The Realms of the Gods Read online

  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 witch-fire 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 honored, 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 forward. Daine concentrated on her food. She was fascinated by the variety. She hadn’t seen a cow, wheat field or grape arbor, 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 her 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 fall 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 wash-tub 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, d
rink, 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 toward 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 neighbors’ shoulders. In the middle of their circle a lump of material shifted and pulsed in the same colors 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 armor 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 center began to rise, changing color 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 gray hair and a simple gray 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 Fire, 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 backward now, over a broad, perfectly flat plain. Looking around, wondering what had happened to the circle and the shifting monster, she discovered a lone 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 gray-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 favorite colors. 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 onto 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 dove 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 her 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 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.

  Suddenly he looked down; he seemed to be staring directly at her. His mouth stretched in a savage grin. Throwing his head back, he voiced a screeching call that she heard even underwater.

  Gasping her shock, the girl choked as the pond filled her mouth and throat. With a kick, she drove herself to the surface, trying not to breathe more water before she got there. She broke into the air, liquid pouring from her nose and mouth.

  Was that another darking, or the one from yesterday? she wondered, treading water and coughing. And how could a darking show her a vision of Ozorne? How—

  A low, grating hum filled her magical hearing. It was faint to begin with, but swiftly turned into a roar. Frantic, she looked around for the source. Only an immortal would affect her magic like this. The sound was new, which meant that she’d never met this kind of immortal. She hated that; she hated surprises in general.

  Her things lay on rocks on the beach of an inlet that opened onto the rest
of the pond. On the far side of the inlet, air bent and rippled. From its warping center came a reddish brown arm, with a black-nailed hand, and a powerful, shaggy leg tipped with a splayed hoof. Daine caught her breath as the owner of the arm and leg finished his crossing between the mortal and divine realms. It was a tauros.

  Her skin crept. She had seen drawings and heard tales, but they had never frightened her as much as looking at one did now. The immortal was seven feet tall, with short, strong horns. He had a bull’s broad, powerful neck and slablike shoulders, but the large eyes pointed forward, like a predator’s. His nose was almost human, but squared-off and flat. The jaws were large, the teeth nearly too wide for them. Most of the remainder was human, though built on a large, powerful scale to support his massive head. Since he wore nothing like clothes, she could see that he was quite definitely male. As he turned to one side, she glimpsed a bull’s tail at the foot of his ridged spine.

  She held very still, treading water lightly. The stories claimed their sight was poor. Smell was the thing to worry about with a tauros. Could it smell her?

  The creature swayed, eyes shut, nose lifted. He snuffled wetly.

  If he catches me, he’ll rape me, she thought, scalp prickling. The stories were far too detailed about the fate of women who met these particular immortals. Quietly, without lifting her arms or feet from the water, she thrust herself to shore, mind fixed on her clothes. She always left her bow with them when she swam. Then she remembered, her strength evaporating. She had no weapon. Her bows were in the mortal realms.

  She heard a bone-rattling bellow and looked back. The tauros had her scent; it was wading into the pond. The need for quiet was over. Making for the rocks, she swam in long, practiced strokes. She had a head start on the thing; she’d outrun it to her ma’s.

  Too busy watching the tauros to see where she was going, she plowed into the mud at the water’s edge. Gasping, she lurched to her feet and ran the few steps to her clothes and towels, grabbing them. The immortal was a third of the way across the inlet. He was an ungainly swimmer, wallowing like a bull, but wise enough to use his arms to pull himself through the water.