Lyndon Hardy - Riddle of the Seven Realms

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Prologue
KESTREL looked past the flame toward the cabin door and estimated his chance of escape if
something were to go awry. Like the lairs of most wizards, there were no windows in any of the
walls; the distractions of the outside could well be done without.
He glanced back to the center of the room at the figure standing in the chalk-drawn pentagram that
surrounded the firepit. Phoebe was not reputed to be a wizard of prowess and it was no simple
devil that she was trying to summon.
If only she had been as greedy as the rest! The price he asked for an entire wagonload just like
the branches he waved in front of their faces was usually low enough to hurry all of their
thoughts away from testing what they were to receive. Some stored it all in their larders without
even bothering to examine any of the leather sacks. Usually he was well into the next kingdom
before they learned that a simple woodsman had gotten the better of the bargain rather than they.
But this one chose even to doubt that the sack he brought inside contained only anvilwood and
nothing else. She had insisted upon a test to see that more than just the merest of imps was
contacted through the realms, once the fire was lit.
Kestrel looked around the cabin. Thick beams bridged stout walls of white plastered mud. On the
left, a bed of straw with room for only one stood underneath a shelf sagging with rolls of
parchment. Behind Kestrel and extending along the wall on the right were tiers of wood-framed
cubbyholes rising to the high ceiling, a
1
r
1 scrambled collection of nailed-together boxes and wide-mouthed bins.
In most of the openings Kestrel could see the contents stuffed nearly to overflowing and spilling
onto the wood-planked floor with goat-bladder sacks, vials of deeply colored powders, dried lizard
tongue, sunflower seeds, licorice, and aromatic woods; this was as well stocked a wizard's larder
as Kestrel had ever seen.
Kestrel looked again at the wizard staring intently into the flame. He had sought her out because
of the tales of her wealth. All the practitioners in the Brythian hills, though they thought
little of her skill, admitted that she was the richest. But if not for that, his interest might
have been piqued anyway. Rather than in ratted tangles, her well-groomed hair fell in a cascade of
shiny black down the back of her robe. The broad and youthful face was clear and unwrinkled. It
carried the open simplicity of an unspoiled peasant girl, rather than the somber broodings of one
who dared to thrust her will through the fire. The sash of the robe, adorned with the logo of
flame, attempted to pull tight a waist a bit thicker than the current fashion. But at the same
time, it accentuated curves that would otherwise be hidden. Despite her caution, her manner had
been quite warm. She did not display the disdain that vindicated in part what he did.
Kestrel ran his hand down the back of his head, feeling how well the thinning hair still covered
the beginning of a bald spot. He imagined how he must have appeared to the wizard when he had
knocked on her door barely an hour ago—brown curls on top, what there was of them, deep-set eyes
about a long slash of a nose, and wide lips in a sincere-appearing smile. His clothing was plain
but still fairly new. The road dust on tunic, leggings, and boots had just been applied around the
bend from the cabin, rather than being the result of a three-day journey, as he had said.
How much had his ease in gaining entrance, Kestrel wondered, been because of other thoughts in
Phoebe's mind, rather than the possibility of acquiring some of the rare anvilwood that peeked
from the rucksack on his
back. He savored the mental image which suddenly sprang into his mind. What would it be like to
offer a wagonload of true potency instead of the disguised snags and rotten branches and to ask a
fair price, rather than display an apparent ignorance of the value of what he possessed, or not to
hurry away before his deception was discovered?
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No. He shook his head sadly. He could not take the risk. He had to take advantage of the base
impulses of others. It was his only defense. Long ago, he had trusted—and the scars still
remained.
Phoebe suddenly stiffened. "I am yours to command, master," she said.
Kestrel immediately sensed that something was wrong. The air above the flame shimmered and danced.
A hand emerged from nowhere, and then a head with features more plain than bizarre. The demon was
no towering giant with menacing fangs and crackles of lightning, but Phoebe's jaws went slack and
her hands fell to her sides all the same. She had not won the contest of wills; the demon had done
so, instead.
Kestrel made a step to the left and then hesitated. The demon might be content with domination of
the wizard and pay no attention to him as he slowly glided past. It was still morning. He could be
well away before nightfall and anyone else suspected. On the other hand, he would be abandoning
what little anvilwood he had remaining with nothing to show for it.
In mixed fascination and fear, he watched as the demon continued to tear apart the fabric of
reality and emerge into the realm of men.
PART ONE
The Realm of Daemon
CHAPTER ONE
Astron's Trek
ASTRON ran his tongue over the stubs of fangs he had filed away. In the palm of his fist, now
clinched with tension, he felt nails ground short in the manner of men. Only two small knobs
protruded from his back where one would expect the powerful wings of a splendorous djinn. Unlike
his clutch brothers, Astron had no real weapons with which to fight.
The broodmothers' talk was that Elezar's mood was most foul. Only the foolish or those consumed by
the great monotony would elect to be near a prince of demons when his disposition was less than
ideal. Far more pleasing were the thoughts of the cozy contours of Astron's own den where he could
spend eons rearranging the small collection of artifacts he had managed to keep for his own. If
hints of boredom did begin to grow, he could catalogue more of the names that the skyskirr gave to
their lithons or even start his investigation of what men called love. The summons of his prince
easily could have waited until the next scheduled time.
Astron looked about the outer perimeter of Elezar's domain. He was standing on a thin plane of
matter which hung suspended in the black expanse that constituted the realm of the demons. On the
flatness were massed the splendid domes of his prince, mighty structures that soared into the
blackness and blazed with color. In the distance other pinpoints of light shone against the
background of ebony, some steady and pure, beacons of the princes who did not choose to hide.
Others flickered at the edge of visibility, lures for the unwary or perhaps evidence of the
enormous weavings of warring djinns.
Astron glanced down at his feet and the smooth surface of the plane. It glowed with a soft
iridescence, pleasing to the eye. Pathways to the various domes were subtly marked for those who
knew the signs. Behind him, the plane ended abruptly not far from where he stood, the edge
sculpted in a graceful pattern that encircled the entire periphery. If he peered over the side,
Astron knew, he would see a scene very similar to the one above—glimmering lights in a pitch-black
sky.
Astron picked out a trail and followed it into the midst of the domes. The ones near the periphery
were squat and ornate, no more than simple hemispheres encrusted with arabesques and intricate
designs, lairs for brood-mothers and little more. Behind them towered the true marvels of Elezar's
domain, stiletto spires that soared to heights far beyond what their delicate walls would seem to
support. In clusters and splendid isolation, they sat atop broad vaults and fluted ellipsoids;
over a sea of juxtaposed and intersecting bubbles they pierced the emptiness of the void. Fierce
lights of lavender and orange upwelled from ports cut into the roofs of the domes. Intense beams
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ricocheted from shiny mirrors on the spires and scattered from curves and planes glittering with
twinkling jewels. Elezar did not hide his domain from others who hoarded their meager store of
matter in the blackness of the realm.
Astron quickly threaded his way between the outer domes and then entered an archway that opened
into one of the larger central vaults. He paid no attention to the small devils huddled around the
lump of rock in the first chamber, nor to the manner in which the stone jerked and bobbed above
their craned necks. Levitating a boulder was beyond his abilities, even if aided by the will of
others.
He passed sleeping lairs resonating with deep snores, treasure vaults crammed with artifacts from
dozens of realms, quiet rooms of dark contemplation, and weaving alcoves shimmering with half-
finished constructions. Finally he entered the grand rotunda itself at the very center of the
domain.
8
Astron saw that the great hall was nearly empty. Except for Elezar, in the pit at the very center,
sitting on a pillow of silk and down, and a swarm of imps buzzing about his head, no other demons
were present. The prince was clothed in a glittering robe of deep sea-green, covering all of his
slender body, except for his fingertips. Delicate features, an upturned nose, thin lips, and ears
that were barely pointed sculpted a narrow face. Straw-pale hair ran over a brow flecked with
gold, and half-closed eyes glowered under long curving lashes. No great scales or hair-pierced
warts marred the smooth skin. Like Astron himself, Elezar could pass unnoticed in the realm of men
if he were not too closely regarded.
Astron saw the discontent smouldering behind Elezar's eyes and felt his limbs begin to tighten.
Slowly he started down tile-covered steps toward the prince, barely bothering to notice if any
weavings had altered the shape of the rotunda since his last visit. As before, the ceiling was a
large inverted bowl with a span greater than the outstretched wings of a hundred djinns. Sprays of
soft colors caressed its glassy-smooth surface and glowing crystals throbbed with light all around
the periphery.
A dozen entrances pierced the circular wall which supported the dome, each framed with fluted
columns and interspersed with sculptures of heavy metal or artifacts wrested from other realms.
The flooring was a series of concentric circles, each one a step lower than the last and
converging on the pit in the very center.
"You are late, cataloguer." Elezar's soft voice floated upward from the hub. "Surely even one
whose only concern is the making of lists must know the folly of displeasing a prince."
Astron's arms and legs tightened further. Even his stembrain stirred from its slumber. The
broodmothers had been right; the prince was troubled and did not care if his irritation showed.
With eyes discreetly averted, Astron descended the remaining distance to the pit and squatted
uncomfortably on a small cushion at Elezar's feet.
The prince waited a long moment before he spoke
again, eyeing Astron with a cruel smile. "If I had not watched the hatchings myself, I would not
believe that the demon that huddles before me is no less than a splendorous djinn," he said.
Astron kept his head down and said nothing.
"And what of the broodmothers, mighty cataloguer?" Elezar stepped forward and thrust his toe into
Astron's ribs. "What of the carriers of our seed? Do they tremble with anticipation in your
presence? Does their skin grow moist at your touch?"
The prince paused and then kicked forward a second time. Astron felt a stab of pain in his side,
but did not move. It was but a mere token of what Elezar could do if he unleashed his great power.
"Or perhaps, instead, they merely confide their whispers, as if you were one of their own," Elezar
continued. "Yes, as if you served no more purpose than they. Why should you not retire to their
dens and prove your worth by becoming a wanner of eggs?"
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Despite the iron-tight bands of his will, Astron felt his stembrain stir. Eggwarmer indeed. Only
the deformed and slow of wit were charged with such a task. His value to the prince was far
greater, as he had demonstrated dozens of times before. Who else had deduced the meaning of the
cakes of congealed fats that mortals called soap, the purpose of the forged metal they thrust into
the mouths of horses, or, the most perplexing of all, why their warriors grasped right hands in
greeting?
He opened his mouth to speak, feeling the words rush upward sharp and cutting, but at the last
moment he slammed his teeth together, biting off the sound. Deliberately he pushed the hot
thoughts away and concentrated instead on visualizing the safe and comfortable contours of his own
lair. Let the prince say what he would, Astron would not be provoked like some minor devil.
For a long moment nothing more happened. Then Astron saw Elezar's shadow retreat and heard the
swish of silk as the prince sat back down on his cushion. Cautiously Astron raised his head upward
and judged that finally he must speak.
10
"I have been of use to my prince in the past," he said. "Perhaps there is some additional service
that is to be performed as a result of this summons."
Elezar took another moment before answering. "Any of your brothers would have replied with bolts
of power, even though it would have surely meant their death," he said. "How could even one such
as you retain clear thoughts after what has been spoken?"
"I am not like my brothers," Astron said quietly. "I am different in more ways than those that you
have chosen to notice."
Elezar grunted. "And it is those very differences upon which I am now forced to depend," he said.
Before Astron could reply, the prince looked up into the cloud of imps above his head and gestured
rapidly with his left hand. Instantly the swarm began to twinkle rapidly with a kaleidoscope of
color, each sprite brightly glowing in a vivid hue. Their lazy hovering changed into a complex
tangle of loops and dives. Astron saw a pattern suddenly emerge from the random motion. Arcs of
fiery red imps, like droplets of molten lava, soared upward in a central column and then cascaded
over onto waves of emerald-green that seemed to dance in empty air. Blues and yellows threaded
through the rest, knitting complex tapestries that pulsated and changed in subtle ways that one
could not quite follow.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the synchronized display winked out. The cloud of imps returned
to their aimless hovering above the prince's head. The membranes retracted and Elezar's eyes
refocused. His brow wrinkled with a scowl.
"More than three eons it took to train them all." Elezar waved at the swarm. "Three eons for that
one clutch alone." The arc of his arm continued around the expanse of the rotunda. "I will not
give them up, cataloguer. Not them or a single dram of hard matter in my domain."
"You are among the mightiest of princes," Astron said. "And the djinns who obey your commands
number more than those of any other. What demon could possibly challenge you for possession of—?"
11
"Your skill is supposed to be one of making lists," Elezar interrupted. "Your knowledge of the
other realms is the most profound of any in my retinue. Tell me quickly then, what are the seven
laws that govern the affairs of men?"
Astron wrinkled his nose, puzzled. Such knowledge was widespread throughout the realm. Even the
prince himself would have at least a casual acquaintance with the seven laws. Why would Elezar
choose to exercise him through a memory drill like a broodmother instructing her scion? Astron
started to ask the reason for the question but then saw the frown deepen in Elezar's face.
"The first two laws are the concern of wizardry," he said quickly, "the law of ubiquity—flame
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permeates all, and the law of dichotomy—dominance or submission. It is through fire that the
barriers between our realm and the others are broken. And when, through it, we contact a dweller
on the other side, one must end up the controller of the other; there is no middle ground.
"Of all the realms, ours is unique. The fires of the other universes connect them only to us and
never to each other. If ever men, the skyskirr, the fey and all those who exist elsewhere interact
it is because we have brought them together.
"And although these others can coexist side by side with no threat from one to another, our own
involvements are much more tightly bound. Whenever one of us leaves our realm to sojourn
elsewhere, it must be as the master of the one who has summoned or else as his slave.
"But you know all of this quite well, my prince. None less than you organized the great plan to
conquer the entire realm of men and bend it to your will but a tick in time ago. Had it not been
for the one that the mortals call the archimage—"
Elezar's hands clutched spasmodically and Astron veered back to his original course. The prince
did not like to be reminded of his defeat by a mere human. "The next is the rule of three," Astron
rushed. "Or as it is commonly cast—thrice spoken, once fulfilled. The
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proper chants intoned three times over give men the power of sorcery and illusion to cloud the
minds of one another.
"The maxim of persistence is the fourth. As the magicians in the guilds like to state
it—perfection is eternal. If certain precise rituals are enacted flawlessly, then items can be
produced that will last as long as the life of any demon.
"The fifth is the doctrine of signatures—the attributes without mirror the powers within. Based
upon closely guarded secret formulas, those that men call alchemists brew strange concoctions that
sometimes produce remarkable results. Far more powerful would be the craft if chance did not play
a role in every successful brewing."
Astron again glanced at Elezar's hands but saw no change. Somehow the listing of the laws of magic
was bound up in whatever was vexing the prince.
"The last two are the principles of sympathy and contagion," Astron hurried to finish. "The
thaumaturges who use them speak of 'like producing like' and 'once together, always together,' but
sympathy and contagion are what they mean. By taking a small part of a whole and exercising it in
a simulation, the rest of the bulk is forced to act correspondingly. It is the craft by which men
build their walls and transport heavy burdens."
"My prince," a deep voice suddenly rumbled from one of the rotunda entrances, "the signal lights
have been blinking. Caspar with his retinue is now on his way. There are twenty-two djinns of
lightning and lesser devils as well."
On the rim of the rotunda, the entrance was darkened by the massive form of a colossal djinn, his
folded wing-tips scraping the archway as he entered. Powerful black muscles rippled across his
chest as he moved. Slitted eyes of piercing yellow glowed in a face of darkest jet.
"What is your command, my prince?" the djinn asked. "Though we are fewer, my clutch brothers and I
can make his landing one that will cost."
Elezar turned to answer, "No, no, Del it nan. To
13
meet Caspar on his own terms is surely a strategy of defeat. Invite him in unchallenged. We will
use the time to our advantage."
"A djinn lives to fight, my prince," Delithan rumbled. "He exists only to rip matter asunder and
drink deeply of its dying shrieks. If that is denied, there is little that restrains surrender to
the great monotony."
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