds of the horse's
hooves as it approached, and strained her young ears for the tinkling of tossed
coins.
That hoped-for sound did not come. Instead, the horse stopped in front of her.
She stared at its hooves. Suddenly afraid, Kevla did what tradition and the
mercilessly strict caste system practiced in her country absolutely forbade her to do.
She looked up.
And met the gaze of a tall, handsome man who seemed all the taller for being
perched atop one of the most splendid horses Kevla had ever seen. The beast's
sand-colored coat gleamed with careful grooming, not yet dulled by the dust of the
day. It mouthed its bit impatiently, revealing gold-tipped tusks. Its striped legs and
face were a rich loam hue, and its tack and saddle were decorated with beads and
jewels. Its rider's fine clothes and proud pose bespoke his high caste.
He was clad in the man's short rhia, and the powerful legs that gripped the horse
were covered with snug-fitting white silk breeches. Belt and boots were of finely
tooled leather, and his dark hair was protected from the harsh rays of the Arukani
sun by an embroidered kerchief. His face was clean-shaven, proof of his rank, for
only khashims shaved their beards. Gold earrings glinted, catching the sparkle of
bright eyes that were now trained intently on Kevla. Fastened to the leather belt were
an expensive sword and matching dagger. At a respectful distance, mounted on their
own horses, two servants waited and watched.
"You cry the services of a halaan," said the khashim without preamble. His voice
was a rich, deep rumble, quiet and self-assured. When Kevla stared up at him,
transfixed, he gentled his tone further and said, "You may answer truly, child. None
will punish you for your…impertinence."
Kevla swallowed hard. If her mouth had been dry earlier, now it seemed as vast a
wasteland of drought as the Arukani desert itself. She tried again.
摘要：
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Color1--2--3--4--5--6--7--8--9-TextSize10--11--12--13--14--15--16--17--18--19--20--21--22--23--24ONFIRE'SWINGSByChristieGoldenContentsPrologue PARTI-IntheHouseofFourWaters Chapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15 ...
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