Worldsoul

by Liz Williams

  Then the clouds parted and she gasped. There were gates in the Pass. They reared up in the form of columns of black cloud, soft as ink or soot, then hardening to the resemblance of stone. On a ledge on the left hand gate, someone was standing, holding a sword of flame.

  “You’ll have to-have to-” That was Mareritt, from the back of the sleigh. Her voice was a reedy gasp, almost inaudible.

  “What’s she saying?” Mercy called.

  “You’ll have to stop the sleigh!”

  “But what about the demons?” Mercy looked back. They were still being pursued, but the bulk of the swarm was still amassing, readying to pour through the Pass. The heads continued to spit fire. Shadow leaned over the lip of the sleigh. Her gaze was intent.

  “Mercy, you’ll have to take us down to that ledge. We’ve got to go past the guardian.”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  “No, but I’ve got some suspicions.”

  The sleigh soared downwards. Close up, Mercy could see that the columns were akin to basalt: if this was an illusion, it was a remarkably realistic one. Both the ledge, and the figure, were far larger than they should have been, but as the sleigh grew rapidly nearer they, too, adjusted in size.

  Shadow said, “Guardian.”

  He thought he’d been careful. He’d thought, too, that he knew these woods, and so he had, but that had been when the god had been kind, if you could call it that, still held him in grace. The world was a reflection of the mind of God, after all, and what kind of world can that be, when a god is cruel? Outcast from Loki’s dubious benignity, Deed found that he was lost.

  Night had fallen some time before. He could still see the rift in the air, a sunset slash, far away to the west, but he was relying on his nocturnal vision in order to make his way through the trees. He was heading up into the mountain pass, the one that led, ultimately, to the mistfall bridge, and he had been on track until, suddenly, he wasn’t.

  The forest had closed in. Even Deed was finding it difficult to make his way through the trees and it was first with relief, then a chilly dismay, that he stumbled out into a clearing.

  But not just any clearing. He knew exactly where he was. The tall spires of trees, motionless despite the wind which had been whipping the branches of the pines into a shower of snow, the basalt rocks. The two wolves came out from the trees, closing in from different directions. Deed knew as soon as he saw them that they were not wolves at all, nor were they from the wolfhead clans, who paid allegiance to Odin. These were men, transformed into the semblance of beasts, and the process had not been painless. He could see the anguish and rage in their trapped eyes; knew, too, that they would not be able to do anything except the god’s bidding. They moved as stiffly as automata over the snow. One wolf’s mouth moved.

  “Hello, Deed,” a voice said.

  For a few minutes, Mercy was afraid that the sleigh might actually melt. The rock on which she stood was hot; she could feel it through the soles of her boots. She cast a nervous glance towards the sleigh, but although its runners had hissed and steamed as they landed, to her relief the sleigh remained intact.

  She noticed that Mareritt, now apparently healed, took care to remain seated on the sleigh, or perhaps it was just that she did not want to relinquish her hold on the reins and the deer, whose silver-black eyes rolled in panic. Gremory, however, had joined Shadow and Mercy on the ledge, and the demon looked as though she was enjoying the change in temperature.

  But it was the figure ahead of them who was worrying Mercy. He was tall, with pale fiery hair that streamed down his back, and teeth as long and sharp as a disir’s. His beautiful face was remote and sometimes it flickered, changing into fire. He wore robes as white as snow, but the sword he carried was a burning gash in the air. Mercy had never met an angel before, but she had a sudden apprehension of all that filled-with-awe business. Or make that fear. She swallowed hard and sheathed the Irish sword, which had become very quiet and still in her hand.

  “You would pass through the gate?” the angel asked.

  Shadow was staring not at the angel, but at Mercy. Meeting the other woman’s eyes, Mercy read the message in them: Don’t trust it.

  “Will you let us?” Mercy said. Mareritt was staring at her, too, but Mercy could not read her expression. Perhaps she realised that an appeal from her would do no good. The demon appeared to think the same. She, on the other hand, was watching the angel, her eyes narrow red slits.

  “Of course.”

  Gravely, the angel inclined his head. “If you pay the fee.”

  Mercy sighed. There always was one of those. “And what would that be?”

  The angel looked her directly in the face. It was hard to withstand his gaze; Mercy felt her face grow hot, as though she stared into the sun. “A life.”

  “What?” She was shocked into rudeness. “You’re an angel. You’re not supposed to ask for that sort of thing.”

  “To do him justice,” Gremory said, as if commenting on some abstruse theological point, “it’s not really his decision. He’s just the enforcer. The gates run on older rules. Mind you,” the demon added, “I can’t say that there’s any love lost.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “I don’t know his name. I do know one or two of them.”

  The angel’s gaze did not waver. “You have to choose.”

  “May I have a word with my friend?” Shadow said to him.

  The angel nodded.

  She stepped over to Mercy and threw the ripped veil over them both. “I don’t think this will stop him hearing us-but anyway. The thing is, I’ve worked it out. The swarm’s hard behind. When they’re ready, when they’ve formed their fighting formation, they’ll come through here. It won’t matter to them if they have to sacrifice one of their number.”

  “No, but it matters to us. Perra can’t die: the ka’s a spirit. Gremory won’t and anyway, she’s a demon. Mareritt’s a story.”

  “So that leaves you and me. If someone dies, maybe they can ask that the gap be closed. We could have it both ways. We’ve got rid of the disir. Now we have a chance to close the Pass behind us.”

  Mercy took a deep breath. Then she nodded. “I’m vowed to the Library. I swore I’d give anything to protect it, including my life. This counts as that. I’ll do it.”

  At first, she thought that Shadow was going to protest, but then a change came over the woman’s face, rendering it unreadable. She said, “If that’s your choice.”

  “I’m sure,” Mercy said, thinking, Fuck. All the things that she couldn’t now be able to do… but if they let the swarm through, she probably would have died anyway. “Let’s get it over with. See if it works, for a start.”

  She ducked out from under the veil and began to walk across the ledge. The hot stone baked up beneath the soles of her feet and the air scorched her lungs. She opened her mouth to say, Take me…

  … and the world disappeared beneath an enveloping blue. For a second, she thought that this was death: an azure drowning, sky fall. Then she realised that Shadow had thrown the veil over her head.

  “No!” Mercy cried. She fought the veil, pushing back the cascading folds, but it tripped her and she fell, bruising her palms against the hot rock. The fall tore the veil from her face and she saw Shadow walk forward towards the fiery sword.

  “If I die,” Shadow said, “will you let my friends through and close the Pass?”

  The angel looked at her, his head on one side.

  “If I do that, it’s not just your life,” he said. “It’s your soul. You’ll have to stay here, until someone else comes along. You’ll have to become the gap.”

  “Shadow,” Mercy whispered. A favourite debate among Librarians involved the nature of the ultimate story. Is it the person who triumphs over insurmountable odds? Is it the child who seeks and finds their own destiny? Watching Shadow now, Mercy thought she knew the answer: the greatest story involves willing sacrifice, the person who gives up their life for others.
Christ. Ishtar. Aslan.

  Shadow began walking forwards and did not stop. Mercy saw the fiery sword come down and bathe her in light. She was a silhouette, and then she was gone. Around Mercy’s kneeling form, the blue veil shimmered and disappeared.

  “Get in the sleigh!” Mareritt cried. The demon hauled Mercy up and bundled her over the lip of the vehicle. She tumbled down among the heads, blinking as the brightness of the light that had encompassed Shadow started to fade.

  The angel stepped aside. Mercy looked up as they sped past his standing form and he was now a statue, changed to silent stone like the bird-faced spirit that had once stood vigil above the Library. Mareritt cracked the whip. The sleigh shot over the edge of the column into the Pass. Mercy struggled to her feet and looked back over the rear of the sleigh. Behind them, the two basalt columns were grinding together. The Pass was closing.

  “Come closer, Deed,” the wolf sang out and Deed found he had little choice. His dragging feet took him unwillingly forwards, a zombie shuffle through the snow. “Not too successful, were we?”

  “No,” Deed croaked.

  “I tell you what,” the wolf said, in Loki’s voice. The long lupine muzzle twisted around the human words. “I’ll give you a sporting chance. After all, there were a few unforeseen spanners in the works, weren’t there? So this is what I’ll do. If you unchain me, we’ll see if you can outrun me. After all, I’ve been chained up for a very long time. Haven’t had the exercise I should. Bit stiff.”

  “Very well,” Deed managed to say. If he declined, the god would simply order the wolves to kill him where he stood.

  “I’ll even take the wolves away. How about that?”

  Next moment, both the animals were whisked up into the air. Deed blinked. The wolves were hanging on the whalebone arch, sheaves of bloody meat and fur.

  “Didn’t like them anyway. Now. Unchain me.”

  The god pointed to a nearby boulder. Set into it, in a runnel in the rock, was a rusty iron key.

  “It didn’t look like that originally, of course. Changed with time.”

  Deed tugged at the key. Even disir talons couldn’t make much impact on the imprisoning stone.

  “A little joke on the part of my captors, putting the key so nearby. But no one’s been able to get it out. You see, you need magic for that.”

  Gritting his teeth, Deed infused the rock with power. It was hard, harder than any natural stone but at last, when he was almost drained, the rock burst apart and the key fell to the ground.

  “Oh, well done, Abbot General.”

  Deed took the key across to where the old god stood. He moved cautiously; there were eyes in the shadows, yellow and shining. If he just made a run for it, there were more wolves waiting.

  He fitted the key into the lock that secured Loki’s chain.

  “I’ll count to ten.” The old god closed malevolent eyes. “One… ”

  But Deed was running, disir speed, leaping through the grove. He brushed aside ancient rotting corpses, thrust away skeins of necklaced bones. And then he was on the road itself, the stone hard beneath his pounding feet.

  He made it as far as the crossroads before the god pounced. His last thought was that this was at least appropriate: crossroads had always been a place of sacrifice. Loki’s long talons closed around his throat and ripped it out, releasing a gush of blood and magic, steaming into the winter air. Deed’s spirit, sinking down into the earth, listened to the god’s laughter and saw no more.

  Fifty-Three

  The Shah crouched on slippered heels, looking inside the cage. This one was not made of meteorite iron, but of steel: a substance unknown to its occupant.

  “Well, well,” the Shah said. “So this is who’s been causing all the havoc. I’m rather glad we’ve finally tracked you down.”

  The disir hissed at him. She clasped the bars with the talons of her remaining hand and spat.

  “Now that really won’t do,” the Shah said, admonishingly as if to a naughty toddler. “You won’t be getting out of here any time soon, so you may as well behave.” He turned to the milk-eyed girl who stood behind him. “What do you see, Soraya?”

  The milky eyes began to fill with light. It overspilled the sockets and ran down her face in dribbles of illumination. She opened her mouth and breathed it out in a glowing stream.

  “I see a cold place. Death. Much death. I see the woman I followed into the Khaureg and she is triumphant.”

  “Is she?” the Shah said, mildly displeased. “Oh, dear. That probably means she’s lost my ifrit.” He wondered whether Shadow would be coming back to the Eastern Quarter. He hoped so. An enterprising young woman. He had plans for her.

  Fifty-Four

  The sleigh was racing over a calm sea, into twilight green. Mercy could see the prickle of stars above the horizon and they were familiar: the constellation known as the Wain. When she looked back into the sleigh, the heads had drawn to the sides and Shadow’s body lay there, bareheaded and barefaced. Her arms were crossed over her breast. She would not have liked the heads to see her naked face and Mercy stripped off her coat and stepped forwards to cover her. She was just about to lay the coat over Shadow’s face when the corpse’s eyes snapped open.

  “Shadow?”

  “Oh!” Shadow said. “There’s no one here.”

  “Shadow, you’re alive! I’m here, and Gremory and Mareritt and Perra.”

  “No.” Shadow sat up and the veil was back, billowing about her, untorn. She tugged it into place. “The spirit that was in me. He’s gone.”

  “Where has he gone?” Gremory asked, sharply.

  “Into the gap. I didn’t die. He did. He volunteered. Just before I threw the veil over your head he said that it was the only way he could escape.”

  “Well, damn me,” the Duke of Hell said, nonplussed. “I’ve known people take desperate measures to avoid capture before now, but-”

  “Is that what it was about?” Shadow asked. “You were trying to capture him?”

  “He stole something from my mistress,” Gremory said. “Astaroth wasn’t pleased. Very presumptuous, for an air spirit. She sent me to get him back, but the Shah already had him. By the time I tracked him down, he was in you.”

  “What was it he stole?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.”

  “Do you think he’s still got it?”

  “Who can say?” Gremory said. An expression of distinct unease crossed the Duke’s features. “Astaroth won’t be very happy about this. Frankly, I’m not looking forward to going back and telling her.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Mercy said. “You’ve helped to save the world.”

  “Mmm.”

  “You did tell the Elders that the storm demons would be a bad thing for your people, too. So surely-”

  “You’ve not met Astaroth, have you?” The Duke looked gloomy. Then she frowned. “My ring’s still in your Library. I hope it’s still standing. I don’t fancy spending a week with a sieve.”

  “We’ll soon find out,” Mercy said.

  The storyway gleamed faintly in the light of the moon. There were lights down below, scattering the ocean. Fishing boats, then islands. Mercy could not identify them but then they came over the rim of the world, the hills of Golden Island rose up below, and the city lay ahead, strung out along the shores of the Liminality. Smoke rose from the Western Quarter. In the east, the sun was rising.

  They came in just as dawn touched the city. It had been a turbulent night. Most of the Court’s roof lay in the middle of Citadel Square, spell-vanes still creaking and turning in response to the flow of magic. The Library still stood, more or less. Nerren and others were carrying out piles of charred paper.

  “If anyone’s pilfered any books-” Mercy began. It looked as though the façade would be reparable, but only just. She turned to Mareritt. “When I saw you lying in the sleigh, you know what? You looked a lot like my mother Greya.”

  “Did I, dear? How odd.”
/>   “I spoke to a man named Aelrich Salt some days ago. He knew my mum. And he told me a couple of rather strange family stories about our ancestors.”

  “Did he, dear? How interesting. Now, I’d like my book back.” She raised a hand and beckoned. A small leather bound volume flew out through the gap in the Library wall, its pages flapping like wings. It soared down to Mareritt’s waiting hand.

  “Oh!” the heads said, in unison. “Now we can find out what happens at the end!”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Mercy told them. The geas pinged apart in her head.

  Mareritt snapped the whip. “Someone’s calling me. I’m sure I’ll see you again, dear.”

  The sleigh spiralled up into the growing morning light.

  “What happens to the Court, now?” Shadow said.

  “I don’t know. Hopefully it will be too preoccupied with setting its own house to rights to worry about the rest of the city. Although I might have to say the same for the Library. What will you do now, Shadow?” Mercy bent to pick up a stray page, caught by a breeze.

  “I ought to find Mariam, and-” Shadow broke off.

  “Shadow?”

  The sun was coming up, but the sky above the square was darkening. Something was coming over the rooftops: part behemoth, part dreadnought, part airship. Its metal sides were pitted as though it had been scored with meteor strikes and one of the great flanking vanes had been broken and hung loose, strapped to the side of the vessel by what looked like grappling hooks. It hissed through the air, heading east-west across the Quarter, and even a passing golem raised its round head and stared incuriously upwards.

  The Barquess had come back.

  The End… for Now

  About the Author

  Liz Williams is a science fiction and fantasy writer living in Glastonbury, England, where she is co-director of a witchcraft supply business. She is currently published by Bantam Spectra (US) and Tor Macmillan (UK), also Night Shade Press and appears regularly in Realms of Fantasy, Asimov’s, and other magazines. She is the secretary of the Milford SF Writers’ Workshop, and also teaches creative writing and the history of Science Fiction.