Crystal Fire
Contents
RAVE REVIEWS FOR KATHLEEN MORGAN'S ROMANCES:
"Filled with exciting adventures and memorable characters,
Crystal Fire
is a not-to-be-missed read!"
Romantic Times
"Kathleen Morgan's
Demon Prince
will delight and captivate medieval fans everywhere. . .an absolute joy to read!"
The Medieval Chronicle
"Every futuristic romance reader should have Kathleen Morgan's books on their shelves!"
Romantic Times
"
Firestar
is another winner from a very talented, innovative writer!"
Affaaire de Coeur
.
THE PRICE OF LOVE
"Even you must have your price."
"Yes, Marissa, I suppose I do," Brace growled, his voice vibrating with cold fury. "My freedom. I'd do anything for my freedom."
"And what about my needs? What about Cassandra's freedom?"
He eyed her, something snapping within him. Curse her for being the alluring woman she was in spite of it all! Let her just once feel some of the same frustration and confusion he felt!
"Well, there can be a price for that, too," Brace replied, as a challenge that he knew Marissa wouldn't dare take formed in his mind. "But have a care. You won't like paying it."
"Won't I?" she jeered. "And what could it possible take to buy a coward's backbone?"
His glance slid down the length of her body, and a bewildering mix of rage and lust flooded him. "Mate with me. Then perhaps I'll reconsider."
Leisure
and
Love Spell
Books
by Kathleen Morgan:
DEMON PRINCE
FIRESTAR
HEART'S LAIR
THE KNOWING CRYSTAL
CHILD OF THE MIST
To Alicia Condon, an editor with the courage and vision to take a chance on a new genre and give it her wholehearted support.
You've allowed me to stretch, to soar, and to fulfill at last my heart's desire.
And to Anne Avery, a talented writer and dear friend.
Thanks for keeping me on the "straight and narrow," which I have a tendency to veer off of at every opportunity.
This book is so much better for your insightful and generous input.
November 1995
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
276 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10001
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen properly. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
Copyright © 1992 by Kathleen Morgan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
The name "Love Spell" and its logo are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
"Aeiii . . . aeiii . . ."
The mournful keening swirled about the room, grating on Marissa Laomede's tightly strung nerves. Finally she could bear it no longer. She whirled about, confronting the huddled group of maidservants.
"Must you go on so?" Marissa demanded through gritted teeth. "It'll do Candra no good. Be silent, I say!"
"Pardon, Domina. We beg pardon," quavered one of the servants, using the feminine term of ultimate respect.
The old, scraggly-haired woman climbed to her feet. "We tried to protect our Holy Woman. Truly we did, but they were males"
"Yes, males," Marissa interjected bitterly, "and none of you had the courage to go against them. You'd never defy a male, would you, no matter how cruel or unjust their cause? But these weren't even our kind. How
could
you let them take my sister?"
Tears spilled onto the old woman's cheeks. Her lips trembled. She sank back to her knees Marissa grimaced and turned from them. They were all a pitiful, weak-spirited lottypical Moracan females. With every sol rise she was more and more glad to no longer be a part of them. Yet it was still strange, after over nine long cycles, to be back. If not for Candra's psychic plea, a plea of terror and sheer desperation, Marissa would not be here now. Here, back home, a home no longer hers . . .
She had been but a girl of eleven cycles, standing on the threshold of womanhood, linked by a special love and bonding to her twin sister, Candra. Yet that very specialness was also the source of her painful exile.
Female twins were both an abomination and benediction on the planet Moraca. By ancient tradition, one twin was always born a Traveler, possessor of the rare genetic ability to mentally traverse and change the physical composition of solid objects. That ancient power, its true purpose shrouded in the mists of time, was revered. But, by that same tradition, the other twin must eventually be cast out to die.
Marissa shook off the haunting recollection of the morn when she was torn forcibly from Candra's embrace, the psychic pain of separation far worse than the physical one could ever be. The memories of the bitter sols and dark, lonely noctes tied to that stone post on Mount Desolat, of the cold, the hunger, had faded long ago. She remembered clearly only the moment the Sodalitas had found her.
The outcast warrior women had taken Marissa in, hidden her from the wrath of her people until it was too late to matter. And though the emotional link with her sister had never waned, Marissa had thought she had put the past behind her, had accepted the fact she'd never see Candra again. But this new, disturbing psychic disconnection with her sister . . .
It was more forceful, more painful than ever before, this certainty that Candra was now far from Moraca. For some unknown reason, a mysterious group of males had stolen her away.
Males, Marissa thought, her loathing once again burgeoning to full-fledged hatred. Males were the source of all chaos and cruelty. They were the law-givers, the ones who kept all females shackled by rules and traditions.
They
were the ones who had cast her out when it was finally determined that Candra, and not she, was the Traveler . . .
Tentatively, a bony hand touched her arm. Marissa's blue-green eyes swung to those of the old scraggly-haired woman.
"P-pardon, Domina." The maid offered Marissa a scrap of paper. "A maletheir leaderleft this. H-he said to give it to you. That you'd know what to do."
Marissa accepted the missive and scanned the flamboyant script. The words were simple and few. Their cryptic meaning stirred an angry, fearful frustration.
Somehow, someway, she knew their bidding called her to a quest she was loath to followa quest that would forever change her and the comfortable life she had finally managed to build with the Sodalitas. And Marissa didn't like that. Didn't like it at all.
But what choice had she? Candra needed her.
She crumpled the note and shoved it beneath her domare-hide jerkin and into her tunic pocket. The male was correct. She knew what to do.
Her cycles with the Sodalitas had prepared her well. Once past puberty, Marissa had no longer been in danger from her people. It had then been safe to reveal her true identity, to come and go as freely as any other Sodalitas.
She had risen quickly through the ranks of the militant society to become one of its finest warriors. Her reputation had spread far beyond Moraca, and she'd been hired out successfully several times in the past few cycles, her fees handsomely fattening the Society's coffers.
No, she thought grimly, there was no doubt in her mind. She indeed knew what to do.
Marissa turned from the scene of impotent mourning and strode from the room, her purpose clear, her resolve hard. The single line, however, shimmered in her mind. With each step the message pounded through her skull, taunting her . . . haunting her . . .
Bring me Brace Ardane
, it said.
Brace slammed against the rough stone wall. The air expelled from his lungs with a low, agonized grunt. For a fleeting instant he shoved back into the jagged rocks in an effort to remain standing, gasping desperately for breath. Then the pain surged through him. His legs buckled and he slid to the floor.
''Get up, Ardane," a harsh voice grated. "It's your choice, after all. Either recant or suffer the consequences."
Bright lights swirled before Brace's eyes in a dizzying kaleidoscope of color. Nausea roiled in his gut. And he hurt. Gods, he hurt so badly he wanted to scream. He struggled to rise, but the strength eluded him.
"Fool!" the man above him snarled. "Stupid, stubborn fool!"
A hand ensnared his hair. With a powerful tug, Brace was jerked to his knees. His head was wrenched back until he stared up through swollen, bleary eyes into the pitiless face of Mardoc, his newest jailer. Brace knew what was coming. He struggled futilely in his bonds but the beryllium shackles held. "You'll not win this time, Ardane. The High King has finally tired of your obstinacy." Mardoc smiled. "Your past jailers were too soft, too kind. They didn't know how to 'persuade' like I do. But you'll not cheat me out of my five thousand imperials."
He bent Brace's head further back to a painfully awkward angle. "Well, what will it be? Will you recant your disobedience? Money is quite fine, but I gain equal pleasure in torture. Either way, I win."
Gazing up at him, at the cold, glittering light of anticipation in his eyes, Brace knew the man spoke true. There was nothing ahead but endless torment. And he was so tired, so weak, so very hungry after sols of near starvation. What was the point of going on? What had he ever hoped to prove?
With a grim smile, Mardoc raised his huge fist. Brace tensed, girding himself for the blow to come, but it did little good. Pain exploded in his jaw. The world splintered into blackness, then white-hot agony.
He wanted to die.
Mardoc released his hold. Brace fell forward, his gut in spasms, the gorge rising in his throat. He dry-heaved onto the moss flower-covered stones. Finally the nausea passed, but he remained there, doubled over, damp-faced and panting.
With a disgusted growl Mardoc kicked him hard in the side, sending him sprawling. The man walked over to a stool and sat down. A small, satisfied grin touched his lips.
"Thinking about things, are you?" he inquired coolly. "Well, I'm a man of infinite patience. Take a few secundae to mull it over. I know how hard these decisions of honor can be."
Honor. Was that what this was all about? Brace wondered groggily. Somehow, in all the pain, he'd lost track of that. Strange. He'd thought it but a battle of wills . . .
Honor
.
Ah yes, he remembered now. That futile, foolish ideal that had inspired him to stand before the King's High Council over two cycles ago and defy the sentencing of his brother and their old teacher to death on the planet Carcer. That futile, foolish ideal . . .
But there was no honor left on Bellator. Indeed, there was no remnant of integrity or decency left in their entire Imperium of planets. The loss of the Knowing Crystal had seen to that. But that had been hundreds of cycles ago. And reality was now, in this stone-damp prison cell, in the hands of a man who sat but a few meters from himwatching, waiting.