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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.
