Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 4 - Child Of Flame

VIP免费
2024-12-05 0 0 3.24MB 646 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
=================================================
Notes:
This book was scanned by JASC
If you correct any errors, please change the version number below (and in the
file name) to a slightly higher one e.g. from 1.5 to 1.6, or if major revisions to v.
2.0 etc..
Current e-book version is 1.5 (most formatting errors have been corrected—
some capitalization errors still; semi proofed)
Comments: daytonascan4911@hotmail.com
DO NOT READ THIS BOOK OF YOU DO NOT OWN/POSSES THE
PHYSICAL COPY. THAT IS STEALING FROM THE AUTHOR.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Book Information:
Genre: High/Epic Fantasy
Author: Kate Elliott
Name: Child of Flame
Series: Volume Four of The Crown of Stars
Extra Scan Info: The series has 5 books in total; book 5 has not yet been
released and will not be published until later this year(2003), thus book 5 will not
be scanned for a while.
=================================================
KATE ELLIOT
**VOLUME Four of
CROWN OF STARS**
Child of Flame
PROLOGUE
OFF to the southeast, thunder rolled on and on. But in the broad ditch where
three youths and two gravely injured soldiers had taken refuge from the battle,
the rain had, mercifully, slackened. A wind out of the north blew the clouds
away, revealing the waxy light of a full moon.
Ivar listened to the sounds of battle carried by the breeze. They'd scrambled
down into die ditch from an embankment above, hoping to escape the notice of
their enemies. They hadn't found safety, only a moment's respite, caught as they
were behind the enemy's line. The Quman warriors would sweep down from the
earthen dike and slaughter them, then cut off their heads to use as belt
ornaments. Or, at least, that's what Baldwin seemed to think as he babbled
confusedly about Quman soldiers searching the huge tumulus and its twisting
embankments, lighting their way with torches.
From his place down in the slippery mud at the bottom of the ditch, Ivar didn't
see torches. There was a lambent glow emanating from the crown of the hill, but
it didn't look like any torchlight he had ever seen.
Sometimes, when a situation was really bad and there was nothing you could do
about it, it was just better not to know.
"Careful," whispered Ermanrich.” This whole end is filled with water. God's
mercy! It's like ice."
"Come on, Dedi, come on, lad," coaxed the older of the two wounded Lions to
his young companion, but the other man didn't rouse. Probably he was already
dead.
Ivar found the water's edge, cupped his hands, and drank. The cold cleared his
head for the first time since he had lost his fingers, and finally he could sit back
and survey just how bad their predicament was.
Moonlight cast a glamour over the scene. The pool of water had formed up
against a steep precipice, the face of the hillside. Over the course of uncounted
years a trickling cataract had worn away the cliff face to expose two boulders
capped by a lintel stone. Starlight caught and glimmered in one of the stones,
revealing a carving half concealed behind tendrils of moss. Ivar negotiated the
pool's edge so as not to get his feet wet—not that he wasn't already slopping
filthy with mud—and traced the ancient lines: they formed a human figure
wearing the antlers of a stag.
"Look!" Baldwin pushed aside the thick curtain of moss draping down over the
stones to unveil a tunnel that cut into the hillside.
Their side had lost the battle anyway, and they were cut off from Prince Bayan's
retreating army and all their comrades, those who had survived. How could an
ancient tumulus be worse than the Quman? Ivar squeezed past the opening,
wading in. Cold water poured down into his boots, soaking his leggings and
making his toes throb painfully. He couldn't see a thing.
A body brushed against him.” Ivar! Is that you, Ivar?" "Of course it's me! I
heard a rumor that the Quman fear water. Maybe we can hide here, unless this
pool gets too deep." The ground seemed firm enough, and the water wasn't
deeper than his knees. Plunging his arm into the freezing water, he groped for
and found a stone, tossed it. The plop rang hollow. Water dripped steadily ahead
of them.
Something living scuffled, deep in the heart of the tumulus.” What was that?"
hissed Baldwin, grabbing Ivar's arm.” Ow! You're pinching me!"
It was too late. Their voices had already woken the restless dead. A wordless
groan echoed through the pitch-black tunnel.
"Oh, God." Ivar clutched at Baldwin's arm.” It's a barrow. We've walked into a
burial pit and now we'll be cursed."
But the voice made words they recognized, however distorted they might be by
the stone and the drip of water.” Is it you? Is it Ermanrich'ss friends?"
"L-Lady Hathumod?" stammered Baldwin.
"Ai, t-thank the Lady!" Her relief was evident despite the blurs and echoes.”
Poor Sigfrid was wounded in the arm and we got lost, and—and I prayed to God
to show me a sign. And then we fell in here. But it's dry here where we are, and
I think the tunnel goes farther into the hill, but I was too afraid to go on by our-
selves."
"Now what do we do?" whined Baldwin softly.
"Let's get the others and we'll go as deep as we can into the hill. The Quman
will never dare follow us through this water. After a day or two they'll go away,
and we can come out."
"Just like that?" demanded Baldwin.
"Just like that. You'll see."
They trudged back to the mossy entrance, where they found Er-manrich
shuddering and coughing as he clawed at the moss.
"Ai, God! There you are! I thought you'd been swallowed." He heaved a ragged
sigh, then went on in a low voice, making a joke of his fear and relief.” Maybe
even the hills think Baldwin is handsome enough to eat, but I don't know what
they'd be wanting with an ugly redheaded sot like you, Ivar."
"Dirt is blind, otherwise you'd never get inside. Come on." Ivar waded over to
the conscious Lion.” Friend, can you walk?"
"So I can, a bit, lad. But Dedi, here—" The old Lion got suddenly hoarse.
"We'll carry him," said Ivar hastily.” But let's get him out of that mail first.
Ermanrich, give me a hand, will you? Baldwin, you help the Lion in, and keep
ahead of him in case there's any pits."
"Pits? What if I fall into a bottomless hole?"
"Baldwin, we haven't got time! Here." He found the unconscious Lion's sword
sheath.” Take this sword and use it to feel your way forward."
Amazingly, Baldwin obeyed without further objection. He helped the old Lion to
his feet and steadied the soldier as he hobbled to the tunnel.
It wasn't easy to get mail off an unconscious man.” I think he's already dead,"
Ermanrich whispered several times, but in the end they wrestled him out of his
armor.
Nor was it easy to haul him in through the tunnel even without his armor. He
was a big man, well muscled, so badly injured that
he was a complete dead weight. Luckily, the water did not rise past their thighs
before an upward slope brought them shivering out of the water onto dry
ground. The weight of the hill pressed above them. Dirt stung Ivar's nostrils, and
his mutilated hand burned with pain.
"Thank God," said Baldwin out of the darkness. Ivar and Ermanrich set down
the unconscious soldier, none too gently, and Ivar straightened up so quickly
that he banged his head hard against the stone ceiling. The pain made tears
flow, and in a way he did want just to sit down and cry because everything had
been such a disaster. He really had thought they'd win the battle. Prince Bayan's
and Princess Sapientia's troops had looked so magnificent arrayed against the
Quman army, and even the dreaded Margrave Judith had ridden out with such a
strong host that it seemed impossible that everything had fallen apart, including
their line. Prince Ekkehard had vanished in the maelstrom, his companions were
scattered or dead, and they were all that was left. Probably they were the last
remnant of Bayan's army left on this side of the river: two badly injured soldiers,
four novice monks, and one lost nun.
The battle had started very late in the afternoon, and now night settled over
them. Two hours at the most separated them from that glorious place where
they'd waited at the front of the right flank, ready to sweep into battle. It just
didn't seem possible everything had gone wrong so fast.
But meanwhile, someone had to go back to make sure that the Quman hadn't
followed them under the hill. Cold, wet, and shivering, Ivar braced himself for
the shock of wading back into the water that drowned the lower reaches of the
tunnel. His leggings already clung to him like icy leeches, and his toes had gone
numb from cold.
A hand snaked out of the darkness to grab at his sleeve.” Are you sure you
don't want me to come with you?" Baldwin asked in a hoarse whisper.
"Nay. It's better if I go alone. If something happens to me, it'll take you and
Ermanrich and Lady Hathumod to carry the injured Lion."
Baldwin leaned closer. Despite the long weeks of travel in harsh conditions, the
terror of a losing battle waged as afternoon gave way to dusk, and the
desperation of their scramble over the ancient earthworks, Baldwin's breath was
still as sweet as that of a lord sitting in pleasant splendor in his rose garden,
drinking a posset of mead flavored with mint.” I'd rather be dead than go on
without you."
"We'll all be dead if the Quman find that armor and figure out that we're hiding
in this tunnel. Just stay here, Baldwin, I beg you."
Behind, in the stygian blackness, Sigfrid's gentle voice fell and rose in a
melismatic prayer. Somehow, the darkness warped time. Hadn't it just been
moments ago that they had stumbled upon that hidden opening? It seemed like
hours.
Beneath Sigfrid's quiet prayer Ivar heard Hathumod murmuring words he
couldn't quite make out. She was answered, in turns, by monosyllabic grunts
from the old Lion and whispered questions from Ermanrich. He could not see,
not even Baldwin, who stood right next to him. He felt them, though, huddled
together like frightened rats under the weight of earth and rock.
He took the unconscious Lion's sword from Baldwin and tested the grip with his
good hand, squeezed and relaxed until the leather grip gave enough to fit the
curve of his hand. With gritted teeth, he surged forward into the water and
shuddered all over again as the tunnel floor plunged down and the icy water
enveloped his legs.
With the sword drawn tightly against his left leg, Ivar approached the entrance
in relative silence. He smelled the distant stench of the battlefield. Night crows
cried far away, alerting their cousins to the banquet. A pebble rolled under his
boot, and he grunted softly, balancing himself. The wound on his right hand
scraped stone. He caught back a gasp of pain as a hot trickle of blood bled free.
Pain stabbed up his hand, and he stumbled forward. The stumps of his missing
fingers, shorn off right at the second knuckle, jabbed into a moist tapestry of
moss. Tears streamed from his eyes and made salty runnels over his lips. After a
while, the pain subsided enough for him to think.
He had reached the entrance. Cautiously, with his good hand, he fingered the
tendrils of moss which streaked the crumbling entrance. Behind this curtain he
waited, listening. He couldn't see anything, not even the sky. It seemed as dark
beyond the curtain
concealing the tomb's entrance as it had deep within. The heavy scent of damp
and earth and wet moss shrouded his world.
But he could hear the distant murmur of a host moving, hooves, shouts, one
poor soul screaming, the detritus of movement that betrays two armies
unwinding one from the other as the battle ebbs and dies.
From close by, he heard a grunt, a low breathing mutter.
The sword shifted in his hand before he was aware he had changed his stance.
The Lion's discarded armor spoke with that voice granted to all things born of
metal: when hands disturbed it, it replied in a chiming voice.
Just as he had feared: a Quman soldier
had
found the discarded armor.
He lunged through the curtain. The Quman soldier had wings curling up above
his back where he bent over the mail and helmet. Ivar ducked down to get under
the wooden contraption. Just as the other man spun, he thrust. The short sword
caught the winged soldier just under his leather-scaled shirt. With his wounded
arm he reached out and wrapped his forearm around the man's head and with
all his weight pulled him in through the entrance. Wood frames snapped against
the lintel as Ivar fell into the water with the Quman landing face first in his lap.
The sword drove to the hilt between the enemy's ribs.
Water licked Ivar's lips as he pressed the man down, holding him under. The
man twisted one way and then the other, trying to raise his head out of the
water, but Ivar countered each movement j with a sideways push on the hilt of
the sword. Steel grated against I bone, causing the warrior to convulse and lose
whatever advantage he had gained. His black hair floated like tendrils of moss.
Ivar tasted blood in the water. All at once, the Quman went limp.
Ivar shoved the dead man deeper into the pool and staggered to his feet. His
body ached from the cold. He dipped a hand in the water to scrub at his face, to
wash the taint of blood away, but all around him the pool seemed polluted by
the life that had drained into it. He carefully slipped past the moss and found
clear water outside.
Lightning streaked the sky, followed by a sharp thunderclap. A voice called out a
query. On the earthworks beyond, a man's shape, distorted by wings, reared up
against the night sky, questing: an other Quman soldier, looking for his comrade.
Ivar's position at the base of the ditch, within the shadow of the lintel, veiled
him. A moment later the shadow moved on, dropping out of sight behind the
earthworks.
A drizzle of rain wet Ivar's cheeks. With a swelling roar, the river raged in the
distance like a multitude of voices raised all at once, but he couldn't see it, nor
could he see stars above. A bead of rain wound down his nose and, suspended
from its tip, hung there for the longest time just as he was suspended, unwilling
to move for fear of giving himself away.
Finally he set down his sword, rolled up the mail shirt, wrapping it tight with a
belt, and looped the helmet strap over his shoulder. With the sword in his good
hand and his injured hand throbbing badly enough to give him a headache, he
felt his way back under the lintel. Gruesome wings brushed his nose, one
splintered wooden frame scraping his cheek as feathers tickled his lips. Outside,
rain started to fall in earnest. Thunder muttered in the west. If they were lucky,
rain would obscure the signs of their passage and leave them safe for a day or
two, until the Quman moved on. Then they could sneak out and make their way
northwest, on the trail of Prince Bayan's and Princess Sapientia's retreating army.
In his heart, he knew it was a foolish hope. The Quman had scouts and
trackers. There was no way a ragged band of seven, four of them wounded and
most of them unable to fight, could get through the Quman lines. But they had
to believe they could. Otherwise they might as well lie down and die.
Why would they have been granted the vision of the phoenix if God had meant
for them to die in such a pointless manner?
Baldwin was waiting for him where the tunnel floor sloped upward and out of
the water.
"Come see," said Baldwin sharply.” Gerulf got a fire going."
"Gerulf?"
"That's the old Lion." Baldwin tugged him onward, steadying him when he
stumbled. Weariness settled over Ivar's shoulders. He shivered convulsively,
soaked through. He wanted nothing more than to drop right where he stood and
sleep until death, or the phoenix, came for him. Or maybe one would bring the
other, it was hard to think with the walls wavering around him.
Strange sigils had been carved into the pale stone, broad rocks
set upright and incised with the symbols of demons and ancient gods who
plagued the people of elder days: four-sided lozenges, spirals that had neither
beginning nor end, broad expanses of hatching cut into the rock as though straw
had been pressed crisscross into the stone.
Yet how could he see at all, deep in the heart of a tomb? With Baldwin's help,
he staggered forward until the tunnel opened into a smoky chamber lit by fire.
He stared past his companions, who were huddled around a torch. The chamber
was a black pit made eerie by flickering light. He could not see the ceiling, and
the walls were lost to shadow. He sneezed.
Just beyond the smoking torch, a stone slab marked the center of the chamber.
A queen had been laid to rest here long ago: there lay her bones, a pale skeleton
asleep in the torchlight, its hollow-eyed frame woven with strands of rotting
fabric and gleaming with precious gold that had fallen around the skull and into
the ribs. Gold antlers sprang into sight as Gerulf shifted the torch to better
investigate his comrade's wound.
"You shouldn't have lit a fire in a barrow!" cried Ivar, horrified.” Everyone knows
a fire will wake the unholy dead!"
Frail Sigfrid sat at the unconscious Lion's head, nearest to the burial altar. He
looked up with the calm eyes of one who has felt God's miraculous hands heal
his body.” Don't fear, Ivar." The voice itself, restored to him by a miracle, was a
reproof to Ivar's fear.” God will protect us. This poor dead woman bears us no ill
will." He indicated the half-uncovered skeleton, then bent forward as the old Lion
spoke to him in a low voice.
But how could Sigfrid tell? Ivar had grown up in the north, where the old gods
still swarmed, jealous that the faith of the Unities had stolen so many ripe souls
from their grasp. There was no telling what malice lay asleep here, or when it
might wake.
Ermanrich and Hathumod sat together, hands clasped in a cousinly embrace.
Both had lost a great deal of flesh. How long ago it seemed when the four
youths and Hathumod had served together as novices at Quedlinhame, yet truly
it wasn't more than a year ago that they had all been cast out of the convent for
committing the unforgivable sin of heresy.
Baldwin circled the stone altar and its dead queen, crouching to grasp one of
the gold antlers. The light touch jostled the skeleton.
Precious amber beads scattered down among the bones, falling in a rush.
"Don't disturb the dead!" hissed Ivar. But Baldwin, eyes wide, reached right in-
to where strands of desiccated wool rope, whose ends were banded with small
greenish-metal rods, curled around the pelvis. His hand closed over a small
object, a glint of blue.
"Look!" he cried, with his other hand lifting a stone mirror out of the basin made
by her pelvic bones. The polished black surface still gleamed. As Ivar took a
panicked step forward to stop Baldwin from further desecration, he saw his
movement reflected in that mirror.
"Ai, God, I fear my poor nephew is dead," murmured Gerulf.” I swore to my
sister I'd bring him home safely."
Other shadows moved in the depths of the mirror, figures obscured by
darkness. They walked out of the alcoves, ancient queens whose eyes had the
glint of knives. The first was young, robed in a splendor as bright as burning
arrows, but her mouth was cut in a cruel smile. The second had a matron's girth,
the generous bulk of a noble lady who never wants for food, and in her arms she
carried a basket spilling over with fruit. The third wore her silver hair braided
with bones, and the wrinkles in her aged face seemed as deep as clefts in a
mountainside. Her raised hands had the texture of cobwebs. Her gaze caught
him as in a vise. He could not speak to warn the others, who saw nothing and
felt no danger.
Hathumod gasped.” What lies there?" Her words sent ripples through the ghosts
as a hand clears away algae from an overgrown pond.
Ivar found his voice.” Baldwin! Put that down, you idiot!"
As Baldwin lowered the mirror in confusion, Hathumod crawled forward. Her
hand came to rest on a bundle so clotted with dirt and mold that her hand came
away green, and flakes fell everywhere, spinning away to meld with the smoke
from the torch. Like Baldwin, she was either a fool or insensible. She groped at
the bundle, found a faded leather pouch that actually crumbled to dust in her
hands, leaving nothing in her cupped fingers except, strangely, a nail marked by
rusting stains.
She began to weep just as Gerulf shook loose the rotting garments: a rusted
mail shirt that half fell apart in his hands, a knife, a decaying leather belt, a plain
under-tunic, and a tabard marked brilliant fire with her arms extended as if in
we* for her, grasping for any lifeline.
Touched her hands.
And knew nothing more.
I
THE HALLOWED ONE
AT sunset, Adica left the village. The elders bowed respectfully, but from a safe
distance, as she passed. Fathers pulled their children out of her way. Women
carrying in sheaves of grain from ripening fields turned their backs on her, so
that her gaze might not wither the newly-harvested emmer out of which they
would make bread. Even pregnant Weiwara, once her beloved friend, stepped
back through the threshold of her family's house in order to shelter her hugely
pregnant belly from Adica's sight.
The villagers looked at her differently now. In truth, they no longer looked at
her at all, never directly in the face, now that the Holy One had proclaimed
Adica's duty, and her doom.
Even the dogs slunk away when she walked by.
She passed through the open stockade gate and negotiated the plank bridge
thrown over the ditch that ringed the village. The sun's light washed the clouds
with a pale purplish pink as delicate as flax in flower. Fields flowered gold along
the river plain, dotted here and there with the tumbled forms of the
grandmothers' old houses, now abandoned for the safety of the new village. The
grandmothers had not lived in constant fear as people did these days.
When she reached the outer ditch, she raised her staff three times and said a
blessing over the village. Then she walked on.
By the river three men bent over the weir. One straightened, seeing her, and
she recognized Beor's broad shoulders and the distinctive way he had of tilting
up his chin when he was angry.
How Beor had protested and complained when the elders had decreed that they
two could no longer live together as mates! Yet his company had never been
restful. He had won the right to claim her as his mate on the day the elders had
agreed to name him as war captain for the village because of his conspicuous
bravery in the war against the Cursed Ones. But had the law governing her as
Hallowed One of the village granted her the right to claim a mate of her own
choice, he was not the one she would have picked. In a way, it was a relief to be
rid of him.
Yet, as days and months passed, she missed the warmth of his body at night.
Beor made a movement as if to walk over to catch her, but his companion
stopped him by placing a hand on his chest. Adica continued down the path
alone.
She climbed the massive tumulus alone, following the path up through the
labyrinthine earthworks. As the Hallowed One who protected the village, she had
walked here many times but never in as great a solitude as that she felt now.
Nothing grew yet on the freshly raised ramparts except young sow-thistles,
leaves still tender enough to eat. Far below, tall grass and unharvested grain
rippled like the river, stirred by a breeze lifting off the sun as it sank into the land
of the dead.
The ground ramped up under her feet, still smooth from the passage of so
many logs used as rollers to get the stones up to the sacred circle at the height
of the hill. She passed up a narrow causeway between two huge ramparts of
earth and came out onto the level field that marked the highest ground. Here
stood the circle of seven stones, raised during the life of Adica's teacher. Here, to
the east of the stone circle, three old foundations marked an ancient settlement.
According to her teacher, these fallen stone foundations marked the halls of the
long-dead queens, Arrow Bright, Golden Sow, and Toothless, whose magic had
raised the great womb of this tumulus and whose bones and treasures lay
hidden in the swelling belly of the earth below.
Midway between the earthen gates and the stone loom, where the westering
sun could draw its last light across the threshold, Adica had erected a shelter out
of hides and poles. In such primitive shelter all humankind had lived long ago
before the days when the great queens and their hallowed women had stolen
the magic of seed, clay, and bronze from the southerners, before the Cursed
Ones had come to take them as slaves and as sacrifices.
She made her prayers, so familiar that she could speak them without thinking,
and sprinkled the last of her ale to the four directions: north, east, south, and
west. After leaning her staff against the lintel of slender birch poles, she clapped
her wrists together three times. The copper bracelets that marked her status as
a Hallowed One chimed softly, the final ring of prayer, calling down the night.
The sun slid below the horizon. She crawled in across the threshold. Inside the
tent she untied her string skirt, slipped off her bodice, and lay them inside the
stout cedar chest where she stored all her belongings. Finally, she wrapped
herself in the furs that were now her only company at night.
Once she had lived like the rest of her people, in a house in the village,
breathing in the community of a life lived together. Of course, her house in the
village had been ringed with charms, and no one but her mate or those of her
womb kin might enter it for fear of the powers that lay coiled in the shadows and
in the eaves, but she had still been able to hear the cattle lowing in their byres in
the evening and the delighted cries of the children leaping up to play at dawn.
Any village where a Hallowed One lived always had good luck and good harvests.
But ever since the Holy One's proclamation, she could no longer sleep in the
village for fear her dreaming self might entice reckless or evil spirits in among
the houses. Spirits could smell death; everyone knew that. They could smell
death on her. They swarmed where fate lay heaviest.
Death's shadow had touched her, so the villagers feared that any person she
touched might be poisoned by death's kiss as well.
She said the night prayer to the Pale Hunter and lay still until sleep called her,
but sleep brought no respite. Tossing and turning, she dreamed of standing
alone and small in a blinding wind as death came for her.
Could the great weaving possibly succeed? Or would it all be for naught, despite
everything?
She woke, twisted in her sleeping furs, thinking of Beor, whom she had once
called husband. She had dreamed the same dream for seven nights running. Yet
it wasn't the death in the dream that scared her, that made her wake up
sweating.
She rested her forehead on fisted hands.” I pray to you, Fat One, who is
merciful to her children, let there be a companion for me. I do not fear death as
long as I do not have to walk the long road into darkness all by myself."
A wind came up. The charms tied to the poles holding up the shelter rang with
their gentle voices. More distantly, she heard the bronze leaves of the sacred
cauldron ting and clack where the breeze ran through them. Then the wind died.
It was so quiet that she thought perhaps she could hear the respiration of stars
as they breathed.
She slipped outside. Cool night air pooled over her skin. Above, the stars shone
in splendor. The waxing horned moon had already set. The Serpent's Eye and
the Dragon's Eye blazed overhead, harbingers of power. The Grindstone was
setting.
Was it a sign? The setting constellation called The Grindstone would lead her to
Falling-down's home and, when evening came, the rising Grindstone, with the
aid of the Bounteous One, the wandering daughter of the Fat One, could pull her
home again. The Fat One often spoke in riddles or by misdirection, and perhaps
this was one of those times. There was one man she often thought of, one man
who might be brave enough to walk beside her.
Ducking back inside her shelter, she rummaged through the cedar chest in
search of a gift for Falling-down. She settled on an ingot of copper and a pair of
elk antlers. Last, she found the amber necklace she had once given to Beor, to
seal their agreement, but of course he had been forced by the elders to return it
to her. Then she dressed, wrapping her skirt twice around her hips, tugging on
摘要：

=================================================Notes:ThisbookwasscannedbyJASCIfyoucorrectanyerrors,pleasechangetheversionnumberbelow(andinthefilename)toaslightlyhigheronee.g.from1.5to1.6,orifmajorrevisionstov.2.0etc..Currente-bookversionis1.5(mostformattingerrorshavebeencorrected—somecapitalizatio...

展开>> 收起<<
Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 4 - Child Of Flame.pdf

共646页,预览10页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：646 页 大小：3.24MB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-05

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

人际关系 动力学连接体 力的合成 配电装置 高考理综 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 646
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注