Lords of Rainbow Read online

  Imagine a world without color, illuminated by a gray sun . . .

  An unrequited love . . .

  War . . . mystery . . . exultation . . .

  An epic fantasy of unspeakable wonder . . .

  Praise for . . .

  Lords of Rainbow

  “In a world devoid of color, the woman warrior Ranhé swears herself to a mysterious nobleman traveling to the exotic city of Tronaelend-Lis, the City of Dreams, where a decadent brother and sister rule as co-regents in the absence of the land’s true ruler. When an evil being representing true Darkness threatens the safety of the colorless world, Ranhé is drawn into a spiritual journey in search of a legendary phenomenon known as Rainbow in an attempt to find a way to defeat the dark. The author of Dreams of the Compass Rose brings to life a unique fantasy world in which lost colors hold the key to salvation. Nazarian’s fluid storytelling and vividly drawn characters make this unusual fantasy a good choice for most libraries.”

  — Library Journal

  “Nazarian creates a unique civilization and populates it with heroic archetypes who stand on their own. Extravagant language reminiscent of Dunsany and even Tolkien adds to the legendary feel. . . . an innovative premise, consistent world-building, and appealing heroes mark this as the work of an emerging talent . . . readers may find themselves heralding a new star of fantasy fiction.”

  — Romantic Times Book Club

  “To read Vera Nazarian’s Lords of Rainbow is to be immersed in a dream, wandering through a wondrous, shifting landscape where the sun shines silver and the world is rendered in an infinite palette of subtle grays, filled with glimpses of sublime loveliness and glorious color.”

  — Jacqueline Carey, author of Kushiel’s Dart

  “. . . like all of Vera’s stories—strange, poignant, and exquisite. . . . her novel about a world without color—strange when what she writes is so colorful.”

  — Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “In Lords of Rainbow, a current of liquid prosody carries us deep into the heart of an exotic city—and deep into the heart of an extraordinary woman. But every character is a vibrant revelation in this luscious, variegated realm of light and shadow. All emotion rings true in this place, and all truths shine with prismatic complexity. At once brutal and tender, transcendent and visceral, Nazarian’s lush fable enthralls.”

  — Terry McGarry, author of Illumination

  “Vera Nazarian’s second novel, Lords of Rainbow, is a delight, full of the rich imagery, the humor, lyricism, adventure, insight, and delicious eastern fairy tale flavor that readers first met in Dreams of the Compass Rose. Nazarian gives us a tale wove out of color—unpredictable, funny, wise, and always entertaining. She’s a talent to watch.”

  — Sherwood Smith, author of Crown Duel

  “Nazarian’s world is not a typical fantasy setting—it’s set in a world that didn’t know color until the appearance of a strange new sun. Her story is filled with adventure but it also works on a much less physical level, with very strong characterization and an almost poetic feel to the prose . . . I suspect that weeks from now the images that I retain will be from Nazarian’s bizarre otherworld.”

  — Science Fiction Chronicle

  “I found myself aching to read the book again after I had finished it. The style is new and fresh in the fantasy genre, it breaks fundamental rules with wild abandon and carries it off superbly.”

  — Donna Jones, SFCrowsnest.com

  “Lords of Rainbow is an enjoyable read with surprising character twists and vivid, although black and white, description . . . it’s a book that pulls you in and makes you believe in a real monochrome world and a fantasy that grabs you and takes you away.”

  — Shirley Gibson Coleman, SF Romance Online

  “Vividly described in rich prose that entrances like a magic spell, Lords of Rainbow will resonate with readers like the stories of childhood. It is not only prefaced with a lovely and accessible poem, it also reads like poetry. Thus, when taken as fable, there is much in this book to love. For in the end, we find a twisted Cinderella tale where an ugly, common girl can be elevated by noble spirit, and a city can be transformed by magic.”

  — Stephanie Dray, Strange Horizons

  “The novel therefore works on three levels—it is simultaneously an examination of the nature of faith, of the nature of power, and of the relationship shared between those two things; and in these examinations, with a story set against foreboding conflict, Vera Nazarian finds great potency and great relevance to the world we live in today, despite the unfamiliar, haunting, and ultimately unforgettable locale of her tale.”

  — Daniel James Wood, The Green Man Review

  “But no mere words of mine can convey the experience of reading Lords of Rainbow. Just believe me, and read.”

  — John Grant, Crescent Blues

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in an imaginary manner to entertain, and any resemblance to any real people, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.

  LORDS OF RAINBOW

  Or the Book of Fulfillment

  Vera Nazarian

  Copyright © 2003 by Vera Nazarian

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover Design Copyright © 2011 by Vera Nazarian

  Cover Art Details:

  “Madame Hippolyte Flandrin,” by Jean Hippolyte Flandrin, 1846; “Jonathan’s Token to David,” by Lord Frederick Leighton c.1868; “Portrait Of A Young Man With A Dog And A Cat,” by Dosso Dossi (1490-1542); “Main street of Samarkand from the height of the citadel, early morning,” by Vasily Vasilyevich Vereshchagin, 1869-1870; “Sunset, North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany” by Dahola, 11-03-2009.

  Electronic Edition

  October 15, 2011

  A Publication of

  Norilana Books

  P. O. Box 209

  Highgate Center, VT 05459-0209

  http://www.norilana.com/

  United States of America

  Lords of Rainbow

  Or the Book of Fulfillment

  Norilana Books

  Fantasy

  www.norilana.com

  DEDICATION

  For Marion Zimmer Bradley,

  with love and respect.

  In Memoriam

  1930-1999

  LORDS OF RAINBOW

  Or the Book of Fulfillment

  Vera Nazarian

  First came Werail of passion red,

  Then Melixevven full of joy

  That gave the orange tint to things.

  The third was radiant Dersenne

  With yellow light of sacrament;

  Then Fiadolmle, young and free,

  Embodying all birth in green;

  Koerdis shone with blue of truth,

  And violet love was Laelith.

  Yet far the greatest of them all

  Was bright Andelas who ruled white.

  For they were all a part of him,

  Until the Rainbow fell.

  PROLOGUE

  You!

  Yes, you, with the bright eyes. I offer you a mystery in a series of veils. You will lift them up, seemingly without end, until you come to the center.

  Lifting the first, outer veil, you see the sun. It is steel and silver. It begins to sink like an old ship through the churning mass of cloud and mist, casting half-light.

  There, can you see it?

  Yes, that is sunset. Hard to believe, but you must recognize it for what it is.

  Molded from that poor light, the sunset methodically smears the sky. Soon, the whole world is drenched in it. Dull and blotched with gray leprosy, the sky is without a frame of reference.

  And now,
behold black. Ah, how rich it is, how utter and raw, as it begins to pull inward from all the sky-edges.

  Soon, black will wrap all of the sky in a parcel.

  Beneath the sky, chaos. Rock and tree limbs thread ascetic members into fathomless seething earth. Lesser things emerge past the roots of their greater wood-fleshed kin, and anemic shoots are sent to the sky. There is an unresolved hunger, a clamoring cry without sound.

  And now, you must blink. Clear the one illusory veil over your eyes.

  Can you see the motion?

  Good.

  It is the wind. One ghostly presence in a gray dream place.

  And there are others. Dark streaks of birds speed through warm milky vapor. Their form is variegated grayscale, and they produce sound. Whistle-notes carry far on the wind, and pierce you. They sail the low mists of the early evening, and sink in the high trees.

  All ephemeral. Dusk beginning to settle. Dusk is a web of mist and monochrome silver that erases lines between boundaries of contrast. Predecessor of absolute night.

  But you know something is wrong.

  Something is lacking. A singular essence.

  There is no color.

  Well?

  Did you think that was all? That I would give it all away before the Phoenix of your imagination had even a chance to lift its eyelids, ruffle its wings, and soar into the winds over this different world?

  You were wrong.

  So, listen. . . .

  PART I

  The Inn

  CHAPTER 1

  Ranhéas Ylir was alone in the wilderness, and she bristled with steel. There were twelve daggers hidden in impossible places about her body. At her waist was a sheathed thirteenth one intended to be seen. And at her left side, phallic, hung a prominent sword.

  Even in this remote place, they would think twice before challenging someone well-armed. But you must never reveal the full extent of your arsenal.

  And yet, up ahead there was that sound.

  She heard it rise in dissonance above the chord of living forest silence. It was a sound of the unknown; likely, it signified danger.

  But she was arrogant. She was Ranhéas Ylir, and she continued to ride along the path toward it.

  Or, maybe she just wanted to be hurt.

  The path was narrow, and the wild tangle of growth was all about, sharp skeletal branches just missing her face, trees arching overhead, graphic apparitions against a fading sky. Creatures moved in the heights, and occasionally she imitated their sound, humming. But her throat was parched, so soon enough her voice would fade into silence.

  The horse underneath her was a ghost, poured from shadows. The rider herself also seemed to vanish into the background—nothing but eyes in a mutable face, a blink, the manner of a quick darting bird. Her bleak hair was gathered into a braid, and tucked in nondescript darkness beneath the travel coat. Her jacket, trousers, and threadbare boots were of a vaguely masculine shape. Beggar dress.

  The sound coiled at the back of her mind.

  She noted the path ahead. It was dissolving. Within minutes, all vestiges of contrast would fade into the absolute night.

  There was no fear, only wary professional reflex. She was alert, ready, in her ever-present paranoia, an intensity of perception that never left her, never allowed her to underestimate the environment. For this was a remote place. And ahead was that sound.

  Listen . . .

  At first, only the cicadas on both sides of the trail.

  Then, like a filigree lacework of shadows, trees thinned before a clearing. Likely, a major road ahead. She slowed the horse to a near-silent walk, and continued forward.

  About a hundred feet in the distance, through the whirling mist, came human cries.

  They were oddly ritualized male high-pitched screams, shrill and emotionless. It triggered a memory, and she thought of the battle shrieks of known military groups—which one, she wasn’t sure yet. This was intermingled with several female cries, quickly muffled. Then, a clash of metal, more voices, most cut short abruptly.

  Choices danced in her thoughts.

  Temporarily lose the path and ride around this inconvenience. Of course, there might be an ambush off the path. Or else, ride ahead, and you may be in luck. A nest of the lawless, preying upon helpless travelers. These innocents might pay well for your interference just now.

  Or, here might be clan war. Or Guild war. Crossroads are notorious for such idiotic enactments.

  As she considered the options, the sounds of violence dwindled. That new silence caught her attention.

  A rhythm beginning in her temples, she urged her mount into a faster pace.

  Foolish bitch.

  The trees ended at a crossroads, where the trail merged with a wide, well-traveled road. The road receded like a ribbon of pure darkness against the variegated gray of the forest.

  Her heartbeat pounded, yet her posture appeared lazy.

  In the clearing somewhat off the road stood a fine closed carriage. Around it, a small battle was being fought to its near end. The forms were all silhouette, unreal against the low mists.

  A pale-cloaked rider. Half a dozen black figures. Surely, they were animated caricatures of some other reality. The other half of the dozen lay sprawled along the grass of the clearing, off the road. Masks covered faces. . . .

  Could it be?

  Bilhaar!

  The Assassin Guild itself.

  No, impossible. Look closer, idiot, look. You must look again, and for that reason you must approach. . . .

  The Guild is legend. It does not exist. It is an ephemeral dream of fear, a bit of illogic to fill a gnawing need for the occult in the minds of those who are weak.

  Ranhé was affected, quickened. She had to know.

  Bilhaar were purported to be deathless. They were, supposedly, like that intangible called black. They carried curiously hidden swords, and remained silent under any torture.

  Obviously idiocy. Black does not exist, and neither do Assassin Guilds. These creatures before her bled and died, and moved like human puppets do in times of combat.

  But she could not be sure. Not when there had been eyewitnesses to other Guild “activity,” elsewhere. If these were indeed Bilhaar, she would love to have the chance of finally seeing a living breathing Guildmember.

  Barring that, even a corpse would do.

  But first, her attention was upon the rider fighting against them. This one had alone slaughtered half a black pack.

  Just at that moment, stifled female cries came from the cloaked interior of the carriage. A black figure moved, and the murdered driver slumped in his seat, dropping the reins, while the impeccably trained horses stood their ground without bolting, like poised marionettes.

  On the other side of the carriage, the gray rider remained in the saddle, at the same time barely moving his long blade—swift and methodical as logic. Before her eyes, one more Bilhaar was dispatched cleanly, with the same minimum of effort. They were on foot, and trying to unseat him, coming from all sides.

  Ranhé paused in the shadows, hesitating to involve herself. He didn’t appear to need help. Indeed, some would only be offended.

  But these Bilhaar creatures learned from their mistakes. The remaining five dropped back. Regrouping, they broke in pairs, while the fifth retreated to wait in the shadows. As the mist moved gently, two black forms went into a feinting dance, to maneuver the mounted gray stranger in one direction, while he hesitated for one instant. The remaining pair went for the carriage.

  That was the moment for her to act.

  A poor drawn-out attack, black ones, she thought. Whoever the hell you are, you’ve wasted lives. Your first target should’ve been the occupants of the carriage.

  In absolute silence she drove forward, at the same time drawing her own long blade, and then became quicksilver.

  In such moments, the world does not exist. Everything whirls, and only details, both relevant and extraneous, become magnified. The carriage was before her,
trimmed with dull gleaming metal and some heraldic symbols (normally she’d know those symbols, but now was nearly night, and her focus was re-directed).

  Just ahead, two black backs. One Bilhaar she felled soundlessly, not bothering with the tactics of honor. She used not only the blade, but her bare hands, slipping her hand against the back of the neck and then twisting, as she’d learned on the streets. . . .

  The other, his partner, turned, was aware, screamed that terrible trademark cry and focused on her—only to be answered by terrified female screams from inside the carriage.

  Part of her wanted to laugh, while on another level another part of her became very cold and separate. It, that part, was moving high above the trees on soft cobweb wings . . . while she struck and parried and then thrust with her blade, feeling the resistance of flesh, feeling steel tear through muscle and grate against ribs.

  And then the pale-cloaked man noticed her, paused, and it nearly cost him his life.

  Or maybe it hadn’t. She merely saw his stilled face. And in those instants of rich detail, she observed the shape of gloved hands, dying half-light reflecting off jewels clustered on fingers.