Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
Epilogue
The Om’ray of Cersi
The Finest in DAW Science Fiction
from JULIE E. CZERNEDA:
Stratification:
REAP THE WILD WIND (#1)
Species Imperative:
SURVIVAL (#1)
MIGRATION (#2)
REGENERATION (#3)
IN THE COMPANY OF OTHERS
Web Shifters:
BEHOLDER’S EYE (#1)
CHANGING VISION (#2)
HIDDEN IN SIGHT (#3)
The Trade Pact Universe:
A THOUSAND WORDS FOR STRANGER (#1)
TIES OF POWER (#2)
TO TRADE THE STARS (#3)
Copyright © 2007 by Julie E. Czerneda.
All Rights Reserved.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1413.
DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead
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First Printing, September 2007
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To Michael Gilbert
There are people you never forget, no matter how long you knew them, or how much time you spent together. They claim their place in your heart, and your life is better for it.
This book, published on the tenth anniversary of my first and prequel to that same story, is the one I’ve intended for several years to be for such an unforgettable person. Michael Gilbert. Mike, you see, was the first at DAW to read my work. He took it from the slush and recommended it. He opened the door for my career. And more.
I didn’t realize then what being published by DAW meant, but Mike set me straight. During my first months as a new, unknown author, he never let me forget I was a new, unknown author. He also never let me forget I was now part of the DAW family, so it didn’t matter how new or unknown I was. I’d been adopted. Long chats on the phone, always warm hospitality, and those fat envelopes of wonderful cartoons Mike created—to which I owe much of my knowledge of publishing and fear of long-haired women wielding bats. Or was that deadlines?
It was a proud moment indeed when I earned my own sturdy box (recycled Canadian pulp, of course) from the talented, memorable Mike.
Thank you, Mike.
Acknowledgments
Ten years since I wrote the first of these. Looking back at it? It’s essentially the same list today: the wonderful people at DAW, my friends and partners, especially Sheila Gilbert; my family and friends; my colleagues and peers. Luis? For all this time, you’ve turned what I write into amazing visions. Thank you.
My life and work since has been enriched by more people than I could possibly name. I remain humbled by the response of readers to the story of Sira and Morgan, my first story. I hope you enjoy revisiting that setting. This is, in many ways, for you.
Each book has its own helpers. This has been a more family-oriented project than most. I’d like to thank Bryan, Colin, and Philip Czerneda for advice on metalworking; Scott Czerneda for plot discussions; Jennifer Czerneda for names and my model for hard work no matter what, and my Roger, for the chemistry of combustion, as well as for supporting me in every way, including fresh baked cookies at timely moments. Happy 30th again!
The following read manuscript for me and provided critical comment: Jana Paniccia, Janet Chase, Jihane Billacois (who also helped proof), Ruth Stuart, and Shannan Palma. Thanks, ladies! I’d also like to thank my hosts over the past year for wonderful events, in particular: Ad Astra, Southern Ontario Librarians Association, CACE-Ottawa, Toronto Trek 20, Armadillocon, World Fantasy Film Festival, Astronomicon, and the Barrie Public Library (Hi Mary!).
Last, but not least. Sir David Attenborough and all those who show us this world’s wonders. What . . . you thought I made all it up?
Enjoy!
Prelude
THE M’HIR WIND BEGAN OUT of sight, out of mind. It stirred first where baked sand met restless surf. It became fitful and petulant as it passed over the barrens, moving dunes and scouring stone. Sometimes it sighed and curled back on itself, as if absentminded. But it never stilled.
It only grew.
By the time the land raised its wall, the M’hir was a steady howl, wide as the horizon and heavy with power. Dust and sand marked its leading edge; thunder and lightning heralded its approach. It rushed into the mountain range, screaming through canyons until rock cracked from the sound. But the land would not be denied, forcing the M’hir up and up until the wind became chill and sullen and pregnant with cloud.
Rain came to the slopes; violent, driven rain that carved gullies and tumbled boulders. It washed everything from its path until, spent, it sprawled across the desert as thousands of dark, twisting rivulets that were sucked into the parched earth. Life ignited. For days and days to come, this place would bloom and crawl and flutter, turning the M’hir’s grudging gift into color and motion.
The M’hir itself roared up the mountains, what remained of its moisture released in blizzards of white. It ripped clouds as it crested the summits, then plunged.
Stripped of its moisture, heated as its air compressed, the M’hir Wind raced down the far side of the mountain range, faster and faster, its searing breath about to fall on new lands.
No longer out of sight, or out of mind, to those who waited; the first dry hot gusts of the M’hir signaled summer’s end and the Harvest.
If you were brave enough to climb.
Chapter 1
OLD, THESE MOUNTAINS. Old and beaten and scoured, until they were more a tangle of sharp ridges than peaks. The ridges plunged like greedy fingers into the swamplands owned by the Tikitik. Those swamplands, themselves an immense grove braided with open water and reedbed, extended from the mountains to the horizon; beyond, should any care, lay the sere plains and parallel mounds of the Oud. For Cersi was a world meticulously divided and ruled.