And yet, hadn’t she felt something as she faced him across the desk? As if some power—maybe even a superior power—had lent itself to his, or some gaze of unspeakable penetration had flitted briefly over their struggle of wills?
In any case, it was gone now. Nat seemed awakened from a kind of daze, observing the marks of his working against the ceiling and walls as if for the first time. Once more Skadi noticed that he rubbed his temple with the tips of his fingers, as if to ward off an approaching headache. “Did I do it?” he inquired at last.
Skadi nodded. “You made a start. Tell me,” she said. “How did it feel?”
For a moment Nat thought about it, still rubbing his temple. Then he gave a tiny, puzzled smile, like that of a man trying to recall the excesses of a night of distant revelry. “It felt good,” he said at last. His eyes met hers, and she thought she saw in their silvery pupils a reflection of his earlier delight. “Good,” he repeated softly, and for the first time since the End of the World, the icy Huntress shivered.
7
She had planned to introduce her new ally to the Vanir without delay. Now she began to think again. After all, the Vanir were not her people—except through marriage, and that had been a mistake. The old man was still fond of her, of course, but their natures were too different for the marriage to last. Njörd’s home by the sea had proved unbearable to her; her place in the mountains equally so to him. The same went for Frey and Freyja: their loyalties were with their father, not her, and she knew that her pursuit of Odin and his grandchild might not meet with unanimous approval.
Of course, if she’d managed to lay her hands on the Whisperer, then things might have been different. But as things stood at the moment, she was likely to meet with some opposition—Heimdall, at least, would stay loyal to Odin—and she had no desire to find herself at odds with the Vanir. So far Odin held all the cards: the Oracle and, more importantly, the girl. The Vanir knew the prophecy as well as he did. None of them would knowingly oppose Thor’s child, and though Skadi had no love for Asgard herself, she guessed that the others would give a great deal for the chance to regain the Sky Citadel.
And so, that morning, after breakfast with the parson, she returned in bird form to the Hall of Sleepers. She flew right over Loki’s head, but by then he was already on his way to the meeting place in Little Bear Wood, and it never occurred to the eagle that the old lady it saw on the Malbry road might be the Trickster in disguise.
As Skadi dressed—in the same tunic and boots she had left behind—she gave the Vanir a carefully edited account of the night’s work. Odin and Loki were working together, she said, along with a girl—whose identity, she told them, was still unknown. They had the Whisperer; they had foiled the Examiners and, in spite of her vigilance, had managed to escape.
She did not mention her promise to Nat Parson or her plans for Maddy Smith.
“So why didn’t Odin wake us himself?” said Heimdall when she had finished.
“Perhaps he was afraid,” said Skadi.
“Afraid? Of what?”
Skadi shrugged.
“Obviously he’s planning something,” said Frey.
“Without telling us?” said Bragi, offended.
“Why not?” said Skadi. “It’s Odin’s way. Secrets and lies were always his currency—”
“Untrue,” said Heimdall. “He’s loyal to us.”
Skadi looked impatient. “Oh, please. Let’s face it, Goldie. The General’s always flirted with Chaos. More than flirted—and now we find he’s thick as thieves with Loki again—Loki, of all people. What more do you need? If he wanted you, he’d have wakened you, wouldn’t he?”
Now the Vanir were looking uneasy.
“The world has changed,” Skadi went on. “There are new gods, powerful gods, working against us. Why do you think he took the Whisperer? Why do you think he left the Vanir sleeping?”
There was a lull. “Perhaps he’s working on an alliance,” said Frey doubtfully.
“You think so?” said Skadi. “With whom? I wonder.” And she told them what she knew of the Examiners of World’s End; of the Nameless, of the Word. They listened in silence—all but Idun, who seemed oblivious—and when Skadi had finished, even fickle Freyja was looking grim.
“Their Word is more powerful than any of ours,” said Skadi. “They can defeat us—they can control us—they can make us their slaves. They are the Order. Who knows what deal Odin may have cut with them to save himself?”
“But you said he was their prisoner,” said Bragi.
“A trick,” she said, “to lure me to the village.” And she explained how, at the very moment at which she was about to release Odin, they had turned against her, striking her down with a foul blow and making their escape—with the Whisperer—into the Hill.
“Why you?” said Heimdall, still suspicious.
“Because,” said Skadi, “I’m not one of you. All you Vanir—you’ve been with him too long. You’ve started thinking of him as one of your own. He isn’t. His loyalties are with the Æsir first and the Vanir second—if there is a second. But to save the Æsir, don’t you think he’d sacrifice you if he had to? Do you think he’d hesitate, even for a moment?”
Heimdall frowned. “You think he made a deal?”
Skadi nodded. “I think they forced him to it,” she said. “His own life in exchange for ours. But his plan went wrong. I killed the Examiner. I got away, and the Order lost its chance. That doesn’t mean it intends to give up.” She began to pace across the shining floor, her ice blue eyes gleaming. “We must assume they are coming after us with reinforcements. We must assume they know where we are. And who.”
It was enough. The seeds had been sown. Little by little, Skadi watched them grow in the eyes of the newly awakened Vanir. Heimdall bared his golden teeth; Frey’s eyes grew colder; kindly Njörd darkened like the edge of a cloud just veering toward rain. Bragi sang a sad song, Freyja wept, and Idun just sat on a block of ice and smiled, her face as unlined and serene as ever.
“Very well,” said Heimdall, turning to Skadi. “Let’s assume for the moment you’re right.” He squinted keenly at the Huntress, as if he perceived something in her signature that the others did not—some shift in her colors, some wrongness in the light. “Let us assume that Odin has a plan which may not be to our advantage. That’s all I’m willing to assume,” he said as Skadi seemed about to protest, “but I do understand the need for caution.”
“Good,” said Skadi.
“All the same, we outnumber them,” said Heimdall. “Seven of us to the three of them—assuming we’re counting the girl, of course…”
“Plus the Whisperer,” Skadi reminded him.
Heimdall looked thoughtful. “Yes, of course. They do have the Oracle. And the Oracle has no cause to love the Vanir. After all, we’re the ones who cut off Mimir’s head in the first place.”
The others exchanged glances. “He has a point,” said Frey.
“But does Odin control the Whisperer?” asked Njörd.
“Perhaps not,” said Heimdall.
“Then what do we do?” asked Freyja. “We can’t just hang around here forever—I say we talk to Odin.”
Skadi shot her a look of contempt. “Are you volunteering for the job?”
Freyja looked away.
“What about you, Goldie? Do you want to walk into whatever trap he’s set for you and find out what he’s planning the hard way?”
Heimdall scowled and said nothing.
“Well, what about you, Bragi? You’ve usually got more than enough to say for yourself. What do you suggest?”
Njörd interrupted her. “What’s your solution, Huntress?” he said.
“Well, as it happens…,” she began.
She told them as much and as little as she dared. She spoke of Nat Parson and his ambitions—playing them down as the impossible dreams of a vain and foolish man. She stressed his potential usefulness as an ally, told of his links with the Order and the Church, told
them how he had already helped them by giving them access to the Good Book.
Of his newly acquired powers and of the uneasy feeling those powers gave her, the Huntress said nothing. The man had a glimmer. But it was unstable power—and that barely more than a spark. Nothing to feel threatened by. And he might prove useful.
“Useful how?” said Heimdall.
Skadi shrugged. “In these new times we need new allies,” she said. “How else are we to fight the Order? Besides, the Nameless has a name. I’d like to know it before it comes to war.”
Grudgingly Heimdall conceded the point. “So what does he want, this parson of yours?”
Skadi smiled. “He wants revenge against a renegade of the Folk. In exchange, he will give us information that will arm us against the Order and the Word. All he wants is the girl—I’d say he’s offering us a bargain.”
“The girl?” said Bragi. “But who is she?”
“No one,” said Skadi. “You know what Odin’s like: he’s always had a soft spot for the Folk. I imagine he’s been using her as a spy or something.”
Once more Heimdall gave her a searching look. “Freyja said she had glam.”
“So what if she does?” said Skadi sharply. “I told you, she’s of no importance. What matters is that Odin’s deceived us. And our first priority is to find out why.”
There was a long pause as the Vanir considered Skadi’s words.
“All right,” said Frey at last. “But first we meet with the General. We get things straight with him once and for all. And if he’s betrayed us—”
“Which I know he has—”
“Then,” said Frey, “we’ll give your churchman his revenge.”
8
The passage they had chosen was low and very tight, half blocked with rock rubble in some parts and with a low stone roof that projected sharply at intervals, threatening to scalp them if they raised their heads. Its entrance was hidden in Little Bear Wood, and the way down was much longer and more tortuous than if they had taken the Horse’s Eye.
But, as Loki said, it was safer this way; the few light-signatures Maddy sensed were very dim and very old, which meant that One-Eye would have difficulty locating their trail, even if the runes they’d left failed to hide it entirely.
Loki, however, was taking no chances. He worked methodically to hide their trail with little glamours and runes of concealment, and Maddy would have been impressed by his attention to detail if she had not known that it was entirely motivated by self-interest. Their journey was a dangerous one, and for the first time in his life the Trickster was concerned for the safety of others—particularly Odin, who, if he managed to follow them, might find himself caught up in the perilous wheels of a prophecy that Loki devoutly (and selfishly) hoped would never be fulfilled.
“He may prove useful after all,” the Whisperer told Maddy as Loki scouted further ahead. “I can take you through World Below. But after that comes the Land of the Dead, where for all my knowledge I cannot guide you. He, on the other hand, has a connection.”
“What connection?” Maddy said.
“A family connection,” said the Whisperer.
Maddy stared. “A family connection?”
“Why, yes,” said the Whisperer. “Didn’t you know? The prodigal father’s coming home.”
It could have been worse, Loki thought. The going was hard but safe, and before long they would reach the honeycomb galleries of World Below, where he would be able to find them food and clothing (he was getting very tired of Crazy Nan’s skirts) and from which they would be able to pursue their descent unnoticed and undisturbed. Beyond that the risk—at least the risk of being followed—would decrease a little; after all, who would expect them to go willingly into the very throat of Chaos? As for any other risks they might encounter, he could not say, but so far his luck had not failed him, and he was inclined to trust it a little further.
Behind him he could sense, rather than hear, the Whisperer. Not so much words as thoughts that assaulted his wits and undermined his concentration. He would have to be careful. Even in the fire pit on some occasions, the force of its will had been almost more than he could bear. Now, at close quarters, it made his head ache, and the idea that it could look into his mind whenever it wanted did nothing to allay his discomfort.
What makes you think I’m interested in your mind? scoffed the Whisperer. Beats me how you can live in that snake pit anyway.
Loki shook his aching head. There was no point getting into a flyting match with the thing; insults only made it laugh, and as Chaos grew nearer, he would need all his glam for what was to come.
Shut up, Mimir, he hissed between clenched teeth.
Four hundred years in that pit of yours and you think I’m interested in your comfort? You have a lot to atone for, Dogstar. Just be grateful we have a common interest. And don’t even think of double-crossing me.
Loki wasn’t about to try—at least, not until he knew what he was dealing with. Long acquaintance with the Whisperer had made him wary, and its sudden desire to be taken to Hel troubled him immensely. Maddy believed it was helping the gods—but Loki was infinitely less trusting, and he knew that the Whisperer wasn’t in the habit of doing favors.
It wanted something—What, old friend?
What do you care? We have a deal.
Loki knew he should leave it be. The more he spoke, the more he listened to the Whisperer, the greater its hold over his mind. For the moment he could still tune it out; for all its power it had not managed to penetrate his deepest thoughts. That suited him fine. And yet…
Why help the Æsir? What’s your plan?
In his mind, the Whisperer laughed. I might well ask the same of you. Since when did you care about saving the Worlds? You’re only interested in saving your skin, and if I had any choice right now, you’d be chained to a rock in Netherworld, having your guts pecked out by crows.
Loki shrugged dismissively. Sticks and stones may break my bones—
They’ll do worse than that in the Black Fortress.
They’ll have to catch me first, said Loki.
Oh, they will, said the Whisperer.
They traveled in silence after that.
9
Meanwhile, in World Below, Odin One-Eye was awake at last. His time in the roundhouse had left him vulnerable, and although he was a quick healer, he needed time to recover his glam. As a result, it was past midday before he awoke to discover that Maddy and Loki had disappeared.
No one seemed to know where they had gone; certainly not the goblins, who in the absence of their captain seemed to have lost any control they might once have had and were deserting Red Horse Hill in droves, taking what loot they could carry with them.
He intercepted and questioned a number of these fugitives but could make little of what they told him. Rumors were flying like wild geese. The Order was marching on the Hill; the Nameless had risen; the World Ash had fallen; Surt the Destroyer had crossed over from Chaos and was even now on his way to devour the world.
There were other, more plausible rumors as well: the Captain was dead (Odin put this down to wishful thinking); World Below was overrun; any treasure, food, and ale was therefore free to all comers—this at least was true enough, as Odin discovered on entering the food cellars, although most of the goblins he found there were too drunk to make any sense.
By contrast, in World Above an ominous quiet reigned. The digging machines were abandoned in the open Eye; in the fields only a few people came and went. It felt like a Sunday, but the church bells were silent and even the farmers, who had good reason to be busy, seemed to have forsaken their business. Watching the world through the rune Bjarkán, Odin wondered at the eerie stillness while over the Hill the wild geese flew and storm clouds gathered sullen over the valley of the Strond.
Something was stirring, he could sense it clearly. It shivered through World Below, rattling bones and blowing through doorways. It had a voice—seven voices, in fact—and Odin had no
need of truesight or oracle to know from where that wind was blowing.
The Sleepers.
Well, he thought, it was inevitable. Once Skadi had awakened, rousing the others was simply a matter of time. And without the Whisperer he could not know for sure what they knew or what they were planning. Did they have the Whisperer? Were they responsible for Maddy’s disappearance? And where was Loki? Was he still alive? And if so, what was his game?
It was crooked, of course—that went without saying—but the one thing of which Odin was still sure was that the Vanir would oppose any partnership with the Trickster. If Skadi had convinced them that Loki and Odin were together again, then he would have to approach them with the greatest of care.
And approach them he must, if he was to have the answers to his questions.
Casting his gaze toward the Horse’s Eye, he had found their summons in the form of a white-headed crow bearing a message. It sat on the big stone on top of the Hill, cocked its head, and spoke.
Craw.
One-Eye liked crows and knew their language from all the times he had taken their shape. He drew close to the bird and through the rune Bjarkán assured himself that this was indeed a common crow and not one of the Vanir in bird Aspect.
Vanir, it said. Parley. No trick.
One-Eye nodded. “Where?” he said.
Parson house.
“When?”
Tonight.
Thoughtfully Odin scattered a handful of scraps for the crow, which flapped down and began to peck at the food. No trick, it had said. But the parson’s house seemed a strange place to meet—could they be thinking of an alliance with the Folk?—and in today’s world, he knew, even old friends were not to be trusted.
Damn them, damn them. He was getting too old for diplomacy. His shoulder was still on fire from Jed Smith’s crossbow bolt; he was worried about Maddy, suspicious of the Vanir, and distressingly weakened by the power of the Word.
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