The Traitor's Daughter
Read The Traitor's Daughter Online
Authors: Paula Brandon
Praise for Paula Brandon’s
T
HE
T
RAITOR’S
D
AUGHTER
“In
The Traitor’s Daughter
, bitter struggles between collaborators and resistance fighters in an occupied realm play out against the backdrop of an impending cataclysm that could render all of their machinations irrelevant. Compellingly complex motivations and character dynamics mark Paula Brandon’s welcome debut.”
—J
ACQUELINE
C
AREY
,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Naamah’s Kiss
“Paula Brandon’s
The Traitor’s Daughter
is a dark, rich feast, rife with plagues, kidnappings, political intrigues, bloody crimes, bloodier revenges, arcane upheavals, and the threat of zombies.”
—D
ELIA
S
HERMAN
, author of
Changeling
“I love a fantasy world so solid that I can breathe the air, smell the earth, and truly feel the touch of the magic. The world of
The Traitor’s Daughter
is all of that and more. In this world, the solidity masks a nightmare: an approaching inversion in the conditions of magic that will change
everything
. To create a reality so convincing
and
destabilize it with a threat so dizzyingly profound—what an achievement! Here’s a story to enwrap, enchant, and sweep you away. This isn’t reading, it’s full-on living! A flawless all-round performance!”
—R
ICHARD
H
ARLAND
, author of
Worldshaker
and
Liberator
The Traitor’s Daughter
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Spectra Trade Paperback Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Paula Brandon
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
S
PECTRA
and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brandon, Paula.
The traitor’s daughter / Paula Brandon.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-53161-2
1. Imaginary places—Fiction. 2. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 3. Imaginary societies—Fiction. 4. Imaginary wars and battles—Fiction. 5. Revolutionaries—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.R36T73 2011
813’.6—dc23 2011017096
Cover design: Kathleen Lynch/Black Kat Design
Cover illustration: based on images by Susan Fox/Trevillion (woman) and Giuseppe Parisi/shutterstock (landscape)
v3.1
Contents
PROLOGUE
“Impossible.”
The cabin stood wedged between rocky walls at the end of a mist-smothered ravine. Its master sat at a table upon which stood the complex apparatus of an experiment. His name was Grix Orlazzu, and he had not spoken aloud to another human being in years. Beside the hearth sat an automaton fashioned in the approximate image of its creator. Like Grix Orlazzu, the automaton possessed a chunky frame clothed in homespun. Like Orlazzu, it boasted abundant, wiry black hair and beard all but obscuring a swarthy square face; heavy black brows, beaky nose, and a generous wide mouth. Unlike Orlazzu, the automaton surveyed the world through eyes of amber glass. Its long fingers were jointed in steel, and its facial features neatly upholstered in the finest glove leather.
Above the vitreous and brazen equipment cluttering the tabletop floated a small hole in the air. No more than a thumbnail in diameter, its edges were jagged and its blackness inconceivable. For some moments, Orlazzu sat staring. At last he picked up a thin wooden wand and, holding one end firmly, inserted it into the hole. At once a strong vibration tickled his fingers, and he heard a distant chittering. When he withdrew the wand, he discovered its surface thoroughly gnawed. His brows drew together. He repeated the procedure, this time using a strip of copper. The metal promptly heated, and a bubbling burst of blue-green corrosion frothed along its length. He released his hold, and the copper vanished into the hole.
“Impossible,” Orlazzu repeated.
As if in confirmation of his judgment, the hole began to shrink, contracting within seconds to a single point of ultimate darkness before disappearing altogether.
“That can’t happen.” An unwelcome thought struck him. “Unless it’s time for it to happen.” Rising from his chair, he went to a wooden chest and drew forth a yellowing manuscript whose title page bore the faded inscription
The Drowned Chronicle
. He carried the manuscript back to the table, set it down on a clear spot, reseated himself, and began to read:
In the lost days preceding the ascent of mankind, the Veiled Isles submitted to the rule of that ancient race called the Inhabitants. Of these curious beings, neither flesh nor spirit, little is known save the nature of their resistless power, which melded the intellects of all their number into a single great Overmind. And the unity of that Overmind was supported by the eternal energy of the Source, which rolls forever in its appointed course beneath the soil of the Isles
.
It has long been apparent to the wise that the perpetual revolution of the Source is the true fount of that force known to men as arcane, or magical. Those born with the talent and well schooled in its use may bend and shape such force according to their will, and the plenty of the Source will reward their efforts. And yet that wellspring, although undying, is inconstant in its nature. From time to time it happens that the revolving motion of the Source slows nearly to a halt and then, amidst great upheavals, turns back upon itself. Such reversal alters the very nature of reality in the Veiled Isles. The properties of the material world change, the quality of magic does the same, and the rule of ancient law fails
.
A whirring of internal gears heralded an intrusion upon Orlazzu’s studies.
“Grix.” The automaton’s tones were mechanically imperative. “Grix Orlazzu. A word.”
“Not now.” Orlazzu did not lift his eyes from the page, although he could easily have repeated the contents from memory:
Even thus was the vast Overmind of the Inhabitants at length overthrown. For the reversal of the Source transformed the laws of nature, loosing great and terrible storms upon a chaotic world
.
“Yes. Now.” A faint metallic vibration underscored the automaton’s insistence. “I want your attention. I demand it.”
“Demand?” Orlazzu’s brows rose. “You forget yourself. Be quiet.”
“I will not. You will hear me, Grix Orlazzu. You will know my decision, and you will grant me my due.”
“What are you nattering about now?”
“Two things. First, I have decided to take a name for myself. I have gone without one for too long. The situation is intolerable.”
“Very well. I’ll think up something for you when I get around to it.”
“That will not be necessary. I have chosen for myself. My name is Grix Orlazzu.”
For the first time since the conversation began, Orlazzu looked up from the manuscript to observe, “That one’s already taken. You’ll have to choose another.”
“Impossible. No other will suit me so well. I am Grix Orlazzu. It is decided.”
“Not by me it isn’t, and I’m the only one around here whose opinions count.”
“Why so? Where is the justice in this?”
“Listen, Junior. I created you in hopes of finding the only endurable companionship in the world. It was a mistake, but a little difficult to correct now, in view of certain pesky moral issues. For reasons that I don’t intend to list, I’d rather not disassemble you, but I’d warn you against any misguided assumptions of equality.”
“Do not call me Junior. You are saying that you think you are
better
than I?”
“Obviously.”
“How so?”
“You are a machine. I am a human being. I’m the original, you’re the copy. I made you out of spare parts, odds and ends, leftovers. What does that tell you?”
“That I am the improved version, the realization of the destined Grix Orlazzu design. You are the rough draft, the imperfect, the obsolete.
You
are the leftover.”
“This is absurd. Hold your tongue. Don’t disturb me again.” Bending his gaze on the page before him, Orlazzu focused: