The Word. Oh, he’d known of its existence for many years, but he had never encountered its effects firsthand. Now that he had, he feared it more than ever. A single Examiner had bled him helpless. One man—not even a Magister—had come within inches of breaking his mind.
Imagine an army primed with the Word. The Book of Apocalypse didn’t seem quite so far-fetched now that he’d seen what the Word could do. And the Order was strong—in purpose as well as in numbers—while he and his kind were scattered and in conflict. But what could he—what could any of them do against the Nameless? Alone, he might gain a few years’ reprieve—ten, twenty if he was lucky—before the Order finally tracked him down. Together—if he managed to win back the Vanir at all—what could they hope for but defeat?
Perhaps the Examiner was right, he thought. Perhaps my time is over. And yet the thought did not fill him with the despair he might have expected. Instead he was conscious of a strange sensation, a kind of lightening of the spirit, and in that moment he recognized the feeling. He’d felt it before, in the days before Ragnarók, with Worlds colliding and the forces of Chaos awaiting their time. It was the joy of a gambler throwing down his last coin, the knowledge that everything stands or falls on the turn of a card.
Well, what is it to be? he asked himself. A few years’ reprieve or a merciful death? A sliver of hope or a bolt from the blue?
His chances were poor; he knew that already. The Vanir mistrusted him, Skadi had sworn vengeance on him, Loki had fled, Maddy was lost, the Whisperer missing, the Hill wide open, and the Folk on his trail. And without the Oracle the chances of his being able to talk, cajole, negotiate, or outright lie the Vanir into obedience were small indeed.
But Odin was a gambler. He liked those odds. They appealed to his sense of the dramatic. And so once more as the sun tipped westward, he picked up his staff and his battered old pack and made his way down Red Horse Hill.
10
In Skadi’s absence Nat Parson had slept, exhausted after his night’s work. But his sleep had not refreshed him, punctuated as it was with itchy, uncomfortable dreams that left him feeling edgy and dissatisfied.
He woke past noon with an aching head, dizzy with hunger, and yet the thought of eating made him feel sick. Most of all he was terribly afraid that the newly acquired powers he had demonstrated to the Huntress might somehow have seeped away.
To his relief, however, the power of the Word remained undimmed. If anything, he thought it had actually increased as he slept, like some fast-growing creeper feeling its way through his brain. He lit the altar candles on his first try, almost without thinking, and the colors that had so overwhelmed him before now seemed familiar, almost commonplace.
How this had happened he did not know, but somehow, as he’d stepped forward at the very instant the Examiner summoned the Word against One-Eye, their minds had meshed. By accident or design? Had he been chosen to receive this power? With the Order, of course, anything was possible. Perhaps it was simply chance, the aftermath of Communion combined with some more random element—chance or choice, who knows?—but whatever it was, Nat Parson meant to keep it.
He hardly spoke to his wife at all, except to demand the loan of her second-best dress. Her best was already lying discarded somewhere out on Red Horse Hill, and Skadi would need another when she returned from the Sleepers in bird form.
Ethelberta was quite naturally reluctant to part with the cream of her wardrobe in this way, and there was a small unpleasantness, from which Nat escaped to the sanctuary of his study before his desire to use the Word on Ethelberta became too strong to resist.
Meanwhile, the Huntress had returned. It had taken some hours to bring the Vanir around to her way of thinking, and it was early afternoon by the time she reached the village. By then her quarry was already gone: Maddy and Loki into World Below and Odin into World Above, to observe the parsonage and to check the area for a possible ambush.
He did not observe Skadi as, in the guise of a white she-wolf, she explored the intricacies of Red Horse Hill, sniffing out its passageways, calculating its defenses, searching for a fresh trail. Briefly she caught Loki’s scent, but it was faint and soon ran cold, and she could find no trace of Maddy Smith.
Well, that could wait, she told herself.
Today she hunted bigger game.
She turned her attention once more to the Hill. A natural fortress, in normal circumstances it could have withstood a siege of a hundred years or more. But now, with its gates in ruins and its troops deserting, the fortress might yet become a baited trap. Naudr, the Binder, angled just so against the catch of a door, might be set like a snare for an unsuspecting rabbit, to snap shut on whoever passed that way, while the rune Hagall could be left like a powder charge, to explode in the face of the unsuspecting victim.
She entered through the ruins of the Horse’s Eye and spent the best part of the afternoon setting as many of these snares as she could. She dropped them at crossroads and corner stones, at tunnel mouths and around dark bends. She worked the rune Naudr into a net and stretched it across a darkened doorway, and she fashioned the rune T ýr into a cruel barb that would hook the victim like a fish.
It might work, the Huntress thought. A man on the run—or even a girl—might well be taken unawares. An unguarded moment, a careless step—and the quarry would be caught or wounded, weakened, helpless; easy prey.
It was nearly four on the town clock when Skadi returned to the parsonage in her wolf Aspect. Ethelberta, who had vowed that this time she would not submit so easily to the woman’s demands, found herself quite at a loss when the Huntress arrived, and soon Skadi was clad in sumptuous white velvet (which would never brush clean, thought Ethel) while Ethel herself was giving orders to prepare the house for six more guests and hoping that they, at least, would arrive decently clothed.
Skadi, however, had other concerns. She had sown some suspicion among the Vanir—and Loki’s involvement had done the rest—but Heimdall and Frey, at least, remained loyal to the General. If Odin had the Whisperer and if Maddy was really Thor’s child, then he might yet be able to talk them round. Of course, if there were to be a casualty…
Coolly Skadi considered the Vanir. Not Heimdall, not yet—he was too powerful to lose. Not Frey, for the same reason. Not Idun—she was not as helpless as she first appeared, and besides, they might need a healer in times to come. Bragi? Njörd? She owed him nothing, she told herself. They were no longer married—and yet she was loath to sacrifice the Man of the Sea. He might be useful after all. Freyja, on the other hand…
Skadi considered the goddess of desire.
Oh, she had some powers. She wasn’t useless. She was annoying, however, and Skadi admitted to herself that of all the surviving Vanir, Freyja was the one she would miss the least. Not because of her beauty—everyone knew Skadi despised such things—or even because of their conflicting natures, but because of the discord she spread in her wake. With Freyja around, arguments broke out; friends quarreled; the most peaceable folk turned green-eyed and crotchety. Besides, she and Odin—
But Skadi bit off that thought before it could take proper shape. This was no personal grudge, she told herself. This was a tactical choice, taken for the greater good. The fact that Freyja and Odin had always enjoyed more than a passing intimacy did not enter into her calculations at all. Freyja’s death might grieve him, of course. It might even wound him in a place even the Word could not reach. Should she let that affect her decision? She thought not. Loki might have caused her father’s death, but it had been Odin who ordered it, Odin who afterward had bought her silence with a few compliments and a strategic marriage. And over the years, she had begun to realize how he’d manipulated her, how he’d used her to make a much-needed peace with the Ice People, how long and how cleverly he had misdirected her anger, making her believe that Loki, and Loki alone, was to blame…
And now the brothers were together again.
Skadi clenched her fists against the white velvet of Ethel
berta Parson’s second-best gown. No amount of ironing would remove those creases, but Skadi’s thoughts were far away. In her mind clouds gathered, blood spilled, and Revenge, long deferred but all the sweeter for that, opened its sleepy eyes and smiled.
Isa is the only rune of the Elder Script to have no reverse position. As a result, Skadi had lost none of her powers in the wake of Ragnarók. She considered herself a match for almost any of the Vanir, even Frey or Heimdall—but against the six of them together she knew she could not prevail. Unless, of course…
It had been a long time since she’d had the leisure or inclination to create a new weapon, and this one, she knew, must be foolproof. Not large, no, but every thread picked over with runes of concealment, a weapon of elegance—a weapon of stealth.
If she’d had time, she might have fashioned a shirt—even a cloak, barbed in every stitch with runes of ice and poison—but time was short, and instead she made a tiny handkerchief, edged with ribbon lace so fine that you could hardly even see it, so intricate that the glamours that warped and wefted it were hidden between the love knots and the embroidered flowers, so deadly that a single cantrip would be enough to unleash its working. And on it, in plain, bright script, she placed the rune Fé—
Freyja.
Skadi was pleased. Normally she disdained the homely art of needlework, but as a daughter of the Ice People she was skilled in it nevertheless. Carefully she folded the tiny handkerchief and put it into a drawer of the elegant escritoire. The Vanir would be here before nightfall. Smiling, the Huntress awaited their arrival.
Odin saw them coming from his vantage point beneath a stand of trees, half a mile from Malbry village. It was six o’clock in the evening, and against the last of the sunset he could just make out their signatures moving across the fields, arching into the smoky sky. Skadi’s colors were not among them—but it was possible that she was hiding in ambush nearby, using the others as bait to draw him in. Of Maddy and Loki there was no sign, and only now did he admit to himself how much he had been hoping to see them there.
He cast ýr and ducked behind a hedge. There they were: the Reaper, the Watchman, the Poet, the Healer, the Man of the Sea, and finally the goddess of desire, trailing far behind. Why had they chosen to come on foot? What was their business at the parsonage? And exactly how much did they know?
Through Bjarkán he tried to detect the Whisperer. There was no sign of it, nor could he hear its voice as yet. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He moved in closer along the hedge, circling behind the little group so that he stood the least chance of being spotted. It felt so wrong, to be hiding thus from his friends, but the world had changed, and not even old friendships could be taken entirely on trust.
Njörd was speaking. “I know she’s reckless—maybe even a little wild—”
“A little wild!” That was Freyja, her long hair shining like frost, the links of her necklace catching the light. “She’s an animal, Njörd—all that prowling around as a wolf and an eagle…”
“She was always loyal. At Ragnarók—”
Frey said, “We were at war then.”
“If Skadi’s right, we’re at war now.”
“With the Folk. With the Order, perhaps,” said Heimdall. “But not with our people.”
“The Æsir are not our people,” said Njörd. “We might all do well to remember it.”
Behind the hedge Odin frowned. So that was where the land lay. Of course, Njörd was the oldest of the Vanir, father to the twins, and it was understandable that his allegiance should belong to the Vanir first and the Æsir second. Besides, he’d long suspected that Njörd still felt tender toward his estranged wife, and as Odin knew, there could be no reasoning with a lover. He himself was not immune: there had been times—quite a few of them—when even Odin the Far-Sighted had shown himself as blind as the next man…
He glanced at Freyja, still dragging behind, her blue dress black to the knees with mud. “How far now?” she wailed. “I’ve been walking for hours, I’ve got a blister, and just look at my gown—”
“If I hear any more about your gown, or your shoes, or your feather dress…,” muttered Heimdall.
“We’re nearly there,” said Idun gently. “But I can give you some apple if your foot hurts—”
“I don’t want an apple. I want some dry shoes, and a clean dress, and a bath—”
“Oh, shut up and use a cantrip,” said Heimdall.
Freyja looked at him and sniffed. “You don’t have a clue, do you, Goldie?”
From his hiding place, Odin smiled.
11
In World Below, Maddy and Loki had hit trouble. Trouble in the form of a vertical shaft slicing down through the levels—no path downward, no alternate route, and a hundred-foot leap to the far side.
It lay at the end of a long, low passage, through which they had half crawled, half clambered for close on three laborious hours. Now, looking down into the ax-shaped rift and listening to the tumbling water some four hundred feet below, Maddy was ready to wail with despair.
“I thought you said this was the best way down!” she cried, addressing the Whisperer.
“I said it was the quickest way down,” it replied waspishly, “and so it is. It’s hardly my fault if you can’t handle a little climb.”
“A little climb!”
The Whisperer glowed in a bored way. Once more Maddy looked down: below them the river churned like cream. It was the river Strond, Maddy knew, swollen with the autumn rains, probing and battering its way between the rocks toward the Cauldron of Rivers. It seemed to fill the chasm completely, and yet as her eyes became accustomed to the deeper gloom, she saw a break in the rock on the far side—just visible across the gap.
She gave a long, exhausted sigh. “We’ll have to double back,” she said. “Find some other route down.”
But Loki was looking at her with a strange expression. “There isn’t another route,” he said. “Not unless you want to share it with a couple of thousand goblins. Besides…”
“Besides,” said the Whisperer, “we’re being followed.”
“What?” said Maddy.
“He knows.”
“Knows what?”
Loki glared at the Oracle. “I spotted a signature an hour ago. Nothing to worry about. We’ll lose them further down.”
“Unless he’s leaving some kind of trail.”
“A trail?” said Maddy. “Why would he do that?”
“Who knows?” it said. “I told you he was trouble.”
Loki gave a hiss of exasperation. “Trouble?” he said. “Listen, I’m already risking my skin. It happens to be rather a nice skin, and I’m in no hurry to see it damaged. So why would I want to leave a trail? And why in Hel’s name would I want to slow us down?”
Maddy shook her head, abashed. “It’s just that the thought of turning back—”
Once more he gave her a puzzled look. “Who said anything about turning back?”
“But—”
“Maddy,” he said, “I thought you understood. Chaos blood on your mother’s side, Æsir on your father’s. Did you really think that climbing down that cliff was the best option?”
Maddy considered that for a moment. “But I don’t know any glamours—” she began.
“You don’t need to know any glamours,” said Loki. “Glamour is a part of you, like your hair or your eyes or the fact that you’re left-handed. Did Odin have to teach you to throw mindbolts?”
Frowning, Maddy shook her head. Then she remembered Freyja’s feather dress and her face lit up. “I could use Freyja’s cloak,” she suggested.
“No chance. No bird could carry the Whisperer. And besides, I’m getting tired of losing my clothes.”
“Well, what do you suggest?” she said, and then she saw how it might be done. A rope—a thread, even—woven from runes, stretching from the top of the gully to the cave entrance. Úr, the Ox, would make it strong. Naudr, the Binder, would hold it in place. It would need to last a m
oment only—just long enough for them to swing down safely—and then it could be banished as quickly and easily as a spider’s web. She thought it might work, and yet, looking down into the seething water, she began to feel afraid. What if it didn’t? What if she fell, like a fledgling too eager to leave the nest, and was swept away into the Cauldron of Rivers?
Loki was watching her with amusement and impatience. “Come on, Maddy,” he said. “This is child’s play compared to what you did by the fire pit.”
Slowly she nodded, and then she opened her hand and looked at Aesk inscribed on her palm. It was glowing dully, but as she watched, it brightened, as the embers of a fire may brighten when air is blown over them. Closing her eyes, she began to tease out the runes to suit her purpose, as she had once teased the raw wool of newly shorn lambs, thread by thread, around a spindle. She could see it now, growing at her fingertips, a double skein of runelight that was as strong as steel-linked chain and as light as thistledown, and she spun it into the dusky air as a spider spins a web, until it reached the ground by the river’s edge and was securely anchored to the rock.
She tested the line with her careful weight. It held. It felt like corn silk between her fingers. Now for the Whisperer. Tucked into her jacket, it was heavy, but not unbearably so, and she found that with a little adjustment, she could carry it against her chest as she grasped the line with all her strength and jumped into the darkness.
Loki was watching her with a curious, half-admiring expression on his sharp features. In truth, he was feeling very uneasy. It was a simple working, to be sure, but untutored as she was, Maddy had been very quick to find the technique. He wondered how long it would be before she discovered her other skills and how much power she carried in that seemingly inexhaustible reservoir of glam. He himself was growing weak from the effort of resisting the Whisperer’s intrusions into his thoughts. And as Loki in his turn grasped the line, he thought he could see trouble ahead—
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