And why would that be? said a voice in his mind.
Loki flinched at its unexpected presence. With the distractions of their downward journey he had found it harder and harder to keep his thoughts his own. Below him the river seethed and spat, and he suddenly wished that he was carrying the Whisperer—as it was, he was too helpless, he thought, strung out in the air like a bead on a thread. The thing in his mind caught his discomfort and grinned.
Get out of my head, you old voyeur.
What’s wrong? Guilty conscience?
Guilty what?
Silently it laughed. To Loki its laughter felt like dead fingernails scraping the inside of his skull. He began to sweat. Maddy had reached the far side of the river, but Loki was barely halfway there, and already the runes were beginning to fail. His arms hurt, his head ached, and he was all too aware of the drop below. And the Whisperer was aware of it too, amused and merciless, watching him squirm…
Seriously, Mimir. I’m trying to concentrate.
Seriously, Dogstar. What’s your plan?
Loki tried to recast the runes, but the Whisperer’s presence was too strong, making him writhe like a worm on a line.
Hurts you, doesn’t it? it said, tightening its grip more cruelly—
And in that moment, as the Whisperer reached out in its unguarded glee, Loki saw something that made him catch his breath. For as his mind and the Oracle’s touched, he had caught a glimpse of something more—something buried so deep in the Whisperer’s mind that only its shadow was visible.
(!)
In that instant the Whisperer fled.
Then it was back, its playfulness gone, and Loki sensed its lethal intent. A fearsome bolt of pain went through his body, and he fought the Whisperer with all his strength as it plundered his mind for what he’d seen.
Spy on me, would you, you little sneak?
“No! Please!” Loki howled.
One more sound and I’ll take you apart.
Loki clamped his scarred lips shut. He could see Maddy below him, holding out her hand across the last stretch of water, the rune Naudr stretched out almost to breaking point between them.
That’s better, the Oracle said. Now, about that plan…
For a second longer its hold increased, wringing him like a wet dishcloth. His fingers cramped; his vision blurred; one hand left the disintegrating line to cast runes of strength into the darkness—
And then the line gave way, pitching Loki toward the racing Strond. He leaped for the other side, casting feather-light runes with both hands, and landed, one foot in the water, on the rocky far side of the churning gulf, and found, to his relief, that the Oracle was gone. Pale and shaking, he hauled himself out.
“What’s wrong?” said Maddy, seeing his face.
“Nothing. Headache. It must be the air.”
He stumbled on, carefully keeping his mind a blank. That little glimpse had been bad enough, but he knew that if the Whisperer guessed the full extent of his knowledge, then nothing—not even Maddy—could save him.
And that was how they crossed the river that marks the edge of World Below and the beginning of the long, well-traveled road to Death, Dream, and Damnation.
12
Hawk-eyed Heimdall never slept. Even at his moments of lowest ebb he kept one eye open, which was why he had been chosen as the watchman of the Æsir in the days when such things as watchmen were still necessary. That night, however, none of the Vanir dared to rest—except Idun, whose trusting nature set her apart, and Freyja, whose complexion needed its eight hours. Instead they sat, uneasy, waiting for Odin.
“What makes you think he’ll come at all?” said Njörd at last, looking out the parlor window. The moon was rising; it was eleven, maybe twelve, and nothing had stirred since just after nine, when a fox had run across the open courtyard and vanished into the shadows at the side of the parsonage. There had been a moment of uncertainty as the Vanir fell over themselves to make sure the creature was just an ordinary fox, and then, for hours, silence—a tense, awkward silence that oppressed their senses like fog.
“He’ll come,” said Skadi. “He’ll want to talk. He’ll have gotten our message, and besides—”
Heimdall interrupted her. “If you were Odin, would you come?”
“He may not come alone,” said Bragi.
“Yes, he will,” said Skadi. “He’ll want to negotiate. He’ll try to buy you back into his service using the Whisperer as bait.” She smiled as she said it; only she knew that Odin had nothing with which to bargain. Loki’s trail led under the Hill, and she had every reason to believe that he had the Whisperer, sure as rats run. “But he’s tricky,” she warned. “He can’t be trusted. It would be just his style to lead us into a trap—”
“Stop it,” said Heimdall. “We’ve heard your opinion. We understand the risk. Why else would we be here, making bargains with the Folk?” He sighed, looking suddenly tired. “I see no honor in this, Huntress, and if you ask me, you’re taking a damn sight too much pleasure in it.”
“Very well,” said Skadi. “Then I’ll let you do the talking. I’ll keep my distance and only intervene if there’s trouble. All right? Is that fair?”
Heimdall looked surprised. “Thanks,” he said.
“All the same,” said the Huntress, “perhaps the parson should be here. If Odin comes armed…”
But on that the Vanir were united. “The six of us can deal with him,” said Njörd. “We don’t need the preacher fellow or his Word.”
Skadi shrugged. By the end of that night she was quite certain that they would think otherwise.
Odin came an hour later, in the silvery glow of a false dawn. In full Aspect—a vanity that must have cost him the greater part of his remaining glam—tall, blue-cloaked, spear in hand, his single eye shining like a star from beneath the brim of his Journeyman’s hat.
In wolf guise Skadi watched him from the outskirts of the village, knowing that he would come prepared for this meeting. His signature glowed; he looked relaxed and rested—all part of the act, of course, but she had to admit that it was impressive. Only her wolf’s acute senses were able to discern the truth beneath the glamour—the faint scent of anxious sweat, of dirt, of fatigue—and she snarled a smile of satisfaction.
So she’d been right, then. He was bluffing. His glam was at low ebb, he was alone, and the only advantage he still possessed—their enduring loyalty—was about to be taken away.
She raced him back to the parsonage and, entering through the half-open side door, made her way rapidly to awaken Nat. “He’s here,” she said.
Nat replied with a curt nod. He did not seem at all confused by his sudden awakening—in fact, Skadi wondered whether he had been asleep at all. He stood up, and she saw he had slept in his clothes. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight, his teeth grinned, his colors showed nothing but excitement, and one hand went without hesitation to the Good Book at his bedside while the other clutched at the golden key on its leather thong.
“You remember what to do?” she said.
Silently he nodded.
Ethelberta had shrieked to see the white wolf at her bedside, then shrieked even louder as Skadi had resumed her natural form. Neither the Huntress nor Nat himself had paid her the slightest attention.
Now, lying in bed in her nightgown, she was trembling. “Nat, please,” she said.
Nat didn’t even look at her. In fact, at that moment he didn’t look much like Nat at all, standing next to the bed in his shirt and trousers, his long shadow brushing the ceiling, and a glow—she was sure it was some sort of glow—coming from his eager eyes.
Ethelberta sat up, still mortally afraid but struggling to express her outrage, her fury at this shameless creature—this naked harpy—that had seduced her husband into madness and worse. She knew herself she’d never been a beauty, not even in her younger days. And even if she had—the May Queen herself couldn’t hold a candle to the demon he called the Huntress. But Ethelberta loved her husband, vain and
shallow as he was, and she was not about to stand by and watch him consumed.
“Please,” she repeated, clutching at his arm. “Please, Nat—just send it away. Send them all away, Nat. They’re demons; they’ve stolen your mind…”
Nat only laughed. “Go back to bed,” he said, and in the darkness his voice seemed to have a resonance that it had not possessed in daylight. “This is no concern of yours. I’m here on the Order’s business, and I’ll not have you interfering in it.”
“But, Nat, I’m your wife…”
He looked at her then, and his eyes were pinwheels of strange fire. “An Examiner of the Order has no wife,” he said—
And collapsed.
He was out for only a few seconds. Skadi revived him with a sharp pinch while Ethelberta sat with eyes brimming and her hands clapped tightly over her mouth.
An Examiner of the Order has no wife.
What was that supposed to mean? Ethel Parson was no more regarded for her intellect than for her beauty—everyone knew she’d bought her rank with her father’s money. Nor was she much of an independent thinker. No one had ever encouraged her to speak for herself. It was enough, she was told, to do one’s duty: to be a good daughter of the Church, a good mistress, a good hostess, a good wife. She’d also hoped to be a good mother—but that joy had never been granted her. Nevertheless, Ethel was no fool, and now her mind raced to comprehend what was happening.
An Examiner of the Order has no wife…
What did that mean? Ethel, of course, had no illusions regarding her husband’s devotion to her. An ugly girl rarely marries for love. And money, unlike beauty, often increases with age. Still, to be rejected in such a crude way, and in front of her—
This is no time for self-pity, Ethelberta. Remember who you are.
The inner voice that spoke these words was harsh but somehow familiar; Ethelberta listened to it in growing surprise. Why, that’s my voice, she thought. It was the first time she had ever really considered such a thing.
She looked at her husband, still lying on the floor. She was conscious of a number of feelings: anxiety, fear, betrayal, hurt. She understood all of those. But there was something else too, something she finally recognized—with some surprise—as contempt.
“Ethel…,” said Nat in a weak voice. “Bring me water and some clothes. My boots from the scullery and a gown for my lady. Your pink silk will do well enough, or perhaps the lilac.”
Ethelberta hesitated. Obedience was in her nature, after all, and it felt terribly disloyal to stand by and do nothing while her husband was in need. But that inner voice, once heard, was difficult to ignore. “Fetch it yourself,” she snapped, and gathering her dressing gown about her shoulders, she turned and strode out of the room.
Her departure did not particularly trouble Nat. He had other things on his mind—matters of importance, not least what had occurred just before he passed out: that rush of energy, that certainty of purpose, that overwhelming feeling of being someone else, not just a country parson with nothing on his mind save tithes and confessionals, but someone quite different.
He reached for the Good Book at the side of his bed, strangely comforted by the small familiar weight of it in his hand and by the warmth and smoothness of the well-worn cover. Then, taking the golden key from around his neck, Nat Parson opened the Book of Words.
This time the rush of power barely slowed him down. And the words themselves—those alien, terrible canticles of power—made more sense to him now, scrolling off the page, as easy and familiar as the rhymes he’d learned at his mother’s knee. It made Nat feel a little light-headed: that what only yesterday had seemed so new and intimidating should have become so quickly, so hauntingly, familiar.
Skadi was watching him, closely and with suspicion. What had happened? One moment he was lying on the floor, giving orders to Ethel and calling for his boots, the next he was simply…different. As if a light had been lit or a wheel spun that had turned him from the soft, rather vain individual he’d been into another creature altogether. And all that in the batting of an eyelash. The Word, perhaps? Or simply the thrill of anticipated action?
It was a matter she would have liked to explore more fully, but there was no time. Odin was on his way, and for the moment she needed this man—and his Word—if her plan was to succeed. Afterward she would see. The parson was expendable, and when he had served his purpose, Skadi would have no regret in terminating their arrangement.
As a matter of fact, she thought, it might even be a relief.
13
In the old days, thought Heimdall, they would have held their counsel in Bragi’s hall. There would have been mead and ale, laughter and song. Now, of course, just thinking about those days depressed him.
He looked out the window. Odin was waiting in the courtyard, no longer a bent old man, but standing taller than any human, clad in the light of his true Aspect. To Heimdall he looked as if he were made of light, and if any of the Folk had dared to look, they would have seen it, that signature blue, blazing from the face of the one-eyed beggar, streaming from his fingertips, crackling through his hair.
“I’ll go,” said Heimdall.
“We’ll all go,” said Frey.
He looked around at the remaining Vanir. They too were in Aspect, filled with light: Idun and Bragi in summer gold, Njörd with his harpoon, and Freyja—Freyja…
Hastily he turned away. It is never wise to look directly upon the goddess of desire in her true Aspect, not even for her own brother. He murmured, “I wonder, sister, whether it’s entirely prudent—”
Freyja laughed—a sound halfway between the clinking of coins and the last chuckle of a dying man. “Dear brother,” she said. “I have my own issues with Odin One-Eye. Believe me, I wouldn’t miss this meeting for the world.”
There was a bottle of wine on the table beside them. Bragi picked it up. By the laws laid down in the oldest days, where food and drink have been shared, there can be no bloodshed. Bragi’s hall might be dust, but the laws of honor and hospitality still stood, and if Odin wanted to parley—well. Whatever was done would be done according to the Law.
For a moment they faced each other. Six Vanir and One-Eye, gleaming like something out of legend, like mountains in the sun.
Odin offered bread and salt.
Bragi poured wine into a goblet.
One by one, the Vanir drank.
Only Skadi did not, of course; she was in the house with Nat Parson, watching from the bay window. The time was close—she could feel it in every sinew. In her hand she held a scrap of gossamer lace, inscribed with Fé, the rune of Wealth. And at her side Nat Parson clutched the Book of Words and stared. And unknown to either of them, unknown even to the gods whose fates lay so dangerously entwined, a third person was watching the meeting with horror and mounting outrage as she stood, hidden and shivering, in the doorway of the house.
When the last of them had honored the ancient Law, Odin allowed himself to relax. “My friends,” he said. “It’s good to see you. Even in these evil times, it is very good.” His one eye traveled over the assembled Vanir. “But someone is missing,” he said quietly. “The Huntress, I think?”
Heimdall showed his golden teeth. “She thought it better to keep away. You’ve already tried to kill her once.”
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“I’m glad,” said Heimdall. “Because Skadi was under the impression that you had betrayed us. That Loki was free and that you and he were together again, just like in the old days, as if nothing had happened. As if Ragnarók were just a game we lost and this was just another round.” He looked at Odin through narrowed eyes. “Of course, that’s where Skadi got it wrong,” he said. “You’d never do that, would you, Odin? You’d never do that, knowing what it would mean to our friendship and our alliance.”
For a time Odin remained silent. He’d anticipated this. It was Heimdall, of all the Vanir, who most detested Loki, and of all the Vanir, fierce, loyal Heimdall was th
e one Odin valued most. On the other hand, he valued Maddy, and if she had taken the Whisperer…
“Old friend—” he began.
“Cut the crap,” said Heimdall. “Is it true?”
“Well, yes, it is.” Odin smiled. “Now before you jump to any conclusions”—Heimdall had frozen in astonishment, mouth gaping midword—“before any of you jump to any conclusions,” repeated Odin, still smiling at the circle of Vanir that now enclosed him, “I’d like you to hear my side of the tale.”
And as Allfather began to speak, no one saw a tiny creature—a common brown mouse—dart out from behind one of the parsonage outbuildings and cross the yard. No one saw the trail it left and no one saw the thing it carried, very carefully, in its teeth—a scented scrap of something light as spider gauze, pretty as a primrose—and dropped not a foot away from where Odin was standing. Dropped on his blind side and left on the ground, shining ever so slightly among the glamours and dust, just waiting to be picked up and admired; a dainty thing, a trifle—an object of desire.
“To you, my friends,” Odin began, “Ragnarók was yesterday. But many things have changed since then. The gods of Asgard are almost extinct; our names forgotten, our territories lost. We were arrogant enough to think that the Worlds would end with us at Ragnarók. But an age is simply one season’s growth to Yggdrasil, the World Ash. To the Tree, we are simply last year’s leaves, fallen and waiting to be swept up.”
Frey spoke up. “Five hundred years, and that’s the best news you can give us?”
Odin smiled. “I don’t mean to sound negative.”
“Negative!” said Heimdall.
“Heimdall, please. I have told you the truth—but there are other things you need to know. Skadi may have told you of the Order”—scurrying back through a hole in the fence, a brown mouse stopped and raised its head—“but she, like you, has slept since Ragnarók. I, on the other hand, have made it my business to study and to understand the Order ever since it was first begun.”
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