Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  GLOSSARY

  Teaser chapter

  THE CRITICS RAVE ABOUT C.S. FRIEDMAN

  “Friedman writes cogently on the nature of human

  desire for knowledge and the dangerous covenants

  necessary to attain it.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Truly one of the great voices of speculative fiction . . . The

  sheer imaginative genius, not to mention incredible power, of

  Ms. Friedman’s formidable storytelling gift is indescribable—

  you simply just have to experience it.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Some of the best writing I have seen in quite a

  while. . . . Very highly recommended.”

  —Science Fiction Review

  “An ambitious first novel. This is space opera with brains.”

  —Locus on In Conquest Born

  “Space opera in the best sense: a combination of high-stakes

  adventure with a strong focus on ideas, and characters whose

  fate an intelligent reader can care about.”

  —Newsday on IN CONQUEST BORN

  “A debut of extraordinary power and awesome beauty.”

  —Rave Reviews on IN CONQUEST BORN

  “Exceptionally imaginative and compelling . . .”

  —Publishers Weekly on THE MADNESS SEASON

  “. . . one of the most intriguingly conceived alien species to be

  come across in all SF.”

  —Asimov on THE MADNESS SEASON

  “For those who like to explore the caverns of the mind, the

  journey is rewarding.

  —Kliatt on THE MADNESS SEASON

  “Hauntingly memorable protagonists, high drama, and vivid

  world building mark what promise to be a magnum opus of

  the imagination.”

  —Library Journal on BLACK SUN RISING

  “Friedman has always been notable for the complex quirky

  detail work that makes her worlds fascinatingly memorable

  places to visit, and this is no exception. The style is lyric and

  fanciful, with arresting imagery.”

  —Locus on BLACK SUN RISING

  “a pretty good mystery wrapped in an adventure story and set

  against an original and often fascinating background.”

  —Science Fiction Chronicle on WHEN TRUE NIGHT FALLS

  “Secures Friedman’s reputation both as a gifted storyteller

  and an innovative creator.”

  —Library Journal on WHEN TRUE NIGHT FALLS

  “Stunning . . . combines good historical world-building,

  vampires, religion, and transcendence in a tale that is both

  entertaining and cathartic. . . . a feast for those who like their

  fantasies dark, and as emotionally heady as a rich, red wine.”

  —Locus on CROWN OF SHADOWS

  “Here are Friedman’s usual virtues: plenty of action,

  brisk pacing, and characters and settings painted with

  broad strokes and vivid colors.”

  —Booklist on CROWN OF SHADOWS

  “Friedman keeps her tale moving at a vigorous pace that’s

  boosted through an abundance of well-chosen details . . . it is

  likely to hold readers’ interest tenaciously. The ending neither

  requires nor precludes a sequel, so readers are left with some

  hope of again encountering Jamisia and the duel between the

  Guild and Earth that backdrops her adventures.”

  —Publishers Weekly on THIS ALIEN SHORE

  “Once again Ms. Friedman offers us great richness in both

  concept and detail, ingeniously weaving together two strong

  plotlines and piquant characters into a superior reading

  experience.”

  —Romantic Times on THIS ALIEN SHORE

  “Breathlessly plotted, emotionally savvy.”

  —The New York Times on THIS ALIEN SHORE

  Novels by

  C. S. Friedman

  available from DAW Books:

  IN CONQUEST BORN

  THE WILDING*

  THE MADNESS SEASON

  THIS ALIEN SHORE

  The Coldfire Trilogy

  BLACK SUN RISING

  WHEN TRUE NIGHT FALLS

  CROWN OF SHADOWS

  *forthcoming in hardcover

  Copyright © 1986, 2001 by C. S. Friedman.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 707.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Putnam Inc.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-15729-9

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  First Printing, May 1987

  First Printing, Anniversary Edition, November 2001

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN USA

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To my parents and my brother,

  whose pride makes it all worth doing.

  And to my new sister Kim,

  who is just crazy enough to

  love us all.

  Once Upon a Time . . .

  An Editor and an Author went out to a fancy French restaurant to discuss the Author’s manuscript. It was the first time they had ever met, and both were somewhat uneasy.

  The Editor thought: What kind of person is this? How do I approach her? Will she take it well if I suggest a few changes to her manuscript, or is she going to run away to some swamp and threaten me with a shotgun each time I tell her the plot needs fixing? Is there another book in her, or is this a one-shot deal? How do I ask questions like that without tripping over some unseen obstacle of ego and ruining the relationship?

  The Author thought: What kind of person is this? How do I talk to her? Should I just tell her outright that I don’t have a problem rewriting part of the manuscript, or is that the kind of thing professionals don’t blurt out? Is she going to trust me to do my own rewriting, or will I have to watch someone else alter my text? Do the fine points of professional etiquette really matter here, or can we both admit that I’m out of my element right now, and focus on the work itself?

  The single moment seemed to stretch into eternity. In the distance, down the corridor of time, the Editor could hear the songs of her ancestors, desert warriors who had broken bread with men and women of diverse cultures and never lost their focus. Knowledge stirred in her blood, of customs so primitive that they spoke to the human soul, not in words, but in instinct. Customs that could bring strangers together by focusing upon the rudiments of life, rather than the complexities of protocol.

  The desert wind blew hot in her hair as she looked up at the Author and said, “I hope you don’t mind if I pig out. I haven’t eaten all morning.”

  She could see the words being taken in, considered. She knew the desert winds blew for this one as well. Would she understand?

  The Author met the Editor’s gaze head on. “I hope you don’t mind if I pig out,” she said. “I haven’t eaten all morning.”

  And thus was a partnership born.

  Introduction

  I never intended to get published.

  Honest.

  The work you hold in your hands started out as a private project, something I wrote for myself, and at best a few special friends. It is the result of school days so boring that I had to write fiction during classes to keep my sanity. Work days so tense that I had to write when I got home, to relax. Other days so . . . well . . . any excuse would do. I had to write, you see. That’s not a choice, for some, but a condition. A hunger as visceral, as demanding, as the need for food or sex. Words build up inside you, they have to be let out. They have to have the proper form, too. It doesn’t matter if your master’s thesis is due the next day; if a chapter of a science fiction novel is screaming inside your brain to be let out, that has to come first. Else the passageway will be all blocked up, and no other creative juices are going to flow.

  (And yes, I really did write a chapter for this book the night before my master’s thesis was due.)

  Where does it come from, this terrible muse? Perhaps from the father who showed me that writing was an experience full of wonders, who taught me that there was no greater pleasure than the crafting of a perfect sentence. He was a technical writer, and therefore worked within mundane worlds, not the fantastic ones his daughter would soon explore. He would say of himself, if asked, that he was not a true artist, simply a craftsman. But what a craftsman! I
remember the nights when he would come out of his office to read us some sentence—or maybe just a turn of phrase that he had crafted—in which rhythm and meaning were so finely tuned that it was like music to him . . . and it seemed, when he read it to us, that it was music to us as well.

  For sharing that music, my father, I thank you.

  So I wrote. I created worlds, and they grew as I grew, and the stories I set in them began to take on larger scope. Once or twice I showed them to friends. The friends were enthusiastic, and urged me to seek publication. But I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t good enough yet, not in my own eyes. Perhaps I wasn’t hungry enough.

  And then, one night, it happened. I had come home from a stressful workday of fourteen hours and couldn’t sleep. I sat down at my typewriter to let off some creative steam, and the words just began to flow. Long, long into the night, until time was forgotten. Miles past exhaustion, into the hours before dawn when creativity is at its sharpest and the muse at its most demanding.

  Thirty pages.

  When I was done I sat back and just stared at those pages. I could still hear the music of the language in my brain, I could still taste the imagery of the story. Even in first draft form, the chapter sang to me. And I knew, in that moment, that I had crossed some unnamed line. My writing was ready. If I ever wanted to publish, it was time to try.

  (For those who are curious, that’s chapter eleven of the book you now hold in your hand.)

  Would that have been enough by itself? Maybe not. Fortunately I had a friend who had been watching my non-career for years, and who had served as my main cheerleader every time I toyed with the concept of publishing. I called him to tell him what I had discovered about my own work, and he said I was a damned fool for not figuring it out earlier, and that he knew someone at DAW Books and if I could get the book to him by the end of the summer he’d see to it himself that it got the attention it deserved. That was Rick Umbaugh, and without his steadfast friendship and ungentle persuasions this book might never have come into being.

  One summer. How easy a thing it seems now, in this world of word processors! Far more daunting then, given the size of the manuscript. I barely scraped together enough money for a Radio Shack computer and cassette deck. There wasn’t any kind of indexing, you had to listen to the bleeps on the tape until there was a pause and then start it up to see what section you were in. God help you if you lost track of what was where on the tape. Was that only eighteen years ago? Now I have a word processor that shows me dancing paper clips if it thinks I need help, and getting it to leave my sci-fi spelling alone is a task unto itself.

  I worked hard, that summer. Harder than I have ever worked in my life. Taking the fictional output of a decade or more and trimming it, tightening it, giving it focus. No time for writer’s block or any other excuse. When it was all done and I packed it up for Rick, I put a page on top of the cover page just for him, and scrawled across it in black magic marker, in a hand that shook from exhaustion, I AM NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN!

  I meant it, too.

  I didn’t find out until years later that he left that first page on top of the manuscript when he delivered it to DAW—that the first words of mine Donald Wollheim ever saw were the scribbled vow that I would never write another novel.

  He clearly knew it for the nonsense it was. So did his daughter, Betsy Wollheim, who loved words as much as I did, and who taught me that an editor’s input could sometimes be the most powerful inspiration of all. Her first child was born the same time this book came out, and I’ve always felt as if we gave birth to our first kids together. (Wave hello to the readers, Zoe!)

  That’s the book you hold in your hands now. And it is my pleasure to add to it a few things which I wanted to include originally, but which lost out to publishing schedules and sheer authorial exhaustion. I hope the music of the text speaks to you as powerfully as it spoke to me back then.

  —Celia S. Friedman

  Sterling, Virginia

  April 2001

  For ease of comprehension in the English text, all Braxin words have been rendered in the Basic Mode regardless of context.

  ONE

  1

  Beginning

  He stands like a statue, perfect in arrogance. Because his people love bright colors he wears only gray and black; because they revere comfort, he is dressed uncomfortably. His people are flamboyant, and display their bodies with aggressive sexuality; he is entirely concealed by his costume. Tight-fitting gloves and boots cover his extremities and a high collar conceals his neck. His skin is as pale as human skin can be, but even that is not enough—cosmetics have been layered over his natural complexion until a mask of white conceals his skin from the prying eyes of commoners. Only his hair is uncovered, a rich mass of true black, as eloquent as a crown in proclaiming his right to power. It is moderate in length because another people, enemy to his own, wear their hair long; his beard and mustache are likewise traditional—the men of that other race do not have facial hair.

  He is very tired. And he will not show it.

  The tiny shuttle spirals downward, from the orbiting Citadel to the center of Braxi’s largest continent. Inside there is only one compartment; Vinir shares it with his servant, who operates the vehicle. For the lesser man’s benefit he maintains the image of racial superiority which is as much a part of him as the black and gray he always wears and the ancestral sword at his side. Let the servant observe that he is not tired—he is never tired—the situation does not exist which can tire him. Now and then he catches the man glancing at him, when he thinks he is not being observed. What is he wondering now? Vinir muses. Is the man human after all? Or perhaps: Can it be true that we are members of the same race? The answer to either question will, hopefully, be negative.

  “If you desire to sit, Lord. . . .”

  “I am content.”

  In truth, he is exhausted. His nation, embracing war at every opportunity, is less than efficient during peacetime, and in such periods the government is the most crippled of all. This day was bad enough, trying to sort out domestic problems without the excuse of military priority to use when it was convenient. Then, just as the Kaim’eri were about to leave, Miyar chose to introduce the current Peace for review. That meant at least a tenth of dreary emotional confrontations and a thorough rehashing of historic precedent before they could even begin to discuss the real issue: when—and how—the current treaty with Azea should be broken.

  Fools! Vinir thinks. Someday the moment will be right, so unexpected or so profitable that we will know, simply know, the time has come. That’s how we’ve always functioned—why pretend that it’s different?

  It is very late. Vinir is grateful when the shuttle slows to a perfect landing outside his house. He nods his approval to the pilot and steps with false vitality down from the shuttle. Not long now, and then he can rest.

  The Mistress of his House is waiting, as is her custom, to greet him as he passes through the forehouse and into the great entrance foyer which separates public edifice from private domain. She has a cut-gold vial in one hand and a cord of rings in the other, and hands him the former without word. He removes the stopper from the vial and drinks its contents. Immediately the mild restorative begins to take effect; he feels the exhaustion of the day loosen its hold on him.

  “Records?” she asks.

  He nods. “I’ll go over them.”

  She spills the handful of golden rings into his upturned palm. In the old days it was his custom to review the state of his household each night when he returned to its confines; now, with peace slowing his work to a painful crawl, there are nights when he lacks the energy to give it the attention it deserves.