The Realms of the Gods. Tamora Pierce

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.