Книга - The Realms of the Gods

The Realms of the Gods
Tamora Pierce


Wildness is a kind of magicDiscover a land of enchantment, legend, and adventure in this fourth and final book of The Immortals series, featuring an updated package – perfect for longtime fans and newcomers alike.Daine holds the fate of Tortall in her hands in this thrilling conclusion to The Immortals series.During a dire battle, Daine and her mentor Numair are swept into the Divine Realms – where gods and legends roam. Safe for now, they are desperately needed back in the land of mortals, where their old enemy, the Emperor Ozorne and his army of strange immortal creatures are waging war against Tortall.Through her journey to the land of the gods, Daine comes upon incredible truths. But as the secrets of her past are revealed so is the treacherous way back to Tortall. And so Daine and Numair must embark on an extraordinary journey home.The fate of all Tortall rests with Daine and her wild magicDiscover a land of enchantment, legend, and adventure in this fourth and final book of The Immortals series, featuring an updated cover for longtime fans and newcomers alike.























Copyright (#ua697d97b-c00b-5595-bca5-d5ba36e8eb47)


HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Tamora Pierce 1996

Map copyright © Isidre Mones 2017

Jacket design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Tamora Pierce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008304164

Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008304171

Version: 2018-09-12




PRAISE FOR TAMORA PIERCE (#ua697d97b-c00b-5595-bca5-d5ba36e8eb47)


‘Tamora Pierce didn’t just blaze a trail. Her heroines cut a swathe through the fantasy world with wit, strength, and savvy. Pierce is the real lioness, and we’re all just running to keep pace.’

LEIGH BARDUGO, #1 New York Times bestselling author

‘Tamora Pierce creates epic worlds populated by girls and women of bravery, heart, and strength. Her work inspired a generation of writers and continues to inspire us.’

HOLLY BLACK, #1 New York Times bestselling author

‘Tamora Pierce’s books shaped me not only as a young writer but also as a young woman. Her complex, unforgettable heroines and vibrant, intricate worlds blazed a trail for young adult fantasy – and I get to write what I love today because of the path she forged throughout her career. She is a pillar, an icon, and an inspiration.’

SARAH J. MAAS, #1 New York Times bestselling author

‘I take more comfort from and as great pleasure in Tamora Pierce’s Tortall novels as I do from Game of Thrones.’

Washington Post

‘Tamora Pierce and her brilliant heroines didn’t just break down barriers; they smashed them with magical fire.’

KATHERINE ARDEN, author of The Bear and the Nightingale




Dedication (#ua697d97b-c00b-5595-bca5-d5ba36e8eb47)


To Claire Smith and Margaret Turner,who teach me that heroism includes facing sorrowseach and every day with courage, humour, and practicality


Contents

Cover (#uc1a61031-20f1-5513-a101-3ddedac83cb7)

Title Page (#u02582762-89be-5b5a-a208-56b705715c8a)

Copyright

Praise for Tamora Pierce

Dedication

Map

Prologue

Chapter 1: Skinners

Chapter 2: Meetings with Gods

Chapter 3: Dreams

Chapter 4: Travellers

Chapter 5: The Bridge

Chapter 6: Chess Game

Chapter 7: Falling

Chapter 8: Dragonlands

Chapter 9: The Battle of Legann

Chapter 10: Judgements

Epilogue

Afterword

Acknowledgments

Read on for a preview of Tempests and Slaughter: Book One of The Numair Chronicles

Also by Tamora Pierce

About the Publisher




Map (#ua697d97b-c00b-5595-bca5-d5ba36e8eb47)










PROLOGUE (#ua697d97b-c00b-5595-bca5-d5ba36e8eb47)


A magical barrier had separated the Realms of the Gods from the Mortal Realms for over four hundred years. While it stood, mortals were safe from the legendary creatures known as immortals, so named because, unless they were slain, they lived forever. Giants, Stormwings, griffins, basilisks, tauroses, Coldfangs, ogres, centaurs, winged horses, unicorns: in time all became the stuff of children’s tales, or the concern of scholars who explored the records of times long gone.

In the eighth year of the reign of Jonathan and Thayet of Tortall, mages in Carthak found the long-lost spells that were the keys to gates into the Divine Realms. Ozorne, the Carthaki emperor, turned those spells to his own use. His agents opened gates into other kingdoms, freeing immortals to weaken Carthak’s enemies for later conquest. Even those immortals who were peaceful, or indifferent to human affairs, created panic and confusion wherever they went. Gate after gate was opened. No thought was spared concerning the long-term effects on the barrier.

In the autumn of the thirteenth year of Their Majesties’ rule, Ozorne’s great plan came to a halt. In the middle of peace talks with Tortall – whose agents had revealed his involvement in the current troubles of his neighbours – Emperor Ozorne made a final attempt to regain his advantage. He ignored omens that proclaimed the gods were most displeased with his stewardship of his kingdom. For his pains, he was turned into a Stormwing and barred from human rule. His nephew took the throne; the gate-spells were destroyed. By that time, however, the barrier had been stretched in a thousand places to cover the holes made by the magical gates. Its power flickered like a guttering candle.

At the dawn of the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year, all those with any magic – Gift, immortal, and wild – woke suddenly, labouring to hear something that was not a sound. In Tortall, Numair Salmalín, one of the world’s great mages, sat up in bed, pouring sweat. Though he could not see them, he knew what all the other mages in the palace and city were doing. The king, awake and at work in his study, knocked his chair over when he jumped to his feet. Harailt of Aili, dean of the royal university, flailed in bed and fell out with a thud. Gareth the Elder of Naxen pressed a hand to his labouring heart; Kuri Taylor swayed on her feet, half fainting. Even those with wild magic registered on Numair’s senses. Onua of the Queen’s Riders jumped out of her dawn bath, shrieking a K’miri war cry. Stefan Groomsman dropped out of his loft, landing safely on bales of hay while the horses who loved him whickered in concern.

And Daine, Numair’s teenage friend and ally of the last three years, sat up in her bed-nest of cats, dragon, marmosets, martens, and dogs, eyes wide in the gloom, soft lips parted. The young dragon Skysong trilled without stopping, her voice spreading in a series of rippling pools, soon to reach and fill the palace itself.

‘Kit, hush,’ Numair heard Daine say, though the girl didn’t try to enforce the order. ‘Numair, what is it?’

He didn’t question her knowing that he could hear what she’d said, in spite of hundreds of yards and a number of buildings between them, any more than she questioned it. In that moment, as the sun climbed over the horizon, any wall seemed vague and ghostly. ‘It’s the barrier,’ he replied softly, but she heard every word. ‘The barrier between the realms. It’s – gone. Evaporated.’

He could feel her blink, as if those long, dark lashes of hers touched his cheek. Suddenly he learned something that he’d never considered before. For a brief moment, that fresh knowledge erased even his sense of magical cataclysm.

‘The immortals – they’ll be on us like a ton of bricks,’ she said, her voice matter-of-fact. ‘I’d best get up.’




CHAPTER 1 (#ua697d97b-c00b-5595-bca5-d5ba36e8eb47)

SKINNERS (#ua697d97b-c00b-5595-bca5-d5ba36e8eb47)


The Stormwing sat on a low wooden perch like a king on his throne. All around him torches flickered; men spoke quietly as they prepared the evening meal. He was a creature of bad dreams, a giant bird with the head and chest of a man. As he moved, his steel feathers and claws clicked softly. For one of his kind, he was unusually clean. His reddish brown hair had once been dressed in thin braids, but many had unravelled. His face, with its firm mouth and large amber eyes, had once been attractive, but hate deepened the lines at mouth and eyes. Dangling around his neck was a twisted, glassy lump of rock that shimmered in the torchlight.

Now he stared intently at a puddle of darkness on the ground before him. An image grew in the inky depths. In it, a tall, swarthy man turned the reins of his black-and-white spotted gelding over to a young ostler. Beside him, a girl – a young woman, really – lifted saddlebags from the back of a sturdy grey pony. When the ostler reached for her reins, the mare’s ears went flat; lips curled away from teeth.

‘Cloud, leave be,’ ordered the girl. She spoke Common, the main language of the Eastern and Southern Lands, with only a faint accent, the last trace of her origins in the mountains of Galla. ‘It’s too late for you to be at your tricks.’

The mare sighed audibly, as if she agreed. The ostler took her reins carefully, and led mare and gelding away. Grinning, the girl slung the bags over her shoulder.

She is lovely, thought the Stormwing who had once been Emperor Ozorne of Carthak. The boys must swarm around her now, seeing the promise of that soft mouth, and ignoring the stubborn chin. Or at least, he amended his own thought, the ones with the courage to approach a girl so different from others. Boys who don’t mind that she converses with passing animals, not caring that only half the conversation can be heard by two-leggers. Such a brave boy – or man – would try to drown himself in those blue-grey eyes, with their extravagant eyelashes.

Ozorne the Stormwing smiled. It was a pity that, unlike most girls of sixteen, she would not make a charm this Midsummer’s Day to attract her true love. On the holiday, two days hence, she – and her lanky companion – would be dead. There would be no lovers, no future husband, for Veralidaine Sarrasri, just as there would be no more arcane discoveries for Numair Salmalín, Ozorne’s one-time friend.

‘I want the box,’ he said, never looking away from the dark pool.

Two new arrivals entered the image in the pool. One was an immortal, a basilisk. Over seven feet tall, thin and fragile-looking, he resembled a giant lizard who had decided to walk on his hind legs. His eyes were calm and grey, set in a beaded skin the colour of a thundercloud. In one paw he bore his long tail as a lady might carry the train to her gown.

The other newcomer rode in a pouch made of a fold of skin on the basilisk’s stomach. Alert, she surveyed everything around her, fascination in her large eyes with their slit pupils. A young dragon, she was small – only two feet long, with an extra twelve inches of tail – and bore little resemblance to the adults of her kind. They reached twenty feet in length by mid-adolescence, after their tenth century of life.

‘Numair! Daine! Tkaa and Kitten – welcome!’ A tall, black-haired man with a close-cropped beard, wearing blue linen and white silk, approached the new arrivals, holding out a hand. The swarthy man gripped it in his own with a smile. As the young dragon chirped a greeting, the basilisk and the girl bowed. Jonathan of Conté, king of Tortall, put an arm around mage and girl and led them away, saying, ‘Can you help us with these wyverns?’ Basilisk and dragon brought up the rear.

Something tapped the Stormwing’s side. A ball of shadow was there, invisible in the half-light except where it had wrapped smoky tendrils around a small iron box. The Stormwing brushed the latch with a steel claw; the top flipped back. Inside lay five small, lumpy, flesh-coloured balls. They wriggled slightly as he watched.

‘Patience,’ he said. ‘It is nearly time. You must try to make your mistress proud.’

Mortals approached the camp. They stopped on the far edge of the Stormwing’s dark pool; the image in it vanished. Two were Copper Islanders. They were dressed in soft boots, flowing breeches, and long overtunics worn by their navy, the elder with a copper breastplate showing a jaguar leaping free of a wave, the younger with a plain breastplate. The third man, a Scanran shaman-mage, was as much their opposite as anyone could be. His shaggy blond mane and beard were a rough contrast to the greased, complex loops of the Islanders’ black hair. Hot though it was, he wore a bearskin cape over his stained tunic and leggings, but never sweated. Few people ever looked at his dress: all eyes were drawn to a large ruby set in the empty socket of one eye. The other eye glittered with cold amusement at his companions.

‘Still watching Salmalín and the girl?’ asked the senior Islander. ‘My king did not send us for your private revenge. We are here to loot. The central cities of Tortall are far richer prizes than this one.’

‘You will have your richer prizes,’ Ozorne said coldly, ‘after Legann falls.’

‘It will take all summer to break Legann,’ argued the Islander. ‘I want to reunite my fleet and strike Port Caynn now! Unless your spies have lied—’

‘My agents can no more lie than they can unmake themselves,’ replied the Stormwing coldly.

‘Then an attack from my fleet at full strength will take port and capital! I want to do it now, before help comes from the Yamani Islands!’

Ozorne’s amber eyes glittered coldly. ‘Your king told you to heed my instructions.’

‘My king is not here. He cannot see that you forced us into a fruitless siege only to lure a common-born man and maid into a trap! I—’

The Stormwing reached out a wing to point at the angry Islander. The black pool on the ground hurled itself into the air. Settling over the man’s head and shoulders, it plugged his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. He thrashed, ripping at the pool. It reshaped itself away from his clawing hands, flowing until it pinned his arms against his sides. The onlookers could hear his muffled screams.

When the man’s thrashing ended, Ozorne looked at the remaining Islander. ‘Have you questions for me?’

The younger man shook his head. Droplets of sweat flew from him.

‘Consider yourself promoted. Bury that,’ the Stormwing ordered, meaning the dead man. He looked at the Scanran shaman-mage. ‘What do you say, Inar Hadensra?’

The man grinned. Crimson sparks flashed in his ruby eye. ‘My masters sent me to see that Tortall is stretched thin,’ he said in a cracked voice. ‘Where our forces go is no matter, so long as this bountiful realm is weak as a kitten in the spring.’

‘Wise,’ Ozorne remarked with a shrug of contempt.

Fire blazed out of the ruby, searing Ozorne’s eyes. He covered his face with his wings, sweat pouring from his living flesh, but the agony went on, and on. A harsh voice whispered, ‘Remember that you are no longer emperor of Carthak. Take care how you address me.’ The pain twisted and went icy, chilling Ozorne from top to toe. Each place where his flesh mixed with steel burned white-hot with cold. ‘The power for which I plucked one eye out of my own head is enough to defeat the magic of a Stormwing, even one so tricky as you.’

When Ozorne’s vision cleared, he was alone with the dark pool on the ground, and the shadow next to him. ‘I’ll gut you for that, Inar,’ he whispered, looking at the box. ‘But not before I settle my score with Veralidaine and the one-time Arram Draper.’ Grabbing his iron box in one claw, he took off, flapping clumsily into the night sky.

Two days later, the girl and the man who had drawn Ozorne’s attention hovered over a cot in a guard tower at Port Legann. Their eyes were locked on the small blue-white form curled up in a tight ball at the cot’s centre. The dragon’s immature wings were clenched tight on either side of her backbone. The tall grey basilisk Tkaa was there as well, gazing through a window at the courtyard below.

‘I don’t like her colour,’ Daine said. ‘She’s never been that shade before. Pale blue, yes, but – going white along with the blue? It’s as if she’s turning into a ghost.’

‘She is weary,’ replied the basilisk, turning away from his view. ‘For a dragon as young as Skysong, the effort of will required to send a wyvern about his business is tiring. She will be fine when she awakes.’

‘What if the wyverns return before then?’ Numair Salmalín showed the effects of the spring’s fighting more than Daine or Tkaa. Too many nights with little or no sleep had etched creases around his full, sensitive mouth and at the corners of his dark eyes. For all that he was only thirty, there were one or two white hairs in his crisp black mane of hair. ‘The king was – unpleased – when I attempted to fight them last time.’

Daine smiled. Unpleased described Jonathan’s reaction to Numair’s use of his magical Gift on wyverns as well as breeze described a hurricane. ‘You were ordered to keep your strength in reserve,’ she reminded him. ‘Archers can do for wyverns as well as you, and there might come something archers can’t fight. Then he’ll need you.’

‘The wyverns should not return for at least a day,’ the basilisk added. ‘They too used up their strength, to defy a dragon’s command for as long as they did.’

‘I can’t believe they ran.’ Daine pushed her tumble of smoky brown curls away from her face. ‘She’s not even three years old.’ She and Kitten had risen at sunrise to handle the attacking wyverns; there had been no time to pin up her hair, or even to comb it well. With a sigh, she picked up her brush and began to drag it through her curls.

Numair watched her from his position next to the sleeping dragon. He could see weariness in Daine’s blue-grey eyes. The two of them had been in motion since the spring thaws, when Tortall’s foreign enemies – an alliance of Copper Islanders, Carthaki rebels, Scanran raiders, and untold immortals – had struck the northern border, western coast, and a hundred points within the realm. With the wild magic that enabled Daine to ask the animals and birds of Tortall to fight the invaders, Kitten’s dragon power, Tkaa’s ability to turn any who vexed him to stone, and Numair’s own great magical Gift, they had managed time after time in the last twelve weeks to stave off disaster.

Port Legann was their most recent stop; the four had ridden all night to reach the king. Remembering that ride, just two days ago, Numair wondered how much more of this pace they would be able to stand.

The rest of the country was in little better shape. ‘Our true allies are pressed to the wall,’ King Jonathan had told them over supper on the night of their arrival. ‘Maren, Galla, Tyra – immortals hit them at the same time they hit us. Emperor Kaddar does his best to guard our southern coast, but he’s got a rebellion on his hands. The emperor of the Yamani Islands has promised to send a fleet, but even when it comes, it will be needed to relieve the siege on Port Caynn and on Corus.’

Kitten stirred in her sleep, interrupting Numair’s thoughts. ‘Shh,’ he murmured, stroking her. The dragon twisted so that her belly was half exposed, and quietened again.

A boy stuck his head in the open door. ‘’Scuze me, m’lord Numair, Lady, um – um – sir.’ His confusion over the proper title for a basilisk was brief. ‘His Majesty needs you now, up on the coast wall, the northwest drum tower. If you’ll follow me?’

Now what? was in the looks Daine and Numair exchanged, before the girl remembered the dragon.

‘Kitten—’

‘I will remain with Skysong,’ Tkaa assured her.

Daine stood on tiptoe to pat the immortal’s cheek. ‘You’re fair wonderful, Tkaa.’ She and Numair followed the runner at a brisk walk.

A man, a commoner by his sweat-soaked clothes, knelt at the king’s feet, drinking greedily from a tankard. Beside him was a tray with a pitcher and a plate of sliced bread, meat, and cheese. The king, in tunic and breeches of his favourite blue and a plain white shirt, leaned against the tower wall, reading a grimy sheet of parchment. In direct sunlight, Daine could see that Jonathan had also acquired some white threads in his black hair since the arrival of spring.

‘This is Ulmer of Greenhall, a village southeast of here,’ the king said when he saw them. ‘He has ridden hard to reach us, and his news is – unsettling.’

Watching the man eat, Daine realized he didn’t kneel just from reverence to his monarch – grey with exhaustion, he was too weak to stand. It seemed that all he could manage was to chew his food.

‘“Unsettling”? I don’t like the sound of that,’ Numair remarked.

‘The village headman writes that five things came out of the Coastal Hills near Greenhall the day before yesterday. They kill what they touch—’

‘Skin ’em, with magic,’ Ulmer interrupted. ‘Can’t shoot ’em.’ He refilled his tankard with trembling hands. ‘I mean, y’ can, but it does them no hurt. Swords, axes—’ He shook his head. Realizing that he’d interrupted the king, he ducked his head. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sire.’

‘It’s all right, Ulmer.’ To Numair and Daine, Jonathan added, ‘Sir Hallec of Fief Nenan went to fight them at sunset yesterday. They killed him.’ He grimly rolled up the parchment. ‘Fortunately, the Skinners don’t move after dark, and are slow to start in the morning – they seem to need to warm up. The people of Greenhall have fled, but … there are rich fields in this part of the realm, as you know. We will need those crops this winter.’ He looked at Numair, then at Daine. ‘I’m sorry. I know you’re exhausted, but—’

‘You need your other mages to deal with the enemy fleet, and the siege,’ Numair said. ‘This is why you’ve kept me in reserve, Your Majesty.’

‘The wyverns—’ the runner who had brought them said. He blushed when the others looked at him.

Daine understood his worry. The giant, winged, legless dragons breathed a yellow fog that gave humans a dry, long-lasting cough and made the eyes burn and blur. The crew of one of the great catapults, breathless and half blind, had dumped a boulder among their own soldiers. Legann’s only insurance against another wyvern attack was Kitten. Wyverns might resist, but they had to obey an order from one of their dragon cousins.

‘Kit stays,’ the girl said firmly, looking at the king. ‘Tkaa knows more about helping her than I do, anyway.’

‘She won’t protest?’ Jonathan asked. He knew the young dragon well.

Daine shook her head. ‘She doesn’t like us being apart for long, but she’s got used to it since the war began. Sometimes we’re more useful when we’re apart.’

‘I’ll guide you to – home.’ Ulmer tried to get up, and failed.

‘There’s no need,’ said Numair gently. ‘If you do not object, I’ll take the knowledge of the route to your village from your mind. You’re in no condition to ride.’

‘I’ll pack for us both, and give the word to Tkaa,’ Daine said. ‘Meet you at the stables soonest.’ She turned to go. A hand grabbed her sleeve. Puzzled, she looked at the king. ‘Be careful,’ he said, giving her the parchment letter. ‘These Skinners sound like nothing that anyone has encountered before.’

Daine smiled at this man whom she had served with love and respect for the last three years. ‘Numair will set them to rights, Majesty,’ she said. ‘Just make sure you’re still here when we come back.’

‘I think I can manage that much,’ the king replied, and released Daine’s sleeve. ‘Unless they get reinforcements, we can hold them all summer if we must.’ He and Daine tapped their own skulls with closed fists, their version of knocking on wood. ‘Look at the bright side. It’s Midsummer’s Day – maybe the gods will throw some luck at us!’

‘Midsummer – do you know, I’d fair forgotten?’ Daine smiled wryly. ‘Maybe I’ll look in a pond along the way and find out who my true love will be.’

Jonathan laughed. Daine grinned, bowed, and trotted off, waiting until she knew he could no longer see her before she let her smile fade. With Numair’s magical Gift to hide their presence, there would be no problem in leaving the city – it was how they’d entered it in the first place. Her concern was for the king – and for the queen, commanding at the embattled capital; for Alanna the Lioness, the King’s Champion, in the Far North since the spring; for the many friends she had made all over Tortall.

We need Midsummer luck for the fair, she thought, returning to their rooms. All along, the enemy’s known what we’re about before we do it. We need luck to counter him, and luck to find his spies. I don’t know where it’s to come from, but we need it soon.

They left Port Legann separately. Numair rode his patient gelding, Spots, carrying his pack and Daine’s. While two of the three roads that led into the city were still open, they were unsafe; he cloaked himself and Spots magically, as he’d done on the way into Legann. Daine herself flew out in the shape of a golden eagle to see if she could find the Skinners and get an idea of what she and Numair were up against.

She soared on columns of warm air that rose from the land. From the upper reaches, the walled city and its surroundings looked much like a wonderfully detailed map. The enemy’s main camp lay a few miles off the north road. On the road itself, a mixed band of enemy soldiers and immortals was camped. On the eastern and southern roads, soldiers in Tortallan colours had dug in to keep the way open for help and supplies. From aloft, she also saw the motley fleet that waited outside Legann, thwarted from entering the harbour by the great chains stretched across its mouth.

In her years in Tortall she had lived among warriors and mages, and could read a battle situation like a book. What she read now gave Daine hope. The enemy army was about equal to Legann’s; if they had any magical surprises, they would have used them before. With armies that were matched, and neither side having the advantage in magic or weapons, the battle on land and at sea was a stalemate. The king was right: Legann might hold all summer, particularly if they could keep at least one road open.

She wheeled, turning her eyes east. Twenty miles from the city, a wide swathe of pale brown, black, and grey, naked of greenery, straddled the east road. Trees stripped of leaf and bark thrust into the air like toothpicks. As she approached, she saw, and smelled, corpses – most of them animals – bloated and stinking in the heat. They came in all sizes, from the smallest mice to cows and sheep. The closer Daine came to that dead zone, the fewer animal voices she heard. Most of the Beast-People who could do so had fled.

Gliding over the last bank of living trees, she found the Skinners. There were five in all: wet, flesh-coloured, two-legger things. They had no eyes, ears, noses, or mouths, but they didn’t seem to require such niceties. They forged ahead blindly, touching anything that lived. When they did, plants became dull instead of glossy. Tree bark vanished. Within seconds, vegetation went dark, brittle, dead. As the creatures touched things, parts of their own flesh changed colour – brown, green, reddish, like bark or leaves in texture. Those patches would grow, shrink, and vanish rapidly.

She had come upon the Skinners as they worked their way through a village. They ignored small obstacles, like tossed-aside buckets or sacks of food that had been left in the street. If the object was big – a well, or an abandoned wagon – they split up, walked around, and rejoined to walk abreast once more.

High overhead, Daine reached into the copper fire of her wild magic. Gripping it, she cast it out like a net, letting her power fall gently onto the Skinners. She didn’t expect it to stop them. Wild magic only helped her shape-shift and talk to the People. Still, if wild magic was something she had in common with these things, perhaps they could talk. Perhaps she could get them to break off their mindless, deadly ramble.

Her net touched something – and suddenly a hole yawned in the centre of her magic. She felt the closeness of things she couldn’t name; they shifted and rolled just at the corner of her mind’s eye. Creatures that should not exist wailed in voices that made her ears bleed; dreadful scents reached her nose and tore at the delicate tissues inside. She lost control over her eagle body and dropped.

In losing her form, she broke the magic’s grip. Frantically Daine shifted into the first shape that came to mind. Just before she hit the ground, crow wings grabbed the air and dragged her aloft. When she was safe in the new form and out of reach, she looked down.

The Skinners had formed a circle. Their eyeless heads were turned up, as if they could see her. She scolded with the excitement of fear, cursing them in a crow’s beautifully nasty vocabulary.

Her foes were not impressed. Spreading out in a line, they began to march forwards. Daine shuddered. What had she sensed? What were those things made of? She would have to ask Numair. For now, she slowly made herself an eagle again. A bird of prey was a better glider than a crow, and she needed the eagle’s sharp eyes.

Below, the monsters lumbered on. The leftmost Skinner was about to step over a small hutch when it stopped. Bending down, it grabbed at the small door, yanking it off its hinges. A rabbit streaked by on its way to freedom. Before Daine could even guess what was happening, the Skinner seized its prey and held its prize up by the ears.

The hare convulsed. Its fur and hide vanished, ripped off in an eye-blink. Patches of fur appeared all over the Skinner, dull against the gleaming stickiness that was its own flesh. The hare now dangled, motionless. The thing dropped it, and touched a patch of fur that had appeared on its belly. The patch grew, then shrank, and was gone.

Horrified, Daine called up her magic again while the Skinners walked on. She searched the village for more abandoned animals. There was a chicken coop on the edge of town. Its occupants could sense nearby monsters; they shrieked their alarm. She didn’t stop to remember that she despised chickens for their stupidity and their smell. Once more she dropped, taking on her true shape as soon as she touched the ground.

Fumbling at the rope latch on the coop, she glanced around. More than anything, she wanted to see the Skinners before they saw her. The rope gave. Chickens erupted from the coop, showering Daine with feathers, scratching her and squawking in her ears. ‘Stop it, you idiotic birds!’ she whispered. ‘Shut up, clear out, and get away from here!’

She used her magic to give them brief wisdom. The chickens raced into the forest, away from the approaching monsters. Daine took eagle shape for the third time, watching the Skinners from high above as she waited for Numair to arrive.

He threw off his cloaking-spell when he and Spots reached the dead zone, and Daine glided down to meet him. Taking her pack, she dressed behind a tree as she reported what she had seen. When he dismounted, she unsaddled Spots and sent the gelding into the still-living woods, out of the Skinners’ path.

Numair passed her crossbow and quiver to her. ‘Can we beat them?’ he asked.

Daine’s blue-grey eyes met his dark ones. ‘I don’t know,’ she said truthfully. ‘I’ve never seen the like of these things.’ Putting a foot in the crossbow’s stirrup, she drew the bowstring until it hooked over the release.

The man sighed and dropped his cloak over their packs. Black fire that sparkled with bits of white appeared around his body. ‘Give me that quarrel,’ he said, holding out a hand. She obeyed, passing over the bolt that she’d been about to load. He closed long fingers over it, lips moving, then handed it over.

Daine placed the quarrel in the clip, then led him to their quarry. The Skinners had finished with the village of Greenhall and had entered a nearby peach orchard. Half of the trees were stripped of their bark. Even the green fruit had lost its skin.

Numair looked ill. ‘Is it all like this?’ he asked.

‘Worse. There’s acres of it, clean back to the hills.’ She raised the bow to her shoulder, taking deliberate aim. The Skinners, in the middle of the orchard, turned to stare at them – if they could stare.

Daine shot. The quarrel flew straight, and buried itself in one Skinner’s head. Numair gestured; an explosion tore the air. The Skinner blew apart, showering its companions with pieces of itself. The others looked around in apparent confusion.

Daine started to grin, but stopped. Swiftly each of the Skinner chunks doubled, redoubled, and spread. Each sprouted a pair of stumps to stand on, and stretched. Now there were ten Skinners, five large and five smaller ones. Their attention fixed on her and Numair, they came at a run. Daine slipped another bolt into the clip of the bow.

The mage raised a hand. Black fire jumped away from him and swept over the monsters, pulling them into the air. The Skinners thrashed and broke through his control, hurtling to the ground. Slowly, they got up.

‘I hope the owner of this orchard forgives me,’ muttered Numair. Stretching out his hands, he shouted a phrase that Daine couldn’t understand. The ground before the advancing Skinners ripped open. They dropped into the crevasse.

Numair trotted towards it, Daine right behind him. ‘If I can seal them into the earth, that may be the end of it. I certainly hope so.’ Halting at the edge of the crack, they peered in. ‘I hate simply blasting them with raw power like this. There is always a spell to uncreate anything, though the consequences may be – oh, dear.’

The Skinners were climbing the sides. Numair jerked Daine back, shouting a word that made her ears pound. The earth rumbled, knocking them down; the crack sealed.

‘Please, Goddess, please, Mithros, let that stop them,’ whispered Numair. Sweat dripped from his face as Daine helped him to stand. ‘Grant a boon on Midsummer’s Day—’

Daine heard something behind them and whirled. Ten feet away, crude hands erupted through dirt. ‘Numair!’ she cried, and shot the emerging Skinner. Unmagicked, her bolt had no effect. The creature rose from the ground as if it climbed a stair.

Numair cried out in Old Thak. The creature that Daine had shot turned to water. The man whirled to do the same to another Skinner. Half out of the earth, it dissolved.

Five spots near them exploded as Skinners leaped free of the ground. Daine screamed. Numair reached to pull her closer, and discovered that someone else had the same idea. Two pairs of hands clutched the girl by the arms, dragging her into a patch of air that burned silvery white.

‘No!’ shouted the mage, wrapping both arms around Daine. The phantom hands continued to pull.

Sinking into white pain, Daine heard a man shriek, ‘Curse you, follow them! Follow, follow, FOLLOW!’

Unseen by her or Numair, an inky shadow leaped free of the grass to wrap itself around her feet. Girl, man, and shadow vanished into bright air.

Every inch of her throbbed. Hands gripped her; she fought. ‘The Skinners! They’ll kill Numair, they’ll kill the People, they’ll kill the crops! Let me go!’

A female voice, one that she knew, said, ‘If she doesn’t rest, she won’t heal. He’s just as bad. Both keep fretting about those monsters.’

‘I’d best take care of it, then.’ The second, gravelly voice was even more familiar.

‘Why?’ The speaker was an unknown male. ‘Leave mortal affairs to mortals.’

‘Nonsense,’ barked the gravel voice. Whiskers tickled her face; a musky scent that she knew well filled her nose. ‘Listen, Daine. Numair is here, with you. He’s safe. I’ll fix those Skinners. I can handle them. Now rest, and stop fussing!’

She sneezed. ‘All right, Badger.’ If her old friend the badger god said that things would be taken care of, she could believe him, even if all this was only a dream.

The woman’s voice was fading. ‘I’ll tell Numair.’

The next time Daine woke, the pain gnawing at her had turned to a dull, steady ache. Cloth rustled nearby; the faint odour of sweet pea and woods lily filled her nose. Like the female voice she’d heard, she knew that scent well. She opened her eyes.

A blurred face hung over her. Daine squinted, trying to see. The face became clearer: blue eyes, a dimple at the corner of that smiling mouth, creamy skin, straight nose, high cheekbones. The whole was topped with a braided crown of heavy golden hair.

In a second the girl forgot the last four years. She was twelve again, and in her bed in Galla. ‘Ma?’ she croaked. ‘I dreamed you was dead.’ With a frown, she corrected herself – she knew how to speak like cultured folk nowadays! ‘I dreamed you were dead.’

Sarra Beneksri – Daine’s mother – laughed. ‘Sweetling, it was no dream, I am dead.’

Some of Daine’s confusion faded. ‘Well, that’s all right, then.’ She tried to sit up. ‘Where am I?’

Sarra moved pillows to help her. ‘You’re in the Realms of the Gods.’

Moving dizzied the girl. ‘How’d I get here? And why do I hurt so?’

‘We brought you. Sadly, passage between realms was fair hard for you. Here’s something to drink against the pain.’

‘Talk about familiar,’ Daine grumbled, taking the offered cup. With each swallow, she felt an improvement; by the time she’d swallowed all of the liquid, her pain was nearly gone. ‘Your messes have got better,’ she remarked with a grin.

‘It’s the herbs here.’ Sarra pinched Daine’s nose gently. ‘They’re stronger. Open your eyes wide.’ She used her fingers to pull back Daine’s eyelids. ‘Where were you born?’

‘Snowsdale, in Galla. Why are you asking?’

‘To see if your mind’s unhurt – though it being you, I wonder if I’ll be able to tell.’

‘Ma!’ squeaked Daine with a laughing outrage.

‘How old are you?’

‘Sixteen.’ Memory returned in a rush. ‘Where’s Numair? The Skinners—’

Her mother stopped her from getting up. ‘Easy. Master Numair is here, and safe. The badger took care of those skinning monsters. He turned them to ice, and they melted. They won’t trouble anyone now.’

‘So I didn’t dream that.’ Daine sank back against her pillows gratefully, fingering the heavy silver badger’s claw that hung on a chain around her neck. ‘Where did they come from, do you suppose?’

‘You know as much as me,’ was the reply. ‘I’ve never seen the like of them.’

‘Sarra?’ The voice coming from the next room was deep, male, and unfamiliar.

The woman’s face lit up. ‘In here, my love. She’s awake.’

The door opened, and a man dressed in a loincloth entered. Although the doorway was unusually large, the crown of antlers firmly rooted in his brown, curly hair forced him to duck to pass through. He was tan and heavily muscled, with emerald eyes. Daine was unsettled to notice that there also were olive streaks in his reddish brown skin.

‘So.’ He touched his antlers uneasily as she stared at them. ‘We meet at last.’

‘This is your father,’ Sarra told Daine. ‘This is the god Weiryn.’




CHAPTER 2 (#ua697d97b-c00b-5595-bca5-d5ba36e8eb47)

MEETINGS WITH GODS (#ua697d97b-c00b-5595-bca5-d5ba36e8eb47)


He looked so – odd. No one else’s father had antlers, or went half naked. What was she supposed to say? ‘Hullo, Da.’ She hid trembling hands under her blankets.

‘Daine!’ Sarra cried. ‘Is that the best you can do? He’s your da!’

The girl couldn’t begin to describe her feelings. Only months ago, she had learned that the horned man she saw in visions was her father, and that he was a god. She had tried not to think about it ever since. ‘It’s not like you ever told me who he was, or what he was,’ she reminded her mother. ‘Not even a hint.’

‘I thought we’d have time later,’ replied Sarra. ‘I never meant to be killed by bandits!’

‘Daine?’ Numair came to the door, looking pale and tired. ‘You know that the badger destroyed the Skinners, yes?’

‘Ma told me. You don’t look so good.’

He smiled. ‘I’ll survive. Are you all right?’

‘I hurt a little.’ She couldn’t help but note, with some amusement, that except for the tips of his horns, Weiryn was shorter than her friend.

Numair smiled twistedly. ‘I am informed that passage between the realms has an adverse effect on mortals.’ He clung to the doorframe.

Silver fire glimmered on the floor, and a large badger appeared. Daine smiled as her mentor waddled over. He looked up at her with black eyes that were bright in his vividly marked face. ‘Hullo,’ she told him. ‘So we’ve you to thank for handling those Skinners?’

‘You wouldn’t rest until you knew they were dealt with.’ Balancing on his hindquarters, the god rose to plant his forepaws on her covers. Her nose filled with his musky, heavy scent.

Gently she scratched him behind the ears. Since she had left her Gallan home, the badger had visited her, teaching her the use of her wild magic, and warning of danger to come. The claw she wore around her neck was his; he could always trace it to find her.

Sarra frowned at Numair. ‘You are supposed to sit, and stay sat.’ She made a tugging gesture at the wall beside the mage. That part of the room began to move; the floor buckled and rose. The wall stretched to meet it, then sagged to create a chair. ‘Down, Master Salmalín!’ ordered Sarra. Meekly, he did as ordered.

Daine’s jaw dropped. ‘But – Ma, you can’t— You never—’

‘Things are different here,’ the badger said. ‘In the Divine Realms, we gods can shape our surroundings to suit ourselves.’

‘Sometimes,’ added Weiryn.

‘Wonderful,’ the girl said weakly. She was not sure that she liked to see unliving things move about under their own power. ‘Tell me – how did we come here? The last thing I remember is the Skinners.’

Weiryn and Sarra traded glances. ‘You were in danger of your life, against a foe you could not fight,’ the god said. ‘We had meant to bring you only, but this – man’—he glared at the mage—‘refused to let go of you. We were forced to bring him as well.’

‘I just thank the Goddess that you met the Skinners on one of the great holidays, when we could pull you through to us,’ added Daine’s mother. ‘Otherwise you would have been killed. It fair troubles me that no one we’ve asked has ever heard of those creatures.’

Light bloomed through the curtains on a window that filled one of the walls, growing steadily brighter, then fading. Just as it was nearly gone, another slow flash came. ‘Oh, dear,’ remarked Sarra as Weiryn opened the curtains. ‘They’re still at it.’

‘What’s going on?’ Numair asked, lurching to his feet.

‘Will you sit?’ cried Daine’s mother. ‘Men! You’re so stubborn!’ Numair quickly sat, this time on the bed. Sulkily, the chair that Sarra had made for him sank into the wall.

Daine stared at the view. The ground here dropped away to meet a busy stream. There were no trees between stream and house, although the forest grew thickly on the far side of the water. In the oval of open sky overhead, waves of rippling pea green, orange, yellow, and grey fire shimmered and coursed.

‘What is it?’ she whispered. Numair took her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘I feel that it means something bad, but it’s so beautiful …’

‘It means that Uusoae, the Queen of Chaos, is fighting the Great Gods,’ said the badger. ‘That light is her magic and her soldiers, as they attack the barriers between our realm and hers.’

‘She has been at it since Midwinter.’ Weiryn put an arm around Sarra. ‘Normally the lights that burn in our sky reflect your mortal wars, but this is far more important.’

‘Thanks ever so,’ muttered Numair. Daine grinned at him.

Sarra looked at her daughter and said reproachfully, ‘Speaking of war, I never raised you to be always fighting and killing. That’s not woman’s work.’

‘It’s needful, Ma. You taught me a woman has to know how to defend herself.’

‘I never!’ gasped Sarra, indignant.

‘You taught me when you were murdered in your own house,’ Daine said quietly.

Sarra turned back into Weiryn’s hold, leaning on his chest, but not before the girl saw tears in her mother’s eyes. A hand patted her ankle; a broad head thrust itself under her elbow. Against her mother’s hurt, she set Numair’s smile and the badger’s approval.

‘Sarra, our war in Tortall may seem unimportant to the gods, but not to us,’ Numair said. ‘Daine and I must return to it. They need every fighter, and every mage.’

Daine nodded, and closed her eyes. She felt dizzy. Her bones were aching again.

Sarra glanced over and saw what was wrong. ‘We’ll talk of that later,’ she said crisply. ‘You both need to drink a posset, then sleep again. It will be a few days before the effects of your passage are over.’ She went to the hearth and ladled something from a pot into a pair of cups. One she gave to Numair, the other to Daine. ‘Drink.’

The liquid in the cup smelled vile, but Daine knew better than to argue. She gulped it down when Numair did, praying that her stomach wouldn’t reject it.

‘Back to bed, sir mage,’ ordered Sarra.

‘Good night, Daine,’ Numair said. The badger echoed him.

‘G’night,’ she murmured, eyes closing already. She sank back among pillows that smelled of sun-dried cotton. ‘Oh – I forgot. G’night – Da.’

She heard a deep chuckle; a hand smoothed her curls. ‘I am glad that you are here and safe, little one.’

Daine smiled, and slept.

Waking slowly, she heard familiar voices, and thought she dreamed them.

The speaker was a mage, Harailt of Aili. ‘—from Fiefs Seabeth and Seajen.’ He panted, as if he’d been running. ‘A Yamani fleet’s been sighted to the west. The bad news is, somehow the Scanrans knew they were coming. They fled overnight.’

‘Father Storm’s curses!’ That voice was Queen Thayet’s. ‘How does the enemy get his information? I’d swear on my children’s lives that there’s no way for a spy to report our plans – and yet the enemy continues to stay one step ahead!’

‘I’ll ask the mages to start using truth-spells and the Sight, and see if we can identify an enemy agent.’ Harailt sounded worn out.

‘Please do,’ replied the queen. ‘And when we find him – or her – I hope that person is good with his gods.’

Daine opened her eyes. The little room was silent, and bathed in sunlight.

What a strange dream, she thought, and sat up.

There was an even stranger animal on her bed.

At first she thought that someone had played a very bad joke on a young beaver; her visitor had that same dense brown fur. No beaver, though, had ever sported a duck’s bill. The tail was wrong, too. It was the proper shape, but it was covered with hair. As the creature, a little over two feet in length, toddled up the length of her bed, she saw that it had webbed feet. Reaching her belly, it cocked its head first one way, then the other, examining her with eyes deeply set into the skull, near that preposterous bill.

‘G’day, Weiryn’s daughter,’ the animal greeted her. ‘Glad to see you awake.’

Daine had stopped breathing – she made herself inhale. ‘Are you a – a god?’

‘We’re all gods here, except for the immortals,’ replied her visitor.

She sat up carefully. ‘Excuse me for asking, but what are you, exactly?’

‘I am Broad Foot, the male god of the duckmoles.’

‘Duckmoles? I never heard of them.’ His fleshy bill was the same shape as a duck’s, but with comblike ridges inside the bottom half. ‘May I pick you up?’

He nodded. ‘Mind the spurs on my hind feet, though. I’ve poison in them.’

She lifted him gently. The fur under her fingers was springy and thick. Examining broad, webbed feet armed with heavy claws, she handled the rear ones – and their venomous spurs – with care. ‘What on earth do you eat?’ she asked, putting him down.

‘My people eat shrimps, insects, snails – frogs and small fish if we can get any. I usually eat the same things as my people, though gods are more venturesome. Sarra cooks the best fish stew in the Divine Realms. I spend warm seasons here, just for that.’

‘You come here for Ma’s cooking?’

His eyes twinkled. ‘That’s right. She sent me to tell you that she has food ready for you, if you care to dress and come out.’

Daine eased out from under the blankets, careful not to dislodge her guest, and saw that she wore a cotton nightgown. ‘How long have we been here?’ she asked Broad Foot.

‘Four days. See you in the garden.’ Silver fire bloomed; the duckmole vanished.

Four days was too long. What were Kitten, Tkaa, and King Jonathan doing now? Did they know that Numair and Daine weren’t dead? Frowning, she washed her face and cleaned her teeth; all that she needed to do those chores lay on a table.

Looking about, she saw a simple red cotton dress at the foot of the bed. Under it lay a pink shift, underclothes, and red slippers. She wished they were a shirt and breeches, but knew she might as well put them on. There was no sign of her old clothes, but even if she could find them, she doubted that they would be in very good condition.

Once dressed, she had to sit briefly to catch her breath. The weakness and ache weren’t as bad as they had been, but she was still shaky. Tidying her bed required another rest before she could leave the room. She did not see the pocket of shadow that separated from the gloom under her bed and followed her.

The main room of the cottage was empty of people. Looking around, she saw the things that she would expect in her mother’s house, as well as three heavy perches – as if very large birds often visited. She guessed that other bedrooms lay behind closed doors. Two doors, however, stood open. Outside one, a path led downhill into a forest. Going to the other, she looked into a walled kitchen garden. A small well, a table, benches, and an outdoor hearth were placed on the open grass. Her mother sat at the table, peeling apples. The duckmole sat on the table beside her, pushing a bit of peel with his bill.

Sarra beamed as Daine sat opposite her. ‘It’s long past breakfast, but I thought you might still want porridge.’ She filled a bowl from a pot on the hearth. Pitchers of honey and cream were on the table; Daine used both. The porridge was rich, with a deep, nutty taste that shocked her. It was stuffed with bits of dried fruit, each tasting fresh-picked. The cream and honey also were intensely flavourful. She ate only half of the bowl, and put it aside. Her mother drew a mug of water from the well. That was easier to swallow, although it was as powerful as if it came from an icy mountain stream.

Sarra frowned. ‘You should be hungrier, after all that sleep and the pain from crossing over.’

‘You forget how things tasted when you first came here.’ A fluffy orange-and-white-marbled cat leaped onto the table to sit in front of Daine. She stared at the girl with large amber eyes, pink nose twitching. ‘In the Divine Realms, you eat the essence of things, not the shadow. I am Queenclaw, goddess of house cats.’

Respectfully, the girl bowed. Queenclaw was an impressive creature. ‘It’s a very great honour, meeting you.’

‘Of course it is.’ The cat began to wash.

‘How’d you come to be here, Ma?’ Daine asked. ‘I thought the mortal dead go to the Black God’s realm.’

Sarra cut her apples. ‘So I did,’ she replied. ‘Your father came for me there. He petitioned the Great Gods to allow me to live with him. They decided it was well enough.’ She eyed Daine warily. ‘You blame me for not telling you about him?’

Daine looked at the cat, who was still washing, and at the duckmole, who was grinding apple bits in his bill. She’d forgotten her ma’s way of discussing private things before others. ‘It might’ve helped later, is all. Ma, we can’t stay, you know. We’re—’

Queenclaw hissed, and leaped off the table. Briefly Daine suspected her of creating a diversion, until she saw that a black shape, almost like a living ink blot, was tangled in the cat’s teeth and claws. It wriggled and shifted like water, trying to escape. Only when the duckmole jumped down to stand on one of the thing’s tendrils did it quieten.

‘What is that?’ the girl wanted to know.

‘I’ve no notion,’ replied Sarra, frowning. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Unless it’s one of Gainel’s – the Dream King’s. It could be one of his nightmares.’

‘No,’ Queenclaw said, looking up. ‘He’s strict with his creatures. They lose their power over mortals if they’re allowed to wander, so he keeps them close.’

‘We’ll hold it for Weiryn to look at when he returns.’ Sarra reached down, white light spilling from her fingers. When it touched the shadowy thing, Queenclaw and Broad Foot moved away from it. Kneeling, Sarra picked the creature up, using the white fire as a kind of scoop. ‘What manner of beastie are you?’ she asked, frowning.

The creature rolled itself into a small, tight ball.

‘I command you, give me your name!’ ordered Sarra. There was a crack, and a smell of blood. ‘Darking?’ She looked at the animal gods. ‘Have you heard of it?’

‘Never,’ Queenclaw said, washing a forepaw.

Broad Foot shook his head. Vanishing in a wave of silver fire, he reappeared on the table next to the girl. ‘Easier than climbing for a little fellow like me,’ he explained.

Daine’s mother shrugged, dropping the creature into her apron pocket. ‘That will hold you for now.’ She drew a line of white fire across the pocket’s opening. Seeing it, Daine was uneasy: Sarra’s magical Gift had always shown as rose-pink fire, not white.

‘Don’t fuss,’ the woman told her pocket as the darking began to thrash inside. ‘You’ll just—’ She fell silent abruptly and cocked her head as if she listened to someone.

When Daine opened her mouth, the cat placed a paw over it, silencing her. ‘Hush,’ Queenclaw whispered. ‘Someone needs her.’ Fur tickled Daine’s nose; she sneezed.

‘You are known to the Green Lady, Isa,’ Sarra remarked, oddly formal. ‘You seek aid for a breech birth? Who is the mother?’ She listened, then sighed. ‘Nonia. I see.’

Daine frowned. They had known an Isa and a Nonia in Snowsdale. Her mother had always claimed that Isa would be a good midwife, if she could ever stop having children of her own. Nonia was barely a year older than Daine herself.

‘Harken, Isa. You must turn the babe before it comes. No – listen to me, and I will help.’ Absently, Sarra walked into the cottage, looking at something very far away.

Daine was the only one who saw the darking – whatever it was – drop to the ground through a hole in its pocket prison. She thought, just like Ma to fix the opening with magic and forget there’s a hole in the bottom. She said nothing as the darking vanished into the shadows by the cottage wall. If Queenclaw and Broad Foot hadn’t seen its escape, she wasn’t going to tell them. After all, the darking hadn’t done any harm.

‘She’s not the same as she was back home,’ she whispered, more to herself than to the cat or the duckmole.

‘Of course not.’ Queenclaw stretched. ‘Only gods or immortals may dwell here.’

‘You’re telling me that Ma – my ma – is a god.’

‘There was a need,’ Broad Foot explained. ‘The northern forests had no one to watch over village gardens and childbearing – the Great Mother Goddess can’t be everywhere. It wouldn’t have worked if your mother hadn’t liked such things already. Since she does, she became the Green Lady.’

‘Is she my ma, then?’ demanded the girl. ‘Is she who she was, Sarra Beneksri?’

‘Are you who you were?’ asked the cat.

About to say that of course she was, Daine stopped herself. Daine of Snowsdale could no more heal animals – or turn into one – than the sun could rise in the west. She got up, ignoring a slight dizziness that overtook her. ‘Please excuse me. I need a walk.’

‘Be careful,’ both gods chorused.

‘Do you wish a guide?’ added Broad Foot, concern in his voice. ‘Some mortals find the Divine Realms overwhelming—’

‘No company, thank you,’ Daine said, heading towards the gate.

Outside the wall lay a well-marked path. To her right it curved around the house. To her left it crossed a log bridge over a stream and led into the forest. Near the trees a rocky bluff rose in tumbles of earth and stone until it breached the leafy canopy. Anyone who climbed it should have a view that would stretch for miles.

Crossing the bridge, she found that her head had cleared; strength was returning to her legs and arms. She left the path at the foot of the bluff, taking a track that wound through piles of stone, leading her gently upwards. When she stopped for a breath after steady climbing, a nearby chuckling sound drew her to a spring hidden in the rocks. A couple of sips of water were all that she needed: her veins seemed to fill with a green and sparkling energy that carried her on upwards.

There was plenty to think about as she climbed. Her ma, a god? She loved her mother, but there was no denying that Sarra needed looking after. Without it, she would seek plants on a cloudy day without taking a hat. Gods were dignified, all-knowing, all-powerful creatures, weren’t they?

She knew that lesser gods entered the Mortal Realms only on the equinoxes and solstices, and her mother had said it was good they met the Skinners on Midsummer Day. There were degrees of strength among gods, then. If this was so, then perhaps lesser gods weren’t all-anything, and Sarra could now be a divine being.

‘There would be worse goddesses than Ma, I suppose,’ she remarked, then sighed.

She left her thin, pretty slippers under a bush when they began to pinch. Thickening the soles of her feet by changing them to elephant hide, she climbed on in comfort. The way was rocky and steep. By the time she reached the rocky summit, she was gasping.

Below was the forest roof, an expanse of countless shades of green, pierced by clearings, streams, and ponds. Turning, she found mountains that stabbed into the sky, their heads wrapped in cloud, their shoulders white with snow.

‘Oh, glory,’ she whispered, and went to see what lay below on that side. Passing a dip in the rock, she halted. A pool of some eerie substance was cupped there. It shimmered with green, yellow, grey, and blue lights, much like the colours that she’d seen in the sky the night before. They moved over its surface in globes, waves, or strips. Watching the pool made her giddy. She swayed, and put out a hand.

‘Don’t touch it!’ a voice behind her warned.

She fought to yank her eyes away in vain. There was something terrible in those moving colours, something that she rebelled against as it drew her in. Pain flared on her ankle; it broke the pool’s grip. She stumbled back a few steps.

‘Careful!’ Clinging to her foot was a lizard, a striped skink. ‘I’m sorry I hurt you, but I thought you needed help.’ Green with white and black stripes and a yellow muzzle, she was large for her kind, a foot in length. Her black eyes glinted with intelligence.

Daine bent to pick up the lizard. ‘So I did.’ She crossed to the far side of the bluff, putting yards of stone between her and the shifting pool. There she sat, placing the skink beside her. An inspection of her ankle showed that it bled a little. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’ The skink jumped on top of a nearby rock to put herself at eye level with the girl. ‘The next time you find a Chaos vent, don’t look into it,’ the lizard advised. ‘It’ll pull first your mind, and then the rest of you, into the Realms of Chaos.’

‘Chaos vents?’ She licked her finger and dabbed at the bite, cleaning it off.

‘You’ll find them all over the Divine Realms,’ replied the skink. ‘They serve as gods’ windows into the home of Uusoae, the Queen of Chaos.’

‘You’d think they’d put warning markers on such things,’ grumbled Daine. ‘And why are the gods keeping these windows open if they’re fighting this Uusoae?’

‘The vents have always been in both the Divine and Chaos Realms, whether they’re at war or not,’ explained the skink. ‘Father Universe and Mother Flame ordered things that way. Are you over your scare?’

‘I think so.’ Daine leaned back, bracing herself with her arms as she looked at the view. ‘Why didn’t I sense you?’ she asked. ‘I should’ve known you were here the moment I got in range.’ In the distance, a hawk wheeled over an opening in the trees. Her finely tuned ears picked out the distant call of crows, jays, and starlings. ‘I never felt any of the People. I can’t hear you in my mind.’

‘Nor will you,’ the skink replied calmly. ‘We are not mortal animals, Veralidaine Sarrasri – we are gods. If we are killed, we are instantly reborn in new bodies. We have our own magic, powerful magic. Mortals cannot hear us, or know us.’

Daine rubbed her ears. ‘I feel deaf. I feel – separate from everything.’

‘It’s all right,’ said her companion. ‘Bask awhile. The sun will do you good.’

Daine smiled to think that sunning would help, but she obeyed. The rock warmed her and banished the fear caused by the Chaos vent. Below, woodpeckers tapped trees; squirrels called alarms. Nearby a pika chirped. From the mountains behind them, first one, then another, then more wolf voices rose in pack-song. She grinned, hearing the feeble, shaky notes of wolf pups joining their elders, perhaps for the first time.

The wind shifted, and brought with it a hint of wood smoke. Looking for the source, she found her parents’ house and garden, cradled in the bend of the stream that ran past her window. A white plume of smoke trailed from the chimney.

‘Look,’ said the skink. ‘To the west.’

A large, dark bird of some kind flew up from the tree canopy in a twisting pattern. Daine couldn’t see it clearly; one moment it was shadowy, the next almost transparent. It was larger than any bird of prey, though not as big as a griffin. She would guess that it was four or five feet long, with a seven-foot wingspan. Up it flew, its spiral tightening. When it seemed as though it spun like a top in midair, the bird opened its wings to their widest, spread its tail, and faced the sun.

Daine gasped as spears of orange, yellow, red, white, and even scraps of blue light flared from the creature’s feathers, turning it into airborne flame. It flashed its blazing wings three times, then folded, shedding its fire, or covering it. Once more it was simply a nondescript bird, now flying downwards in a spiral.

The skink sighed with pleasure. ‘Sunbirds,’ she said. ‘They do this from noon until sunset. I never get tired of watching it.’

For a while they sat in quiet comfort, enjoying this vast scene before them. In the distance an eagle screamed. The breeze changed, to come out of the south, carrying with it the scent of water from still pools and busy streams.

The skink’s head shifted. Daine looked and saw three bird forms rise from the trees in that distinctive corkscrew flight pattern. Eagerly she watched the sunbirds climb far above the leafy canopy. At last the three faced the sun, spreading wings and tails in an explosion of colour. Daine gasped at the brilliance of the hues: there were more dabs of blue and green light among these birds, even a strong hint of purple under the flame.

There was also something like a picture. Startled, she closed her eyes; the image was clear on the insides of her lids. Queen Thayet and Onua, Horsemistress of the Queen’s Riders, stood back to back on the wall before the royal palace in Tortall. Stormwings fell on them, filthy and open-clawed, mouths wide in silent shrieks. Grimly the two women, armed with small, recurved bows, shot arrow after arrow into the flock overhead, hitting Stormwings almost every time. A mage raced along the wall to join them, raising both hands. Something glittered like crystal in his palms.

The image faded. Opening her eyes, Daine got up. ‘I have to go,’ she told the reptile, who watched her curiously. ‘It was very nice meeting you.’

‘Come back when you can visit longer,’ the god replied.

Daine frowned at the skink. ‘Why are you being so nice?’ she asked. ‘I’d have thought a god would be more, well, aloof.’

The skink couldn’t smile, but Daine heard amusement in her voice. ‘When you were a little girl, you once saved a nest of young skinks from two-leggers who wished to torture them. For my children, I thank you – and I hope to see you again.’

Daine bowed to her, then began her descent. She had to stop more often to rest this time. A drink from the spring helped, but her legs were trembling by the time she reached the bottom.

Weiryn was there, waiting, strung bow in one hand, a dead hare in the other, quiver of arrows on his back. ‘Your mother is worried about you.’ His leaf-coloured eyes were unreadable. ‘It’s not always a good idea to wander here, these days.’

Daine wiped her sweaty face on her sleeve. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ she said shortly. ‘And what is that?’ She pointed to his kill. ‘Surely a god doesn’t need to hunt.’

‘Don’t vex that tender heart of yours,’ he replied. ‘As gods themselves, my prey are reborn into new bodies instantly, or there would be no game anywhere in these realms. And a hunt god must hunt.’ He turned and walked towards the cottage. Daine fell in beside him. ‘Didn’t those mortals teach you anything? The tasks of gods bind us to our mortal followers.’

‘But you don’t need to eat. You’re gods.’

‘We don’t need to, but it’s fun. Which reminds me – I don’t like how you’ve been eating lately. What kind of hunter’s daughter won’t touch game?’

Daine sighed. ‘One that’s been hunted, in deer shape and in goose shape.’ She tried to smile. ‘I’m down to mutton, chicken, and fish, Da. I’m just too close to the rest of the People to be eating them.’

Weiryn shook his antlered head. ‘To think that—’ He whirled, dropping the hare. ‘I thought so.’

‘What?’ she asked.

In a single, fluid movement, he put an arrow to his string and shot. His arrow struck, quivering, in a patch of shadow under a bush.

Daine frowned. Something keened there, in a tiny voice she heard as much in her mind as in her ears. Trotting over, she saw that the shaft pinned an ink blot. What had Ma called it? A darking? ‘What did you do that for?’ she demanded, cross. Gripping the arrow, she yanked it out of the creature. It continued to flutter, crying, a hole in its centre. ‘You don’t even know what it is!’ She tried to push the blot in on the hole in its middle.

‘I don’t have to,’ was the retort. ‘It came into my territory without leave, sneaking about, following us. Now, don’t go coddling it—’

Sitting, she picked up the darking and carefully pinched the hole in its body, holding the edges together. ‘It’s fair foolish to shoot something when you don’t even know what it is.’ The darking ceased its cries; when she let it go, the hole was sealed.

The god picked up the hare. ‘When you are my age, you may question what I do. Now, come along. Leave that thing.’ He set off down the trail.

Daine looked at the darking. ‘Do you want to come with me?’ she asked, wondering if it could understand. ‘I won’t let him hurt—’

The darking fell through her hands to the ground and raced under the bush. That’s a clear enough answer, thought Daine. ‘Don’t let him see you again,’ she called. ‘For all I know, he’ll keep shooting you.’ She trotted to catch up to her sire.

‘I never thought a daughter of mine would have these sentimental attachments,’ he remarked. ‘Pain and suffering trouble gods, but they don’t burden us as they do mortals.’

Daine thought of the two-legger goddess that she had met the previous autumn, the Graveyard Hag. Certainly she hadn’t been troubled by the ruction that she had caused. ‘Maybe that explains more than it doesn’t,’ she replied grimly. ‘Though I believe gods would be kinder if things hurt them more.’

Her father turned to look at her. ‘What makes you think our first duty is to be kind?’ he wanted to know. ‘Too much tenderness is bad for mortals. They improve themselves only by struggling. Everyone knows that.’

She blinked. He sounded like those humans who claimed that poverty made the poor into nobler souls. ‘Of course, Da. Whatever you say.’

Sarra met them on the other side of the log bridge. She kissed her mate, then ordered, ‘Go and skin and dress that hare, and not in the house.’ He left, and she looked at Daine. ‘You shouldn’t wander off like that, sweet. You’re not well yet—’

‘Ma, if I’m well enough to climb that’—she pointed to the bluff that thrust out of the forest—‘then I’m well enough to go home. Me ’n’ Numair can’t be lingering here.’

Sarra blinked, her mouth trembling. ‘Are you so eager to get away from me? After not even a full day awake in my house?’

Daine’s throat tightened. ‘I don’t want to leave you. Don’t think it!’ She hugged her mother. ‘I missed you,’ she whispered. ‘Four years – I never stopped missing you.’

Sarra’s arms were tight around her. ‘I missed you too, sweetling.’

Memory surged: the girl could almost smell burned wood, spilled blood, and the reek of death. The last time that she’d held her mother, Sarra had been stone cold, and Daine had been trying to yank out the arrows that had killed her. Tears rolled down her face.

Gentle hands stroked her hair and back. ‘There, there,’ Sarra whispered. ‘I am sorry. Never would I have left you willingly, not for all the gods in these realms.’ Softly she crooned until Daine’s tears slowed, then stopped.

‘Forgive me.’ The girl pulled away, wiping her eyes. ‘It was – remembering …’

‘Me too.’ Sarra drew a handkerchief from a pocket. Tugging on it until two handkerchiefs appeared, she gave one to Daine, and used the other to dry her own eyes.

‘Grandda?’ asked the girl. She blew her nose.

‘In the Realms of the Dead. He’s happy there. Well, you know we never got on well. We like each other better now that I only visit and—’ Sarra cocked her head, that odd, listening expression on her face. ‘Someone needs me?’ she asked, her smile wry. ‘Two in one day – I must be getting popular.’ Her voice changed, as it had in the garden before. ‘Yes, Lori Hillwalker. The Green Lady hears you.’ Turning, she walked away, crossing the stream on the log bridge.

Daine wasn’t sure if she ought to follow. Looking around, she saw Queenclaw trotting towards her.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ ordered the cat goddess, ‘pet me. Did she get another call?’

Daine knelt to obey. ‘I don’t see why they would call on her. They liked her well enough when they needed a healer. The rest of the time, they thought she was silly, and odd … and shameful.’ Queenclaw looked up, and Daine answered the unspoken question. ‘Well, there was me, and no husband, and there was—were always men around Ma.’

‘Cats have more sense,’ Queenclaw said. ‘We don’t keep toms or kittens about any longer than we must. Mind, your people don’t know it’s her they pray to. They call on the Green Lady, who started to appear over the town well in Snowsdale. She told them to summon her for help in childbirth and sickness, or for matters of the heart.’

‘I’ll be switched.’ Daine was impressed in spite of herself.

The cat’s eyes followed something in the grass that only she could see. ‘You’d better go do something with the stew,’ she remarked, tail flicking as she crouched low to the ground. ‘It hasn’t been stirred in a while.’ She pounced. A mouse squeaked and ran for its life, Queenclaw in hot pursuit.

Grinning, Daine went inside. The stew smelled wonderful. Stirring it, the girl realized that she was half listening for a courier to arrive, wanting her or her friends to arm themselves and come quickly. There were no horns calling for riders to mount and ride out. There was no thunder of message drums, pounding signals to those who had no mages to pass on the latest news. Her parents’ house breathed rest and quiet.

I wish I could stay, she thought wistfully. I never realized how tired I’ve been, till now. And I can’t stay – neither of us can.




CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_4011a159-335d-5363-b1f4-18b5bb7a4aa9)

DREAMS (#ulink_4011a159-335d-5363-b1f4-18b5bb7a4aa9)


As she moved the stew off the fire, she heard an assortment of sounds from one of the other rooms. She grinned: Numair had a habit of talking aloud as he fixed information of interest in his memory. Walking to an open door, she looked inside. Bent half double, the mage stood at the window as he tried to shave, using a mirror propped on the sill. That’s the trouble with being so tall, she thought, not for the first time. The things most folk can make use of, like windowsills, are that much farther away from him.

When he took the razor from his skin, she asked, ‘Need help?’

His dark eyes lit in welcome. ‘It’s good to see you on your feet.’

‘It’s good to be on them.’ Getting the mirror, she held it for him. ‘Have you talked to Da or Ma about sending us home?’

He smiled crookedly, and wet his razor again. ‘Let us say rather that I have attempted to do so. They are amazingly elusive on the subject. The best I’ve got so far is that we may discuss it once you have recovered.’

‘I’ve recovered,’ she assured him. She knew that wasn’t entirely true, but the images she had seen in the sunbird’s display worried her.

‘Daine,’ he said, then stopped. She waited. Something was troubling him; she could hear it in his voice. ‘Perhaps – perhaps you should stay here when I return. This is your home. You’d be safe here.’

She put down the mirror, outraged. ‘How can you say that? Tortall is my home!’

‘You’d be with Sarra – I know you’ve missed her. You’d get to know your father.’ He put the mirror back on the sill and scraped the remaining bristles from his chin. ‘Look at it from my perspective.’ He wouldn’t meet her eyes, but his soft voice was pleading. ‘I was powerless against the Skinners. There are so many foes in this war, and too many are strange. I would like to know that you, at least, had a chance to survive.’

‘I’ll make my own chances, if you please.’ Standing, she fought sudden dizziness. Carefully, she sat on the bed as Numair rinsed and dried his face.

‘Will you at least consider it?’ he asked, draping the towel over the window ledge.

‘No.’

‘Daine …’ Picking up the mirror, he examined his face. His dark brows twitched together; he shoved the mirror under her nose. ‘What do you see?’

Instead of her reflection, the glass showed battle. Sir Raoul of the King’s Own, Buri of the Queen’s Riders, and a mixed company of the Own and Riders fought in a temple square. Ranged against them were Carthaki warriors in crimson leather. Overhead, creatures swooped down to attack the Tortallans with long-handled axes. Daine gasped: these were some kind of bat-winged, flying apes, their long black fur streaked with grey.

The image vanished. Numair put the mirror down with fingers that shook. Quietly, the girl described what she had seen in the sunbirds’ dazzling flight.

‘In the Divine Realms, we observe mortal affairs,’ said Broad Foot, waddling into the room. ‘Liquid is the most reliable, but flame and mirrors work. Mortals who visit tell us that in their sleeping, just before they wake, they hear what is said as well.’

‘Is it possible to observe specific people and events?’ enquired Numair.

‘Yes,’ replied the duckmole. ‘It is how Sarra could observe you, Daine. With practice, you could master it in a week or so, and hear as well as see what goes on in the Mortal Realms.’

Numair picked up the mirror and sat on the bed.

‘We’ll finish our chat later,’ Daine told him, standing. ‘I’m not done with you!’ He was not listening. With a sigh, she left him, trying not to use the furniture for support.

The animal god followed her into her room. ‘Are you well?’

‘Just tired is all.’ Sitting on the bed, she rubbed her face. ‘Maybe climbing that bluff wasn’t the cleverest thing to do my first day out of bed.’

The duckmole vanished from the floor, reappearing beside her on the coverlet. Careful not to bump him, Daine lay back. ‘Of all times for him to go protective on me. Maybe he ate something that was bad for him.’ She closed her eyes.

‘Maybe he loves you,’ Broad Foot said.

She didn’t hear. She was already asleep.

In her dream, a pale wolf approached. Instead of the plumed tail that her kind bore proudly, the wolf’s was thin and whiplike. ‘Rattail!’ Daine ran to meet the chief female of the pack that helped to avenge Sarra’s murder. It didn’t seem to matter that Rattail was dead, or that a nasty female named Frostfur had taken her place in the pack.

When she was close, the wolf turned and trotted away.

‘Wait!’ Daine shouted, and followed.

Rattail led her down a long, dark hall, stopping at a closed door. When the girl caught up, the wolf held her paw to her muzzle, as if to say ‘Hush!’ Daine knelt and pressed her ear to the door.

‘Gainel, Uusoae’s power worries you too much.’ While Daine had never heard that booming voice before, she knew that the speaker was Mithros the Sun Lord, chief of the gods. ‘We have always contained her. She has not the power to break through the barrier between her and us.’

‘If she’s got no power, how is she holding her own against you for the first time in a thousand years?’ Daine stifled a gasp. That was Carthak’s patron, the Graveyard Hag. ‘She’s using tricks we’ve never seen before, and I don’t like it. You’re fighting her the way you always have. What if she’s found a new way to overset us – a way that we’ve never encountered and don’t know how to defeat?’

‘She will not consume us,’ Mithros said flatly. ‘She cannot fight us all, and she has no allies in any realm but her own.’

The dream faded as Daine opened her eyes. She was still tired; her legs and back felt limp. Her nose worked as well as ever, though. She breathed deeply, enjoying the flood of good smells in the air. One was stew, the other bread. She was hungry.

Her dress should have been wrinkled from her nap, but when she flapped her skirts, the creases vanished. Quickly she splashed water on her face and combed her hair, then went outside, hearing voices from the garden.

There was a bit of sunlight left, but globes of witchfire hung over the table, growing brighter as night fell. Three men stood when she arrived. Sarra, Broad Foot, Queenclaw, and the badger nodded to her. Weiryn gestured to the new male. ‘Daughter, this is Gainel, Master of Dream, and one of the Great Gods. Gainel, my daughter, Veralidaine.’

The girl looked up into a pale face framed by an unruly mane of dark hair. The eyes were shadowy pits that stretched into infinity. Staring into them, she thought that she saw the movement of stars in the distance – or was it Rattail? Cold hands took hers, jolting her back to the present. The god brushed Daine’s fingers with a polite kiss.

‘He says it is a pleasure to meet you,’ Weiryn told her. ‘You must excuse him – as the Dream King, he’s only permitted to speak to mortals in dreams. We gods hear him’—Weiryn tapped his skull—‘but you won’t.’

Daine curtsied to the god. ‘I’m honoured, Your Majesty.’

Gainel smiled, and took a seat at Sarra’s right. Numair was at Weiryn’s left; a place had been left for Daine between the mage and the duckmole. She stumbled trying to climb over the bench. Numair caught her and braced her arm until she was seated.

As utensils clattered and plates were handed around, there was no way to avoid noticing that the company included a duck-beaver creature, a man crowned with antlers, and a lanky, pallid man who seemed to fade into the growing shadows even while his face shone under witchlights. More than anything Daine had observed since she and Numair were yanked out of that orchard, that dinner table said that Sarra Beneksri was not the Ma she had lived with in Galla.

The animal gods, her parents, and Gainel spoke mind to mind – she could see it in the way they turned their heads, moved their hands, or leaned forwards. Daine concentrated on her food. She was fascinated by the variety. She hadn’t seen a cow, a wheat field, or a grape arbour, but there was wine, bread, and cheese as well as the hare. Even knowing that the hare god lived on in a fresh body, she couldn’t bring herself to have its meat. When the wine pitcher came to her, she passed it to Numair without pouring any for herself. If the food and water of the Divine Realms made her senses reel, she didn’t want to think what liquor might do.

Numair asked Weiryn a question, keeping his voice low.

‘Petition the Great Gods, for all the good it will do.’ Weiryn’s reply could be heard by all. ‘They are too busy fighting Uusoae to ferry mortals back home. They won’t even reply to mind calls from us lesser gods.’

Numair looked at Gainel. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘but our friends are hard pressed. Might you send us home? You are one of the Great Gods, and you don’t look as if you are locked in combat with the Queen of Chaos.’

Gainel smiled, shadowed eyes flickering, and shook his head.

‘He says you forget your myths,’ Sarra told them. ‘Of the Great Gods, the Dream King alone cannot enter the Mortal Realms. He can only send his creatures to do his work there.’

‘Forgive me,’ Numair said politely. ‘I had forgotten.’

On Daine’s foot, caught in a beam of light that fell between her and Numair, something moved. Reshaping her eyes to those of a cat, she looked harder. An inky shadow had thrown a tentacle over her bare foot. Was it the darking that Weiryn had shot?

‘Pass the cheese?’ asked Broad Foot, nudging her with his head. She obliged, forking slices onto his plate. As the duckmole happily mashed cheese in his bill, she glanced at her companions. Queenclaw mildly batted a piece of bread to and fro. Her mother seemed to be conversing with Gainel, while Numair tried to learn from Weiryn if a human mage might have better luck in approaching the rulers of the Divine Realms.

‘I don’t see why you fuss about it so,’ Weiryn snapped. ‘Come the autumn equinox, you at least will be dragged back to your wars, and I wish you joy of them!’

‘They don’t give me joy, and I didn’t ask for them,’ Numair said, voice tight. ‘Would you prefer we let Ozorne and his allies roll over us?’

Daine palmed some cheese. Breaking off a piece, she let her hand drop to hang beside her leg, and offered the tidbit to the creature. Tentacles grabbed the cheese and pulled it into the shadow. Daine offered another morsel. The darking made that vanish, too.

‘By the way,’ Sarra told Gainel, ‘I think one of your servants might have escaped somehow and wandered here. It called itself a darking.’

Daine flinched. The shadow flinched, too, and slipped off her foot to hide in the darkness under the table.

The woman fumbled with her apron, then sighed, exasperated. ‘Look at this.’ She lifted her hand. Her fingers stuck out of the hole in the pocket. ‘It got away.’

The pale god covered Sarra’s pocket with one hand. White light shimmered, and an image of the darking appeared. Immediately the Dream King shook his head.

‘He’s never seen its like,’ Weiryn told the humans. Gainel’s light faded; he withdrew his hand from Sarra’s apron.

‘I told them you are strict with your subjects,’ said Queenclaw, grooming her tail.

Rising to his feet, Gainel nodded to them all, and vanished.

‘He’s terrible at good-byes,’ remarked Broad Foot. ‘Worse than a cat that way.’

‘I prefer to think he’s as good as a cat,’ retorted Queenclaw.

Sarra got to her feet. ‘Well, no amount of wondering and chatter will see that the dishes are done. Let’s get started, Daine.’

The girl looked up at her mother, surprised. It had been a long time since anyone had told her to assist with cleanup. She wanted to say that she was tired, but if she did, her mother would fuss, and no doubt feed her nasty-tasting potions. With a sigh, the girl rose. Accepting a stack of plates from Sarra, she bore them inside. A washtub sat on a table in the common room, steaming faintly.

Daine set her burden next to it and turned. Sarra blocked the garden door, a bottle in one hand, a cup in the other. The girl winced – so much for fooling her ma.

‘You overdid today, and you know it.’ She poured dark liquid into the cup. ‘Drink this, and off to bed with you.’

Daine took the cup, but didn’t drink. ‘Ma, why am I so weak? Are you sure it’s because I’m half mortal, or might it be something worse?’

Sarra shook her golden head. ‘You came here long before it was time,’ she said firmly. ‘The balance between your mortal and divine blood is delicate – a crossing like yours usually causes problems. They’re only temporary, I promise you. Now, drink, miss.’

It tasted as vile as she had feared. She kissed her mother’s cheek, went into her room, and closed the door.

A dull hiss filled Daine’s ears. Darkness covered her eyes.

Light dawned far ahead. It was impossible to tell if the scene that she now saw moved towards her, or if she flew to it. Within moments she was close enough to see two-leggers standing in a ring, arms overlapping, hands clasping their neighbours’ shoulders. In the middle of their circle a lump of material shifted and pulsed in the same colours as the Chaos vent had done. Daine turned her face away.

‘It’s all right.’ Rattail appeared beside her. ‘You can look. You must look.’

Daine obeyed.

At first the ring of men and women, and the thing at the hub, stood on black, empty space. One by one stars winked into being around them. With the added light, she could see the faces of those who formed the circle. Their names sprang into her mind as if she’d always known their true appearance: the Black God in his deep cowl and long robe, the Great Mother Goddess. Daine identified Kidunka, the world snake, lord of the Banjiku tribes, and even the K’miri gods of storms and fire. The large, powerful-looking black man in gold armour was Mithros himself. Looking from face to face, she saw that all of the Great Gods but one formed the ring.

The lump in their centre began to rise, changing colour swiftly. When it halted, a person stood there, bent nearly double. The hunched figure straightened. At first it was a gold-skinned woman with stormy grey hair and a simple grey dress. Within a breath, she changed. Her skin went yellow, her hair became twigs, her body sprouted a mass of tentacles. That, too, lasted briefly. She never kept one shape for long, but shifted constantly from patchwork to patchwork in combinations of things that lived and things that did not. Pincers grew on a cheetah’s forequarters; a cow’s head and a man’s legs were attached. Just to look at the changing thing made Daine’s stomach roll.

The creature lurched to the side, diving for the opening between the Wave Walker and the Black God; white fire appeared, to form a dome between gods and their captive. Half lion, half crone, she dropped and crawled for the gap between the Thief and the Smith, only to retreat howling after she touched the barrier.

‘Why don’t they kill her?’ Daine asked. ‘They just wear themselves out holding her in their circle, and she doesn’t seem to weaken at all.’

‘They are forbidden to, as she is forbidden to slay them,’ Rattail explained. ‘They can imprison and enslave each other, but Father Universe and Mother Flame, who made them all, will not let their children murder a sibling.’

The scene rippled like pond water and dissolved before her. Daine was flying backwards now, over a broad, perfectly flat plain. Looking around, wondering what had happened to the circle and the shifting monster, she discovered a long figure, Gainel. A gale whipped his shirt and breeches. He reached one hand out to her. A balance hung from his white fingers.

A crack opened under the Dream King’s feet. His left foot rested on that flat and barren floor. His right was planted to the ankle in grey-green muck that boiled and twisted.

Gainel vanished when Daine opened her eyes.

‘I have such peculiar dreams here,’ she complained to the ceiling. ‘Seemingly the Dream King wants me to know something, but why? Given my druthers, I’d druther have a good sleep.’ She sighed and rolled out of bed, to hit the floor with a bang. The floor was comfortingly solid.

Her old strength was returning faster than it had the day before. She tried to puzzle out the rest of her dream as she made her bed, cleaned her face and teeth, and brushed a multitude of tangles out of her hair. At least she felt like her old self for the first time in days, even if she couldn’t decide what Gainel meant.

The items in her room had been added to during the night. She found boots and a belt. On a chair lay neat stacks of folded breeches, shirts, loincloths, stockings, and breast bands, all in her favourite colours. Unlike her dream, Daine could read Sarra’s message easily. Her mother had provided as if Daine would spend the rest of her life here. She would not be happy when Daine insisted upon leaving.

Daine needed to clear her head to prepare a campaign against her parents. Putting on yesterday’s dress, she gathered clean garments, towels, and brush, and went into the main room. Broad Foot was there, nibbling a bunch of grapes on the counter.

‘Is there a place I can swim?’ she asked. ‘My head feels like mush.’

The duckmole’s eyes lit. ‘There’s the pond where I stay when I am here,’ he replied eagerly. ‘It’s clean and quiet, and not too far. Come on.’

Daine followed. After a few minutes’ walk along a forest trail, they reached a very broad pond, almost a small lake, set just below a ridge crowned with brambles. Her guide plunged in as soon as they reached the water. Finding a cluster of broad, flat-topped rocks on the pond’s rim, Daine put her things on them and began to strip off her clothes.

The duckmole surfaced, a frog sticking out of his bill, and swallowed his meal. ‘Hurry up,’ he urged. Daine wondered if the meal that he’d just eaten was a god, too. Would it be reborn, as her father claimed the hare had been?

As if to answer her, a small frog, identical to the one that Broad Foot had just eaten, rocketed out of the water to land on the duckmole’s head. It gave a rasping trill, then leaped on the path and out of sight as Daine giggled and the duckmole glared.

‘Some gods always have to comment when they’re being eaten,’ he grumbled, and dived once more.

Wearing only a loincloth and breast band, Daine slipped into the water. It was cold, drawn from mountain streams. She yelped with the first shock, then took a deep breath and submerged. Long experience had taught her to keep moving until she warmed up.

Opening her eyes, she could see most of the area around her – the water was crystal clear. Broad Foot swam up and ran his bill over her face; his eyes were closed. Spinning, he sank to the bottom and glided snakelike over it, passing his bill over everything in his path. Soon he was gone from sight, questing for prey.

The gods of bass, minnows, sticklebacks, and brook trout fled Daine’s approach, then returned in small groups to nose her. She squirmed – they tickled – and dropped to the bottom. There she sat, looking around as the fish continued to examine her. A snapping turtle, bigger than those she knew in the mortal realms, eased out of the mud and glided over. Daine watched him uncertainly, not liking the idea of those formidable jaws closing on any part of her. Instead the turtle circled her twice, inspecting, then swam away.

Thrusting herself to the surface, she filled her lungs with fresh air, then submerged again. A black, inky blob rose to meet her as she swam farther out. She stopped, treading water. Before her, the blot spread out until it was plate-sized. Gently she reached out and touched it. Was it a darking? She felt warmth and a slippery resistance.

Against the darking’s blackness, a face she knew far too well appeared: Ozorne the Stormwing, once called the Emperor Mage. He was perched on a wooden fence above her, staring into the distance.





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