Riddle of the Seven Realms

by Lyndon Hardy

  EXILE FROM REALITY

  The great djinn waited in the hearth fire, ready to carry them across the void, but Kestrel hesitated.

  Then there was a sudden commotion. Four wizards in sweat-dampened robes burst into the room. “There they are!” one shouted. “The ones who conspired against the august council. We’ve caught them at last!”

  Kestrel saw them pushing toward Phoebe and made up his mind. Closing his eyes, he pushed her forward toward the great djinn’s chest, moving to join her. He felt the wings close around them and Astron’s demon elbow pressed painfully into his side. Reality vanished. The last thing he remembered was hearing the archimage’s words:

  “If they escape, broadcast the word across land and sea. There is to be no place safe for them in all the realm of man!”

  Riddle of the

  Seven Realms

  LYNDON HARDY

  A Del Rey Book

  BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

  A Del Rey Book

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Copyright © 1988 by Lyndon Hardy

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 87-91848

  ISBN 0-345-32820-5

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition: June 1988

  Cover art by Rowena Morrill

  Map by Shelly Shapiro

  To my daughters, Melinda and Jennifer

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  PART ONE: The Realm of Daemon

  ONE: Astron’s Trek

  TWO: The One Who Reckons

  THREE: Lore of the Listmaker

  FOUR: Princes of Power

  FIVE: Through the Flame

  PART TWO: The Realms of Men and Skyskirr

  SIX: Wizard’s Wood

  SEVEN: The Would-be Sorcerer

  EIGHT: Talk of the Thaumaturges

  NINE: The Alchemy of Air

  TEN: The Magic Bottle

  ELEVEN: Archimage and Skyskirr

  PART THREE: The Realm of the Fey

  TWELVE: Rings of Power

  THIRTEEN: The Paradox of Beauty

  FOURTEEN: Bubbles of Reality

  FIFTEEN: Harebell Pollen

  SIXTEEN: Nimbia’s Challenge

  PART FOUR: The Two Realms Of Symmetry

  SEVENTEEN: Rotator’s Move

  EIGHTEEN: Artifacts of the Chronoids

  NINETEEN: Spatial Transformations

  TWENTY: Demonlust

  TWENTY-ONE: Coalescence of Space and Time

  PART FIVE: The Realm of the Aleators

  TWENTY-TWO: A Little Bit of Luck

  TWENTY-THREE: The Darling of Destiny

  TWENTY-FOUR: Mark of the Manipulator

  TWENTY-FIVE: Broken Talismans

  TWENTY-SIX: The Grand Casino

  TWENTY-SEVEN: The Will to Believe

  PART SIX: The Ultimate Precept

  TWENTY-EIGHT: War of the Realms

  TWENTY-NINE: The Final Computation

  THAUMATURGY

  The Principle of Sympathy — like produces like

  The Principle of Contagion — once together, always together

  ALCHEMY

  The Doctrine of Signatures — the attributes without mirror the powers within

  MAGIC

  The Maxim of Persistence — perfection is eternal

  SORCERY

  The Rule of Three — thrice spoken, once fulfilled

  WIZARDRY

  The Law of Ubiquity — flame permeates all

  The Law of Dichotomy — dominance or submission

  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 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?

  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 broodmothers 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 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.

  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 warmer of eggs?”

  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 concen
trated 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.

  “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.”