The Realms of the Gods (The Immortals Book 4)

  To Claire Smith and Margaret Turner,

  who teach me that heroism includes facing Sorrows each and

  every day with courage, humor,

  and practicality

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  When I complete a series, I like to thank all those who assisted me in some fashion. With The Immortals, I had a great deal of help from general reference and wildlife sources. While I have thanked some persons or groups in the book for which I most needed their help, I would like to thank them again, so they know the debt I owe them, but also so that anyone who also has an interest in these areas can find them. My heartfelt thanks to:

  Subscribers to two computer networks, including but not limited to CompuServe’s Pacific Forum, Members of the Australia Section, particularly Douglas Dow, who gave me invaluable tips on duckmole (platypus) lore; Barbara Delaplace, CompuServe’s Science Fiction Literature forum, who has given me sound advice on professional matters.

  America Online: the KMart Shoppers, particularly MaxEntropy for her extra assistance with duckmole information; Steven and Lisa Dawson for the loan of their imperious orange-marmalade cat; Virginia Caputo, who helped me to find a different name for platypi and named Broad Foot; also, KO Gen and the KO staff, Guides and kids of America Online’s Kids Only, where I have found such friendship, warmth, community, advice, enthusiasm, and input as I never would have expected to come from a computer. {{{{{Gen & Co.}}}}}

  Richard McCaffery Robinson, for his valued critical comments, his eleventh-hour naval and plot pointers, and his way of cheering up woebegone persons under deadline: Our friendship alone is worth every penny I pay to CompuServe!

  Ellen Harris, who would be very happy to do a Daine doll.

  Cat Yampell, for her enthusiasm, moral support, and her own wonderfully wacky writing—I hope she gets the recognition that she deserves.

  Ms. Vivian Ellner and the kids of U.N.I.S., who have invited me to read for their book fair three years in a row.

  Tas Schlabach, who helped set Daine’s feet on the path of the horse-hearted.

  My foreign editors, agents, and publishers, who have kept me afloat: in the United Kingdom, Jacqueline Korn and the staff of David Higham Associates, and Julia Moffatt and David Fickling at Scholastic Children’s Books (and David Wyatt, who does most cool covers!); in Europe, Ruth Weibel and Liepman AG, which has been tireless on my behalf, and Barbara Küper, my editor at Arena Verlag, her staff, and Arena’s dedicated translators.

  Robert E. J. Cripps, Celtic Wolf Medieval and Renaissance Style Crossbows, for making me look at crossbows in an entirely new light.

  The wildlife researchers and experts whose work I relied on for insights, ideas, and research, and whose efforts to preserve wildlife deserve aid and applause across the world: L. David Mech, researcher and writer on wolves; Farley Mowat, the author of Never Cry Wolf; Marty Stouffer and his Wild America television series; The Nature Conservancy; the National Wildlife Federation; NYSZ The Wildlife Conservation Society; Sir David Attenborough, whose many programs and books on nature changed the way I looked at it; and the International Wolf Center of Ely, Minnesota, which tries to make it possible for future generations to hear pack-song.

  Friends whose contributions are intangible but vital all the same, including Amelia and Molly Bonnett, who I got to meet at last; Nikki Johnson, who went from fan to friend; Kelly Riggio, whom I think of far more than my rare letters would lead her to believe; Iris Mori, because Benkyo ni narimashita (It’s been educational, literally!); Heather Mars, who’s earned a much deserved degree after wading through quanta, vectors, and m-m-m-math; Stacy Norris, who is never afraid to speak her mind; and my inspirational helper, Andy Foley, who has made me laugh (on purpose) at times when I could use a laugh.

  Peter, James, Rich, Tim, and all the other wonderful people at Books of Wonder, still my favorite bookstore.

  Jean Karl of Atheneum, who has borne with me during crazy times, and Howard Kaplan of Atheneum, for the work he’s put in.

  And, as always, my own personal family constellation: my husband Tim, who nurses me through my deadlines as I nurse him through his; Raquel, who at last sighting had submerged in nineteenth-century New York for her current book; Thomas, whose approach to artistic growth and experience always gives me guidance on staying young from the neck up; my sister Kim, who rescues people and keeps them alive for a living; Pa and Ma, who teach me to age with Attitude; Melanie, Fred, and C. J., who share my love of animals; and the agents, accounting department, assistants, and receptionist of Harold Ober Associates, who do so much for this grateful ex-employee and client.

  PROLOGUE

  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 neighbors—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, laboring 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 laboring 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.”

  ONE

  SKINNERS

  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 unraveled. 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 hostler. Beside him, a girl—a young woman, really—lifted saddlebags from the back of a sturdy gray pony. When the hostler 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 hostler 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-gray 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 gray, set in beaded skin the color 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 midadolescence, 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-colored balls. They wriggled slightly as he watched.

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

  Mortals approached from 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 the 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 the 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 Arr
am 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 center. The dragon’s immature wings were clenched tight on either side of her backbone. The tall gray basilisk Tkaa was there as well, gazing through a window at the courtyard below.

  “I don’t like her color,” 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 King 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.