Tamora Pierce - The Immortals 04 - The Realms of the Gods

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2024-12-20 0 0 1.57MB 147 页 5.9玖币
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The Realms of the Gods
By Tamora Pierce
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, Ozornes 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 Salmalin, 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.”
Chapter 1: 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 Midsummers 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 Salmalin, Ozornes 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 a 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 basilisks
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 Conte,
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 Salmalin 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 TortaU 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 Ozornes 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 Ozornes 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 Ozornes 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 dragons 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 Salmalin showed the effects of
the springs 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 Jonathans 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 re-minded him. “Archers can do for
wyverns as well as you, and there might come something archers can't hit. 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 dragons 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-gray eyes. The two of them had been in motion since the
spring thaws, when Tortall's foreign enemies—an alliance of Cooper Isles, 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, Kittens
dragon power, Tkaa's ability to turn any who vexed him to stone, and Numairs 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 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 Coins “
Kitten stirred in her sleep, interrupting Numairs thoughts. “Shh,” he murmured,
stroking her. The dragon twisted so that her belly was half exposed, and quieted
again.
A boy held the open door, “'Scuze me, m'lord Numair, Lady, urn—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 favorite blue and a
plain white shirt, leaned against the tower wall, reading a grim 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—unset-ding.”
Watching the man eat, Daine realized he didn't kneel just from reverence to his
monarch—gray 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.”
“Its 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.
Dame shook her head. “She doesn't like us being apart for long, but she's gotten
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 we 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. Its Midsummers 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 Kings Champion,
in the far north since the spring; for the many friends she had made all over Tortall.
We need Midsummer luck for 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 its to come from, but we need it soon.
They left Port Legann separately. Numair rode his patient gelding, Spots, carrying
his pack and Dame'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 for
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 colors 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 harbor 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 Leganns; 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 stale-mate. 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 swath of
pale brown, black, and gray, 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.
摘要：

TheRealmsoftheGodsByTamoraPiercePrologueAmagicalbarrierhadseparatedtherealmsofthegodsfromthemortalrealmsforoverfourhundredyears.Whileitstood,mortalsweresafefromthelegendarycreaturesknownasimmortals,sonamedbecause,unlesstheywereslain,theylivedforever.Giants,Stormwings,griffins,basilisks,tauroses,Cold...

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