Son of Avonar

Table of Contents

 

 

“Vivid characters and intricate magic combined with a fascinating world and the sure touch of a Real Writer—luscious work!”

—Melanie Rawn

“This well-written fantasy grabs the reader by the throat on page one and doesn't let go . . . wonderful.”

—
Starburst

“Berg greatly expands her world with surprising insights.”—
The Denver Post

“Both a traditional fantasy and an intriguing character piece . . . superbly entertaining.”

—
Interzone Magazine

“The prince's redemption, his transformation, and the flowering of mutual esteem between master and slave are at the story's heart. This is handled superbly.”

—
Time Out
(London)

“Vivid characters, a tangible atmosphere of doom, and some gallows humor.”

—
SFX Magazine

“Powerfully entertaining.”—
Locus

“An exotic, dangerous, and beautifully crafted world.”

—Lynn Flewelling, author of
Traitor's Moon

“Berg's characters are completely believable, her world interesting and complex, and her story riveting.”

—
Kliatt

“Epic fantasy on a gigantic scale. . . . Carol Berg lights up the sky with a wondrous world.”

—
Midwest Book Review

“Ms. Berg's finely drawn characters combine with a remarkable imagination to create a profound and fascinating novel.”

—
Talebones

“Carol Berg is a brilliant writer who has built her characters carefully and completely. The magic is subtle and vivid, and the writing is compelling.”

—BookBrowser

“A much-needed boost of new blood into the fantasy pool.”

—
Dreamwatch Magazine

OTHER BOOKS BY CAROL BERG

The Rai-kirah series
TRANSFORMATION
REVELATION
RESTORATION

 

SONG OF THE BEAST

ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,
London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,
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Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,
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Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, February 2004

Copyright © Carol Berg, 2004

All rights reserved

eISBN : 978-1-101-09874-5

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

 

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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The dawn wind teased at my old red shawl as I scrambled up the last steep pitch of the crescent-shaped headland the villagers called
Rif Paltarre
—(Poacher's Ridge. A brisk walk to the eastern edge and I seated myself on a throne of rock as if I were a Leiran duchess attending a midsummer fete. But whereas my girlhood friends might celebrate the longest day of the year by watching jugglers, fire-eaters, and tittering ladies stepping through the spiritless mimicry they called “rustic dances,” I beheld color and shape being born from a vast and silent wilderness of gray.

Stretching west for two hundred leagues, stood the snow-capped peaks of the Dorian Wall, their brilliant rose brightening to eye-searing white. To the north swelled the ocean of dark green forest. To the east the ground fell away gently in a stone-bordered patchwork of meadows and farm-land to the bronze ripples of the Dun River and the haze-shrouded village of Dunfarrie squatting on its banks. It was a splendid desolation.

As the light grew, I stuffed my water flask into the cloth bag hanging from my belt, snugged the rags I'd wrapped about my hands, and took up the true business of the day—hunting dye plants to barter in the village. The first lesson I'd learned on coming to Dunfarrie, when I had scarcely known that food grew in the ground, much less that it must be coddled and coaxed and worried over, was that those whose bellies are pinched by hunger know nothing of holidays.

In early afternoon, back aching, hands dirty and sore despite the rags, I abandoned the glare and blustering wind of the heights for a shady clearing of pine trees and oak scrub. I ate a few dried figs, hard and half turned to sugar, and refilled my water flask at the stream that mumbled through the weedy clearing, trying to decide whether to return to the ridge top to dig another bundle of scabwort roots or head down to the cottage and the uncountable tasks that needed doing before sunset.

A spider skittered across the scuffed leather of my boot. A jay screeched. Beyond the stream, something large rustled the bracken—one of Evard's deer, no doubt. No predators, human or beast, frequented the wooded hills behind Jonah's cottage. Nor did enemy soldiers. Leire's current battles were being waged in faraway Iskeran. Nor did sorcerous enchantments lurk in the wild forest, threatening to corrupt the soul. As the priests and people of the Four Realms had demanded for four hundred and fifty years, the dark arts and those who practiced them had been exterminated.

I lifted my head. The rustling came louder, closer, and now accompanied by a muted, rhythmic pounding. Running footsteps . . . human . . . that halted somewhere in the trees to my right. “Who's there?” I called out, scrambling to my feet.

As if from nowhere and everywhere sounded the blast of a horn, the clamor of a hunt sweeping through the forest on three sides: racing hoofbeats, jangling harness, a shouted command not ten paces from where I stood. The runner was closer than that.

“Stay away from me,” I said softly, trying to look everywhere at once, “or I'll scream and let them know you're here.”

A branch snapped. I whirled about, but saw nothing. Backing slowly away from the hunt toward the downhill side of the clearing, my hand moved slowly toward my slit pocket where I could reach the knife sheath hidden under my skirt. But whatever I thought to do with my pitiful weapon was left undone. A muscular arm reached from behind and wrapped itself about my neck, while another grabbed my waist, crushing my elbow into my ribs. I fought to keep my footing as my assailant dragged me downstream through the water and into a dense tangle of cedar, pine, and juniper. Twigs and sharp, dry underbranches caught in my hair, slapped and stung my face.

My captor's arm was fiercely sunburned, the skin scratched and abraded. The heart pressed so close to my back was thudding ferociously, and his sweat soaked the back of my tunic. He stank of unwashed terror.

I slammed my unrestrained elbow into his belly, tore at his arms, stomped my boot somewhere in the region of his foot, and flailed at his flank—discovering to my surprise that he seemed to be entirely unclothed. When I reached over my head to claw at his eyes, he used my own right arm to bat away my left and tightened his hold on my throat.

The pursuit careened through the woodland, the riders so close, I could almost smell the leather harness and feel the cool steel of their blades. Yet even if I could have mustered a shout or a scream, I wouldn't have done so. I had no illusions that those giving chase were more benevolent than my captor. Such was the state of the vile world. I just wanted to get loose, to get out from between pursuers and pursued. A bizarre struggle . . . both of us wordless, desperate.