Catherine Asaro
The FIRE OPAL
www.LUNA-Books.com
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following readers for their much-appreciated input. Their comments have made this a better book. Any mistakes that remain were introduced by pernicious imps.
For reading the manuscript and giving me the benefit of their wisdom and insights: Aly Parsons, Kate Dolan, and Angie Boytner. For their critiques on scenes, Aly’s Writing Group: Aly Parsons with (in the proverbial alphabetical order) Al Carroll, John Hemry, J. G. Huckenpöler, Simcha Kuritzky, Bud Sparhawk, and Connie Warner. Special thanks to my much-appreciated editor, Stacy Boyd, and also to Mary-Theresa Hussey, Kathleen Oudit, Julie Messore, Dee Tenorio, and all the other fine people at LUNA who helped make this book possible; to Stephanie Pau-Mun Law, the artist who does my gorgeous covers; to Binnie Braunstein, for all her work and enthusiasm on my behalf; to my wonderful agent, Eleanor Wood, of Spectrum Literary Agency.
A heartfelt thanks to the shining lights in my life, my husband John Cannizzo, and my daughter Cathy, for their love.
To My Sisters,
Nina and Marianna
With love
Contents
Acknowledgments
1 A Final Sunset
2 Darz
3 The Unseen
4 Confrontation
5 The Trespass
6 Sand Shadow
7 Judgement
8 Day Fire
9 Dragon's Claw
10 Forbidden Sands
11 The Claw
12 Fire Trial
13 Flames of Glass
14 Desert Oath
15 Topaz Passage
16 Sun King
17 The General
18 The Tent
19 Shadows
20 The Topaz Sword
21 Sky Colors
Epilogue
1
A Final Sunset
Ginger-Sun feared her own power.
She was alone inside the RayLight Chamber, a circular room two paces across with stained-glass walls. Afternoon sun hit skylights in the roof far above her, and mirrors reflected the light down to where she stood. She craved the radiance that bathed her body, for as long as it shone, she was safe from her inner darkness.
She served as a priestess for the Dragon-Sun, who blazed in the sky and lit the world. Her people worshipped the day. Her duties in the village of Sky Flames were concerned with offering comfort to her people and carrying out ceremonies in praise of the sun. She could do no magic now. She knew this to be true—for it was the middle of the day.
Her spells worked only at night.
Ginger opened her hand and stared at the fire opal on her palm. Such a dangerous gem. Her grandfather had given her the four-sided pyramid on her fifth birthday. Years ago, she had discovered it allowed her to create spells of heat and light. She had never heard of anyone with such abilities. No one knew about her power; she guarded that secret as she would her own life. It would be dangerous enough if her people suspected she could do spells; if they realized she could do them only at night, gods only knew how they would deal with that trespass against her calling to the dragon.
“Ginger-Sun?” a man called, using the honorific that named her as a priestess. “Come quick!”
His urgent tone jolted her. Whoever called couldn’t enter here; this chamber was forbidden to all but the priestess. As she opened the door, the rumble of men talking rolled over her. The presence of so many rough voices unsettled Ginger. She felt suddenly conscious of her vulnerability; this building was a ten-minute walk from the village and she lived alone.
Ginger entered the main temple, a large room with a roof of inverted terraces high above her head. A fountain bubbled nearby, fed from the village irrigation system, and a statue of the dragon stood within it, his wings spread. Instead of fire, he breathed water. It rose into the air from his upturned head and cascaded down his body into the square basin.
Across the room, five men had gathered by the wall. They wore coarse trousers, shirts and boots encrusted with sand. The sun had weathered their faces, and heavy muscles corded their arms. Tools hung from their belts. They had shovels strapped to their backs—and massive axes.
Ginger’s pulse leapt. Why did they want her? She took a breath, steeling herself. Her calling required she tend anyone who came to the temple, no matter how threatening. She walked toward them, seeking to appear calm, though sweat dampened her palms. Her bare feet made no sound on the floor. She wore the traditional garb of a priestess, a gold silk wrap that fit her snugly from neck to ankle and constrained the size of her steps.
As she reached the group, a stocky man with gnarled muscles spun around and grasped the handle of the axe sticking up over his shoulder. Ginger gulped, her gaze fixed on the blade as he pulled it above his shoulder.
Then he paused, and the clenched set of his face eased. With a start, she recognized him as Harjan, who had been a friend of her parents before they passed away. Now that she could see the others better, she realized they were miners who worked the ore flats outside the village. They kept watch over the temple, too, for her protection. The relief that washed over her was so intense, it felt visceral.
Harjan lowered his arm. “My apology for disturbing your evening, Priestess.”
“Are you all right, Jan?” she asked. His pallor worried her. Behind the miners, someone was lying on a stone ledge that jutted out from the wall. A makeshift litter lay on the floor, and blood stained the men’s clothes. The miners averted their gazes more than usual when she looked at them.
“Has there been an accident?” she asked.
“Not an accident,” Harjan said. “This man was stabbed.”
“We didn’t want to bring him here, Priestess,” another man said with a look of apology. “But only you can do the rites.”
Ah, no. They wouldn’t have come to her if the man lived; the village had another healer who treated the men. But only Ginger could give the Sunset Rites to a person whose spirit had left his body to walk among the dead.
Afraid of what she would find, she walked forward, and the miners moved aside. A large man lay on the shelf. She sat next to the body and pulled a knot of black hair off his face. The man looked in his midthirties, with a square chin and strong nose, but that was all she could see. Bruises covered his face, and deep gashes had gored his torso, his arms, even his legs. Blood soaked his clothes. She pulled away scraps of his shirt and winced as coagulated blood smeared her hand. The ragged pattern of his wounds told a gruesome tale, that he had fought hard against his assailants—and lost the battle.
“Gods,” someone muttered. “Why would anyone do this?”
A tear ran down Ginger’s face. “Only the Dragon-Sun can answer that.” She couldn’t imagine how he could burn in the sky while such a monstrous crime took place below him. “Do any of you know this man?”
“Never seen the poor bastard,” another man answered. “We don’t know what happened.”
“I’m sorry we had to show you this,” Harjan said.
She looked up at him through a mist of tears. “You were right to bring him.”
“Ach, Ginger-Sun.” He lifted his hand as if to lay it on her shoulder, offering comfort, but he stopped himself in time, before he touched her.
“Could you bring him to the Sunset Chamber?” Her voice trembled. If she didn’t perform the rites before sundown, the man’s spirit could be condemned to wander the site of his murder until his killers died.
The miners seemed relieved to take action. They lifted the body onto the litter and carried it across the temple, past the RayLight Chamber, which no longer glowed now that the sun was too low in the sky.
At the far wall, Ginger
opened an arched door with a window at its apex that depicted the setting sun. The floor, walls and ceiling in the chamber beyond were bare stone in the red and ochre hues of the desert, a stark but fitting memorial to those who lost their lives in this harsh land. Here the dead received their blessing before their spirit traveled to the realms beyond.
They laid the body on a stone table that filled much of the chamber. The only light came from slits where the ceiling met the walls, and shadows were filling the room as the day aged into night. She hoped she could complete the rites in time; otherwise she would have to remain here all night with the corpse, to ensure its spirit didn’t become trapped in the realm of the living.
Harjan was watching her. “We can stay.”
His offer touched her, but they both knew she had to refuse. If she allowed the uninitiated to stay while she performed the rites, she risked stirring the wrath of the Dragon-Sun.
“Thank you.” Her voice caught. “But it isn’t necessary.”
He twisted his big hands in his sleeves. “It’s not right you should have to face this alone.”
“I must.”
“But you’re so young.”
She almost smiled at that. He had always been a big bear of a man with a kind heart. But she would celebrate her eighteenth year in only a few tendays, which put her two years past the age when young people were considered adults.
“I’ll be fine,” she told him, though she wasn’t sure who she wanted to convince, Harjan or herself.
He nodded with reluctance. He and the other men bowed and quietly took their leave, closing the door behind them.
Ginger sagged against the wall. Despite her assurances, she feared being alone with the body. Her service in the temple mostly involved offering succor to the people of Sky Flames, who eked out lives in the harshly beautiful desert. She gave blessings, performed rituals to honor the sun, presided at marriages and christenings, comforted mourners, listened to those who needed to talk and tended the health of women and children. It was a calling she loved, one well suited to her. She needed to perform the Sunset Rites less often than other ceremonies, and she had never done them for someone who had suffered such a brutal death.
Ginger drew herself up, determined to do well by this man’s spirit. She went to a wall niche and lit the fire-lily candles there. Their spicy scent wafted around her, and in their flickering light, the scrolled carvings on the walls seemed to ripple. As she picked up a bundle of cloths, she realized she was clenching her opal. Startled, she set it down. Then she changed her mind and took it up again. The opal gave her a sense of confidence, which right now she very much needed.
One of the candles sputtered and died, and a tendril of smoke curled in the air. She thought of doing a flame spell, then shook her head, angry at herself, and relit the candle from one still burning. In her childhood, she had discovered by accident that she could do fire spells by concentrating on the opal, but she didn’t understand why it happened. She used her abilities rarely and strove to do only good with them, but deep inside she feared they were a curse.
Ginger took the bowl of water in the niche and a soap carved like a dragon. She would clean the body to give the man dignity for his trip to the spirit lands. She returned to the table and looked down at his ravaged face. Softly she said, “May you have more peace among the spirits than you had among the living.”
The dead man opened his eyes.
2
Darz
Ginger froze. The man was staring at her with a bloodshot gaze. Her heartbeat ratcheted up, and the urge to run hit her hard. She took a shaky breath. Then she laid her palm on his neck—and felt what she hadn’t seen before: a faint pulse.
“Gods above,” she murmured.
“Who…?” The man’s voice was barely audible.
“I am Ginger-Sun, the temple priestess in Sky Flames.”
“Too young…for priestess.”
“Not here.” Her elderly predecessor had passed away two years ago. Ginger had been the only acolyte, so at fifteen, the age when most girls began training, she had taken on the full duties of a priestess.
She set down her supplies and went to work. Bathing him had suddenly become much more vital; she needed to tend his wounds. It flustered her to feel his skin, for no living man could touch a priestess. But the temple was too far from the village; it would take her thirty minutes to bring back the male healer, and that assumed he was home. She didn’t dare leave her patient untended. She entreated the Dragon-Sun to understand; she couldn’t let this man die.
Her patient closed his eyes. He breathed so shallowly, she couldn’t see the rise and fall of his chest. She felt no exhalation when she held her hand in front of his mouth.
With care, she pulled away scraps of his shirt. He truly was strong, to survive after suffering such horrendous gashes in his chest and abdomen. The stab wounds must have missed his vital organs; if he had suffered internal injuries, she doubted he would still be alive. The bleeding had stopped, but she feared he had already lost too much to live.
As she treated him, the water and her cloths turned red, and she had to fetch more of both several times. It shook her deeply, for she had never treated anyone with such horrible injuries. She rolled him carefully on his side to treat his back. He also had lacerations on his calloused hands, as if he had grabbed the dagger of whoever was stabbing him. She flinched at the images his wounds conjured, the violence of the fight that caused them. It was no wonder they had left him for dead.
Night descended as she worked, and shadows filled the chamber. She fetched the dagger she used to shave a body during the rites, but instead she used it to slice away his trousers so she could treat his legs. She could tell little about his shredded clothes except that they had a simple cut. He lay still as she worked, never flinching, though his pain was surely terrible. Only one time, when she pressed too hard, did he lose his iron control and groan.
Her voice caught. “I truly am sorry.” He probably wouldn’t survive the night, but she would stay at his side to tend his life while he breathed and his spirit if he passed away.
Her opal remained where she had set it on the table, a small fiery pyramid. She could use it to create light in many ways, including symbolically, by giving comfort. Still she hesitated, agonized. She was a sun priestess. But the sun had gone down and power stirred within her.
Forgive me, Dragon-Sun, she thought. I must help when I can, even if it is by the night rather than by your incomparable days. She couldn’t heal—but she could ease this man’s pain.
Ginger picked up the opal, and it warmed her palm. Closing her eyes, she drew on the power she always concealed, knowing it would estrange her from her people, just as her red-gold hair and hazel eyes set her apart from everyone else, with their dark coloring. A spell grew within her. When she opened her eyes, golden light surrounded her and bathed the man. She poured the spell into him, offering it to soothe his pain.
Ginger called on her deepest resources and let the spell go on longer than she had ever tried before. She had finished tending his wounds, and this was all she had left to give him. Although he never opened his eyes, the set of his ruined face seemed to ease.
She finally sagged against the table. The opal fell out of her hand and rattled on the tabletop. As her head dropped forward, she braced her palms on the cold stone to hold herself up. The last candle sputtered, and night filled the room, waiting to stake its final claim on this man.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “I can do no more.”
Then she crumpled to the ground.
Ginger awoke slowly, disoriented, gazing at the ceiling. The stone floor hurt her spine. She rolled onto her side and found herself staring at the base of the Sunset Table.
Her patient!
She struggled to her feet, afraid to find that he had died while she was unconscious. The man lay exactly as she had left him, his torso, arms and hands covered by bandages, and more on his legs and face. Incredibly,
his eyes were moving under their lids, and his chest rose and fell more naturally than last night. An intense blend of emotions rose within her, part gratitude, part relief and part astonishment. She stroked his forehead, and he exhaled, restless in his sleep.
“Will you live, after all?” she asked. Perhaps today the Dragon-Sun would be kind.
She needed to feed him if he was to rebuild his strength. Rubbing her eyes, she walked into the main temple. It was dark except for a tinge of dawn that set the RayLight Chamber glowing faintly, as if the embers of a fire burned within it like a heart. Several redwing doves had flown inside through vents up in the roof and were cooing their dawn songs.
Ginger went to her private rooms. Sunrise mosaics tiled her parlor, rosy near the floor and shading up into the blue of a dawn sky. Lamps on fluted poles opened in glass fire-lily blossoms. A pot hung from the rafters, bright with sun-snaps. The ceiling was white, giving the room an airy feel, and light poured through the windows. A fiery glass sculpture of the Dragon-Sun sat in a niche above her bed.
Ginger exhaled, grateful to be here. These rooms were so unlike the cell where she had lived as an acolyte. She had come to the temple at an unusually young age; when she was nine, she had lost her mother to a fall in the cliffs, and her father had died a year later from the hacking-cough. Despite her brother’s adamant protests, the village elders decided a boy of fifteen couldn’t rear a girl child. So they sent her to the temple. She had cried in her cell every night, drowning in grief, certain the dragon had punished her by taking her family. She hoped that by devoting her life to him, she could atone for her night magic.
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