Praise for
ON FIRE’S WINGS
by Christie Golden
“Ms. Golden weaves a splendiferous tale of exotic magic and the courage of the human heart. Her characters stand out within a tapestry of emotions, where hope is the loom upon which love and desire, fear and despair and stubborn perseverance continue to weave. An elemental tale with an amazing, and unforeseen, climax keeps the pages turning seemingly by themselves. This is a definite gem in the world of sci-fi fantasy and a must-read for those who love to hope and hope to love.”
—The Best Reviews
“On Fire’s Wings is a sweeping story peopled by emotionally complex characters—characters the reader is given time to get to know, understand, and either love or despise. Yes, there’s a strong romantic subplot involved, but the story is about Kevla’s life—from her meager beginnings to the days in which she realizes her own inner power and is faced with what that power brings to her…and ultimately takes from her.”
—Revision 14
“Truly a gifted author, Christie Golden pens a rare tale overflowing with emotion. With carefully chosen words, she draws her readers into the lives of Kevla, Jeshemi and the Arukan clans, imprinting them on our hearts. On Fire’s Wings is a work of art, filled with pictures, sounds and colorful characters, all combining to form an unforgettable adventure.”
—In the Library Reviews
TOP PICK! 4 1/2 stars—“The desert country of Arukan is an original and compelling creation, far from the typical lush forests and medieval villages of fantasy fiction…Golden is not afraid to take risks in her writing, and the resulting unexpected and sometimes uncomfortable twists and turns definitely pay off here.…A gripping and satisfying tale.”
—Romantic Times
“Christie Golden leads us on a journey across the exotic terrain of fantasy as well as through the complex landscape of the human heart…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
“The plot is full of fascinating cross-currents, not just between the emotional and adventurous parts, but also between destiny and stupidity. The story holds an overall pattern, a goal towards which everything wants to flow. But because the culture is badly flawed, a lot of the characters make mistake after ghastly mistake, dragging things off course. The question then becomes can Kevla straighten out the resulting mess before it’s too late? On Fire’s Wings holds great appeal for fantasy fans, with its epic plot and exquisitely detailed scenery. Romance fans will enjoy the intricate web of relationships amongst the characters.”
—Hypatia’s Hoard
In Stone’s Clasp
CHRISTIE GOLDEN
www.LUNA-Books.com
First edition September 2005
IN STONE’S CLASP
ISBN 1-55254-360-9
Copyright © 2005 by Christie Golden
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Worldwide Library, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.LUNA-Books.com
This one’s for the men—
May it serve to honor the Fisher Kings and wounded heroes who have survived their own seemingly endless winters and emerged, whole, into spring.
Cast of Characters
In Arukan
Jashemi-kha-Tahmu: Tahmu’s son, Kevla’s half-brother and the Flame Dancer’s Lorekeeper, deceased
Kevla-sha-Tahmu, formerly Kevla Bai-Sha: the Flame Dancer
Dragon, the: Kevla’s Companion animal
Meli-sha-Tahmu: Kevla’s half sister
Sahlik: head servant of the Clan of the Four Waters, five-score
Tahmu-kha-Rakyn: Kevla’s father, khashim of the Clan of the Four Waters
Yeshi Bai-Sha, formerly Yeshi-sha-Rusan: wife of Thamu, mother of Jashemi and Meli
In Lamal
Hanru: Taaskali guide
Ice Maiden, the: legendary coldhearted woman
Ivo: headman of Skalka Valley
Lukkari, Altan: Lamali bard, twin brother to stillborn Ilta
Lukkari, Ilta: stillborn twin to Altan
Lukkari, Ritva: Altan’s mother
Lukkari, Veli: Altan’s father
Ovaak, Larr: Jareth’s boyhood friend
Paiva: wise-woman/healer
Ranin: friend to Olar Tulari
Relaanan, Kivi: wife to Orvo, mother to Taya and Vikka
Relaanan, Orvo: headman of Two Lakes, father to Taya and Vikka
Relaanan, Vikka: youngest daughter of Orvo and Kivi
Tulari, Gelsan: head woman of Arrun Woods
Tulari, Mylikki: daughter of Gelsan
Tulari, Olar: son of Gelsan
Vasalen, Annu: Jareth’s daughter
Vasalen, Jareth: the Stone Dancer
Vasalen, Parvan: Jareth’s son
Vasalen, Taya: Jareth’s wife
Other Players
Advisors to the Emperor
Emperor, the: enemy of the Dancers, very powerful
Ki-lyn, the: magical creature imprisoned by the Emperor
Contents
Prologue
PART I: Spring-Bringer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part II: The Ice Maiden
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part III: Stone Dancer
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Glossary
Coming Next Month
Prologue
“We have failed,” the Stone Dancer whispered.
She and her Lorekeeper, her soul, her beloved in this life and others, stood hand in hand on the shore and watched the Shadow come.
“We didn’t even have a chance to fight!” Her voice was raw with pain and disbelief. She turned large brown eyes to him, as if he could somehow change what was about to unfold. “We didn’t even….”
Her gaze drifted back to the obliteration that was
slowly, inexorably approaching. The Lorekeeper folded her into his arms, equally unable to tear his gaze away from the pulsing gray Shadow as it closed in upon them, this island, this world.
Although she was the one with the ability to harness the power of the earth, of stone and soil and growing things, he had been her guide, her protector, her comforter. He had been blessed with the knowledge of all that had gone before. Older than she by more than a few years, he had known her from birth. He had been the one to train her. Since he remembered what she was capable of in past existences, he comprehended the scope of her powers better than she herself did. And during the years of training, he had fallen in love despite himself with this steady, tender, graceful girl who would one day help save their world.
He tasted bitterness in his throat. Save their world. No, not save it. Watch helplessly, unable to do anything, as nothingness marched steadily onward, prepared to engulf and erase them as if they had never been. How futile now seemed the discussions they had had, late at night by the fire. They had worried about how she would leave the island, where they would go, how they would find the other Dancers. What a waste of finite time those conversations had been. He wanted those lost hours back. He would spend them making love to this girl, telling her how precious she was to him.
They both knew what had happened. Somewhere, far away from this tranquil, white sand beach, this calm place of sea and sun, a Dancer had died.
The Lorekeeper found himself wondering with a macabre sense of curiosity which one it had been. Sea? Wind? Soul? Flame? How he—or she—had died. How old that ill-fated Dancer had been.
In the sheltering circle of the Lorekeeper’s arms, the Stone Dancer shivered, though the sun was yet warm on their bronze skins.
“It’s so unfair!” she cried, and despite himself, the Lorekeeper smiled at her outburst. She had barely known eighteen summers, and while she was possessed of an ancient power, sometimes she seemed to him very young indeed. “I never met the others…we never stood together, as we were born to do….”
She began to sob, and he held her even tighter, feeling tears sting his own eyes as he pressed her head to his breast.
“Things aren’t always fair,” he whispered, realizing how inane the words sounded even as he uttered them. “There will be another chance.”
She nodded and pulled away a little, wiping at her wet face. “Yes,” she stammered. “So you have said. One final chance.” She looked up at him and the love that washed though him almost tore him apart. He would do anything to spare her further pain; anything.
“We will be together again,” she whispered.
He reached and pulled her to him, kissing her urgently. He had loved her in all their incarnations; sometimes chastely, as a friend or parent; sometimes passionately, as he did now. He would love her again, whatever shape or age or form they would take. He would always love her. In the face of uncertainty and approaching destruction, he knew that, at least, would never change.
She returned his kiss and for a long moment, they clung to one another. The Lorekeeper hoped that this was how the Shadow would take them—locked in an embrace, heedless of the obliteration about to descend.
But the Dancer turned again to look out over the sea. The Shadow was beginning to hide the sun, and the ocean was no longer tranquil and blue, but gray, as if a storm was approaching. Gray and still. Whatever it was that created the ceaseless motion of the waves, the Shadow had taken it.
They faced the ocean together, she pressed into him, he clasping her about the waist.
“What will it feel like?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I cannot remember. The Lorekeepers recall much, but not that; not even what form the Shadow has taken each time.”
“Will it hurt?” she said. “To be…erased…or will we feel nothing?”
He, who knew her better than any living person, realized she was terrified. And he could say nothing to reassure her. This woman he adored more than life itself was about to die, perhaps painfully, certainly in the grasp of fear.
He could not permit that.
He pressed a kiss on her shoulder. “It won’t hurt,” he said, knowing he spoke the truth, at least for her. “You won’t feel a thing.” For the last time in this life, he whispered with infinite tenderness, “I love you.”
And then he placed his powerful hands on either side of her face and snapped her neck.
The Lorekeeper held the Dancer as she fell, taking her down to the sand with him. Cradling her limp body tenderly, he closed the slightly slanted brown eyes, placed her head against his shoulder, and waited for the Shadow to descend.
PART I:
Spring-Bringer
1
“Are you sure it was this tree?” Jareth Vasalen called to his friend.
“Yes, I’m positive,” Larr Ovaak called up.
Jareth sighed, blowing a stray strand of yellow hair out of blue eyes. Thirteen-year-old muscles quivering with the effort, he kept climbing.
Larr had spotted the blessing cloth—or, at least, what had certainly looked like a blessing cloth; no one had ever actually seen such a thing—dancing in the wind. It had led the two boys a merry chase, away from chores and family and other mundane things, and now Larr was convinced that it had gotten lodged in the topmost branches of this ancient oak tree.
“Think about it, Jareth!” Larr had exclaimed. “I’ll let you share it, since we both saw it. Everyone’ll be jealous!”
But of course, it was Larr who would keep the cloth, and Jareth who was expected to make the tricky climb on branches bare and slick with ice. Jareth didn’t really mind; he loved this old oak. Often he would sit for hours, cradled in its large branches, looking out over the farmland and watching it turn from green to gold to brown and finally, as now, swathed in winter’s cold blanket of white. He sometimes felt as if this ancient forest was more his home than the house he shared with his elderly parents, both of whom seemed exasperated by his frequent need to climb to the topmost limbs and look out over the world.
But though he had climbed the tree more times than he could count, Jareth had never ventured quite this high before. Up here, the branches were thinner, and seemed reluctant to bear his weight. Once he slipped, and his breath caught in his throat as he grabbed on to another limb. After a moment he regained his footing and continued to climb. If the prize was what they thought it was, it would be well worth it.
The people of Lamal believed the blessing cloths were woven by the mysterious, seldom-glimpsed people called the taaskali. Dark of skin, hair and eye—or so the songs said—the taaskali had unusual skills, even perhaps magic, and were believed to have a special connection to the gods who lived on top of the mountains. The taaskali were nomads, their entire reason for being to follow and protect the herds of the equally mysterious and seldom-glimpsed animals called selvas, whose milk bestowed health and long life.
The songs weren’t exactly clear on what the selvas looked like. Jareth imagined them as white deer with golden horns and hooves. Cloaks woven from their thick white wool were believed to turn arrows. All taaskali clothing was made from selva wool, including, and especially, the blessing cloths. Jareth remembered the huskaa of Two Lakes telling the tale beside the fire when he visited not so long ago.
“And each season,” he had said to his rapt audience, “the selva settle in their grazing fields. That’s when taaskali take that season’s magic and weave it into the cloths. They sing and play as the fabric is woven, infusing it with their hopes, and dreams, and blessings for the selva, themselves, and indeed all the people of Lamal. Then they release them, and the blessings fly all over the land.”
Jareth was more than half-certain that the cloth tangled in the tree was no more magical than the fabric that comprised his own clothing, but he was almost there now, and he was not about to descend without it.
“Can you see it?”
Jareth turned his head carefully, making sure he had a good grip on the branches. “No,
I don’t think—wait.”
In Stone's Clasp Page 1