by Carol Berg
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
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
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
Seri
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Praise for Song of the Beast
“A good introduction to this wonderful fantasy author’s work because it’s a standalone yet has length, intensity, and themes common with her previously published Ria-Kirah trilogy (Transformation, Revelation, and Restoration). This new novel has even stronger narrative drive than its powerful predecessors; it’s a fantasy I didn’t want to put down.”
—Victoria McManus, sfrevu.com
“Berg’s fascinating fantasy is a puzzle story, with a Celtic-flavored setting and a plot as intricate and absorbing as fine Celtic lacework. . . . The characters are memorable, and Berg’s intelligence and narrative skill make this stand-alone fantasy most commendable.”
—Booklist
“The plot keeps twisting right until the end . . . entertaining characters.”
—Locus
“It would be easy to categorize it as another dragon fantasy book. Instead, it is a well-crafted mystery. . . . Definitely recommended for libraries looking for high quality fantasy and mystery additions.”
—Kliatt
“Dragons’ voices and one man’s sheer, indomitable will blend to produce a powerful story of courage and faith. Song of the Beast is this summer’s sleeper hit.”
—The Davis Enterprise
Praise for Transformation, Revelation, and Restoration, the acclaimed Rai-kirah saga by Carol Berg
“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
“An exotic, dangerous, and beautifully crafted world.”
—Lynn Flewelling, author of Traitor’s Moon
“Powerfully entertaining.”
—Locus
“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
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
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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, September 2004
Copyright © Carol Berg, 2004
All rights reserved
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.
eISBN : 978-1-101-09826-4
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For the boys. And you thought the garage was tough. . . .
The builders did bow before the castle lord and say to him that his fortess was complete. But the lord declared the castle not yet strong enough, for his enemies were powerful and many. And so the lord commanded the builders to set an iron ring into the stone on the battlements at each compass point of the keep, and he chose his four strongest warriors to sanctify his fortress with their lives. One of the four was chained to each of the rings and charged to watch for marauders who might appear from any point along the sweeping horizon. At every hour the watch bells were rung to ensure the warriors did not sleep, and none were allowed to speak to them lest they be distracted from their duty. Through burning autumn and into bitter winter the four stood watch, allowed no shelter, no comfort, and no respite, believing that their faithfulness and honor would protect their lord’s stronghold long after their eyes and ears had failed. And when they died, they were left in place until their dust had filtered into the stones and mortar. They were called the Guardians of the Keep and are said to protect it still, and the symbol of the Four Guardian Rings is the sh
ield of Comigor. Indeed, the four must have been potent warriors, for never in six hundred years has Comigor fallen to its enemies.
The History and Legends of Comigor Castle
CHAPTER 1
Seri
My driver rang the bell for the third time. No doubt the castle was in mourning. Black banners flew from the squat towers alongside the duke’s pennon. And the severe façade of the keep’s entry tower, broken only by the tall, narrow glass windows near its crown, was draped with myrtle branches, wound and tied with black crepe. But for all the activity I could see, one might think the entire household dead instead of just the lord.
At last, almost a quarter of an hour after we’d driven through the unguarded outer gates, one of the massive doors was dragged open. A red-faced under-housemaid carrying a water pitcher on her shoulder gestured frantically and disappeared into the house, leaving the door ajar.
Renald hurried back across the courtyard to the carriage, scratching his head. “The girl says you’re to go right up to her mistress’ rooms. She didn’t even wait to hear my introduction.”
“How could they know I was coming today?” Not waiting for Renald’s hand, I jumped from the carriage and directed him to the kitchen wing where he might get refreshment and perhaps a bit of gossip. I ran up the broad steps. Thirteen years since I’d been banished from this house—
A blood-chilling wail from the upper floor precluded reminiscing, as well as any puzzling over the lack of proper guards at the gates of a wealthy house with a newly dead lord. Hurrying across the tiled floor of the entry tower and up the grand staircase, I followed the commotion through a set of double doors at the end of the passage and into a large bedchamber.
The chamber, larger and airier than most of the dark rooms in the old keep, had once been my mother’s. But only the location was recognizable. The graceful, Vallorean-style furnishings had been replaced by bulky, thick-topped tables of dark wood, ornate gilt chairs, and carved benches of a lumpish design with thin velvet cushions added for “comfort.” The bedstead sat on a raised platform, bedposts reaching all the way to the plastered ceiling. Heavy red draperies hung at the windows, blocking the bright sun and soft air of the autumn morning, and a fire roared in the hearth, making the room dim, stuffy, and nauseatingly hot.
The place was in chaos. A gray-haired woman in black satin hovered near the bed, waving ineffectually at a host of chambermaids in black dresses and winged white caps. The girls ran hither and yon with basins and towels, pillows and smelling salts, while from behind the gold-tasseled bed-curtains, the screams faded into whining complaints punctuated by great snuffles.
The gray-haired woman regarded me with dismay. “Well, where is the physician, then?”
“I know nothing of any physician. I’ve come to wait upon the duchess and the young duke. What’s the difficulty here?”
Another wail rose from the bed.
“You’re not with the physician?” The woman spoke as if she were sure I was mistaken or as if somehow it were my fault that I was not the person expected.
“No. But perhaps I could be of some help.”
“Has Ren Wesley come, Auntie?” came the voice from the bed. “Truly, I cannot get a breath.”
If breathing were the problem, I thought a clever application of the damper at the hearth and a brief wrestling match with the iron casements might improve the patient’s health considerably.
“It’s a stranger, my pet. Walked in bold as a thief. Says she’s here to see you and the young duke, but she’s not with the physician.” The black-clad woman wagged a bony finger at me. “You’ve no business here, young woman. Leave or I shall call the guards.”
“I’ll die before he comes, Auntie. I shall expire with only you and the servants and this thief to attend me. I shall die here in this wretched house and what will become of Gerick, then?”
The old woman poked her head between the bed-curtains. “Now, now, child. It is quite possible you will die, but you will have me beside you every moment.”
“Where is the damnable physician? And where is that cursed Delsy who was to bring me brandy?”
I made my way through the fluttering maids to the side of the bed and peered over the old woman’s shoulder. She was dabbing a towel on the brow of a round-faced young woman, whose fluffy white bed gown made her look like a great hen, roosting in a nest of pillows so large an entire flock of geese must have sacrificed their feathers for them. Long fair hair was piled atop her head; teasing curls and wisps floated about her pink, tear-streaked cheeks. I saw nothing to explain the mortal predictions I’d heard, though the thin red coverlet couldn’t hide the fact that my sister-in-law was most assuredly with child. I doubted Tomas had even known.
I nudged the bed-curtain open a little wider. “Excuse my intruding unannounced, Philomena. When I heard your call, I came up straightaway. May I offer assistance?”
“Moon of Jerrat!” The young woman removed the handkerchief and stared at me with her great green eyes, all present agonies seemingly forgotten in shock and recognition. My brother and I had resembled each other closely. And she’d seen me often enough.
My long estrangement from my brother Tomas had never allowed me to become acquainted with his wife. Only in my ten years of exile after my husband’s execution, when I was forced to appear once each year before the king and his courtiers to renew the parole that spared my life, had I met her face to face. Each year during that ritual humiliation, my giggling sister-in-law had used the public questioning to pose the most vulgar and intimate queries.
I reminded myself that I had not come to Comigor for Philomena, only for the boy. “I sent word,” I said. “I promised Tomas I’d come. Are you ill?”
“Who is this woman, child?” asked the woman in black, scowling at me. “What kind of impudent person disturbs a poor widow so near death from her travail?
“Well, I’m no thief and assuredly no stranger to this house,” I said. And the invalid looked nowhere near death, though I didn’t insult either of the ladies by saying so.
Philomena poked out her rosy lower lip. Her tears flowed freely, though exactly what sentiments induced them remained a question. “Tomas said he’d never lose a match, that I’d never be left alone in this vile place. Bad enough he was forever away, but at least he would take me to Montevial in the winter. And now I’m so ill, and it’s just as well I should die, for by the time this is over, it will be almost spring. I shall be fat and ugly and everyone at court will have forgotten me. Curse him forever!”
With every shuddering sob Philomena set the twittering chambermaids aflutter like a flock of birds disturbed by a prowling cat.
“Oh, my sweet girl,” said the old woman, patting Philomena’s coverlet. “You must calm yourself or the child will be disfigured, even if you should manage to bring it alive this time.”
Philomena howled. Half the maids wailed in unison with their mistress.
Neither affection nor sympathy persuaded me to take charge of the sickroom, but only purest pragmatism. If I couldn’t speak with Philomena in a rational manner, then I couldn’t discharge my obligation and get on with my life.
It was my duty—and my wish—to tell Tomas’s wife and son how he had died with the honor befitting the Duke of Comigor, the Champion of Leire, the finest swordsman in the Four Realms. No matter now that he had never been intended to survive the battle that took his life, that he had been a pawn in a much larger game than the challenge of some petty chieftain to his king. No matter that his hand was fouled with the blood of those I most loved. In the end, set free of his madness, he had asked my forgiveness, and his last thoughts had been of his son. I had promised him I would tell the boy of his regard. In some way I did not yet fully understand, the enchantments that had corrupted my brother’s life had been my responsibility, and I liked to think that fulfilling his last wish might in some measure repay him for what had been done to him.
“Look here, madam,” I said to the old woman, drawing her
away from the bed, “this excitement is doing your niece no good. And you yourself look exhausted. I’m a relation of the late duke—family, just as you are—and I’d be happy to look after Her Grace while you take a rest. For her sake, you must take care of yourself, must you not? Take you to your room for an hour. I promise to call you at the slightest difficulty.”
“Why I could never—Who do you—?”
I caught the arm of a passing maid and ordered her to escort Philomena’s aunt to her chamber, seat herself outside it, and wait upon the lady’s every whim. I then commanded the hovering attendants out of the room, sending one to make broth to be brought only at my call, another to polish all the glassware in the house in case the physician was to need it, and one to count the clean linen for when it might be wanted. Only one quiet girl called Nancy did I keep with me. I asked Nancy to hang up my cloak, open a window, and keep everyone out of the room so her mistress could rest. Then I pulled up a chair to the side of the huge bed and waited.
It was not surprising that my sister-in-law was difficult. Her father was the Chancellor of Leire. A political marriage that obliged her to live in a place as removed from court as Comigor would seem like slow death for a pampered young woman reared amid the royal intrigues and scandals of Montevial.
After a brief interval of steadily decreasing moaning, Philomena took a shaking breath and looked about. “Where is everyone?” she sniffed.
“I told them that their highest duty was to serve you, and that they’d serve you best by giving you room to breathe. Now tell me what’s the matter. You’re not giving birth, nor look even close to it.”