Runemarks

by Joanne Harris

  Heimdall gave him a suspicious look. “And your findings?”

  “Well. At first sight it seems simple. Throughout the history of the Worlds there have been gods and their enemies, Order and Chaos existing in balance. The Worlds need both. They need to change, as the World Tree drops its leaves in order to grow. When we were gods, we understood that. We valued the balance of Order and Chaos and took care to preserve it. But this Order sees things differently. It seeks not to maintain, but to destroy the balance of things, to wipe out anything that is not of itself. And that doesn’t just mean a few dead leaves.” He paused again and looked around at the Vanir. “In short, my friends, it wants summer all year round. And if it can’t have it, it will cut down the tree.”

  He stretched then and finished the wine, spilling the last few drops onto the earth as an offering to any old gods that might be around. “Now, I don’t know quite what Skadi has told you or what deal she thinks she has made with the Folk, but I can tell you this: the Order doesn’t make deals. All its members think as one, it has powers I’m only just beginning to appreciate, and if we are to stand a chance against it, then we need to stand united. We can’t afford to nurse grudges, or to plot revenges, or to get judgmental about our allies. Our position is simple. Anyone who isn’t a member of the Order is on our side. Whether they know it—whether they like it—whether we like it—or not.”

  A very long silence followed Odin’s speech. Bragi lay on his back and looked up, turning his face toward the stars. Frey closed his eyes. Njörd smoothed his long beard. Heimdall cracked his knuckles. Idun began to hum to herself, and Freyja ran her fingers over the links of her necklace, making a sound like a dream of avarice. Odin One-Eye forced himself to wait quietly, staring out into the darkness.

  Finally Heimdall spoke up. “I made an oath,” he said. “Regarding the Trickster.”

  Odin gave him a reproving look. “As I recall, you fulfilled it at Ragnarók. How many more times do you have to kill him?”

  “Once more should do it,” said Heimdall between his teeth.

  “Now you’re being childish,” said Odin firmly. “Like it or not, we need Loki. And besides, there’s something I haven’t told you yet. Our branch of the Tree is not as dead as we thought. A new shoot has grown from the World Ash. Its name is Modi, and if we get this right, it will build us a ladder to the stars.”

  Inside the parsonage Skadi heard Odin’s words and smiled.

  Nat, at her side with the Book of Words open and ready, turned to her with an inquiring look. He looked pale, and feverish, and half mad with impatience; at his fingertips the Word crackled like kindling.

  “Is it time?” he asked.

  Skadi nodded as she spoke the tiniest of cantrips, and at Odin’s feet there was a gleam of response. The handkerchief she had dropped seemed to come into focus: a lovely thing, fashioned with care, embroidered with rosettes and forget-me-nots and edged with cobweb lace. As she’d planned, the rune Fé caught his eye; he picked up the scrap of embroidered lace and for a second held it out, uncertain, before taking a long step forward to make his bow, the handkerchief held between his fingers, at the elegant feet of the goddess of desire.

  “Now,” said Skadi, and at her side Nat began to read from the Book of Invocations.

  And in the doorway of the parsonage, a third watcher drew a deep breath and took a first, faltering step out of the shadows.

  Ethelberta Parson had had much to bear during the last twenty-four hours. In that short time she had seen the overthrowing of her household, the plundering of her wardrobe, the ransacking of her cellars, and the apparent seduction of her staid husband by a band of degenerates who were even now preparing to return to the parsonage and raid what was left of her wine store.

  She could deal with this, she told herself firmly. All it would take was a little common sense. Now was the time to take charge, to oust these interlopers from her home, and if Nat didn’t like it, then he could join them, as far as she was concerned, but they would not step inside her house again, nor would she let them take so much as a rag of hers—no, not if the Nameless itself ordered her to.

  Her first step was unsteady as she left the shadow of the doorway arch. It took her into a circle of light—not moonlight, she thought, for the moon was down. Ahead of her the one-eyed peddler stood, head bent, in front of the flax-haired jade who had stolen Ethel’s green silk dress (and the fact that it suited Freyja far better than it had ever suited her made Ethel gnash her teeth with unladylike violence), and from them both, that strange, unseasonal light shone, making giants of the beggar and the harlot, making them more beautiful, more radiant, more terrifying, than any mortal has a right to be.

  And as Ethel took another step, her mouth hanging open now in wonder and fear, the peddler held out his hand to the whore, and there in his palm was a scrap of something, a web-spun, tantalizing wisp of lace and moonlight, which he offered to the woman in the green dress, saying, “Yours, my lady?”

  This was the moment Nat had awaited. He’ll give her the handkerchief, Skadi had said. At that moment—and at that moment only—may you unleash the Word. A second too soon and all will be ruined. A second too late and we’ll lose the bastard. But if you get it right, Parson, then vengeance will be ours—and with the blessing of the Vanir as recompense.

  Of course, Skadi thought now, the loss of Freyja would hit them hard. Her lip curled as she considered it—in her estimation it showed very poor taste—but she was sure that they would take some consolation in the pursuit of their revenge.

  Try forging an alliance with them after that, she thought, and growled with pleasure in her throat as at her side Nat Parson waited, trembling now but filled with the Word, teeming with it, glowing with it.

  It was a marvelous feeling: his blood felt volatile, as if every vein and artery had been filled with hot brandy. He was not quite himself, he knew—he was maybe even a little insane—but why should he care, if it felt like this?

  And then Ethelberta stepped out into the light.

  “That’s my wife,” said Nat in surprise.

  Skadi cursed and flung her glam.

  “Now!” she repeated, cursing again, for Ethel was in the way, damn her, Ethel was between them, snatching at the thing in Freyja’s hand and shouting, “No more, lady, not even a rag!” while the Vanir watched, some smiling, still unaware of their peril. And now Skadi cursed again, more fiercely this time, in a demon tongue, because the Word—the canticle that should have frozen Odin to the spot as the Vanir watched and Freyja fell lifeless to the ground—the Word had failed her, Nat had failed her, saying, That’s my wife, in that numb, stupid voice as the glamour shot from his fingertips, missed Odin by a gnat’s wing, and went on to freeze a bird from the sky three miles from the village, while in the courtyard of the parsonage the following things all happened at once:

  In a second the circle of Vanir broke apart.

  Heimdall threw himself to one side, mindbolts at his fingertips.

  Bragi sang a song of protection.

  Frey drew his mindsword and made for the house.

  Freyja shifted into the form of a red-tailed falcon and soared out of the danger zone, leaving Ethelberta’s green silk dress empty.

  And such was the riot of glamours, movement, and noise that for a time no one noticed the parson’s wife lying dead on the ground or the fact that somehow, in the confusion, Odin One-Eye had disappeared.

  Inside the house Skadi flung Isa at Frey, freezing him where he stood. She turned to Nat. “Can you do it?” she demanded. “Can you stop them all?”

  Nat hesitated. “Ethel,” he said.

  “Forget her,” said Skadi. “She got in the way.” She grabbed Nat by the arm and forced him to look at her. “Now tell me, Parson, can you do it?”

  For a moment he stared at her. The Huntress in Aspect is a fearsome sight, even to the gods. Nat felt sick. The Word and the feelings it had conjured inside him had evaporated; it might return, he told himself, but he wou
ld need time to recapture it, time to prepare…

  “Magister,” he whispered.

  “What?” she said.

  “A gift,” said the parson. “For loyal service.”

  Skadi cursed and flung another mindbolt into the night. This was what came of dealing with the Folk, she told herself fiercely. She’d thought him different; the more fool she. The man was weak, his mind was wandering, and any second now the Vanir would finally understand who had betrayed them and come running.

  Once more she cast Isa into the courtyard. Njörd froze, one hand on his harpoon. But it would not last. Without the Word to immobilize them and make them helpless, the Vanir outclassed her by a long way.

  One last time Skadi turned to the parson. He was pale and sweating. Shocked, perhaps, by the death of his wife, but looking into his haunted eyes, Skadi didn’t think so. She had seen trances that looked like this in men who had worshiped her in the distant past. After the ecstasy, the horror. She saw it in Nat Parson’s eyes, the gaping, empty horror, and knew then that they had lost. Odin was gone, and in seconds the Vanir would be upon them.

  Till next time, then, the Huntress thought. She put her hands on the parson’s shoulders.

  “Listen to me, fellow,” she said.

  Slowly his eyes turned toward her. “Don’t…call…me…fellow,” he whispered.

  Ah. At last, a reaction. Good, she thought. “If you want to live, then do as I say. Do you want to live?”

  Wordless, he nodded.

  “Then come with me, Parson, if you can. Take your Book. Follow me. And run.” And with that she shifted into her snow-wolf form, shot through the open back door, her pads soundless on the hard ground, and vanished like smoke into the night.

  14

  In less than a minute—at a single word—the life Nat had always known was over. Gone was the parsonage; gone wife, flock, comfort, ambitions. Now he was a fugitive.

  Ahead of him the snow wolf raced toward the safety of Red Horse Hill. The air was sharp and clean, the ground underfoot brittle with frost. Dawn was approaching; birds sang and a pale green light bled the violet from the sky. It occurred to Nat suddenly that it had been years since he’d watched the sun rise.

  Now he could watch it whenever he pleased.

  The knowledge was suddenly so overwhelming that he laughed aloud; the snow wolf paused briefly, snarled, and padded on.

  Nat ignored her. Freedom at last, freedom to do what he’d always yearned for, freedom to use his talents, his power—

  Tsk-tsk, begone!

  Nat frowned. Whose words were those?

  He shook his head to clear it. He’d been under some stress, he told himself. It was only natural that there should be a little confusion, a little disorientation in his mind. After all, he’d lost his wife—

  An Examiner of the Order has no wife.

  The words came unbidden into his mind, and now he remembered them, as in a dream, remembered saying something of the kind to Ethelberta as he collapsed, exhausted—and the voice had spoken—to him—through him…

  It was the same voice. Mournful now, but a voice of authority nevertheless—soft, precise, and with a trace of arrogance—and now he thought it was almost familiar, haunting as a tune forgotten since childhood and overheard years later, unexpectedly, from a distance.

  “Who are you?” whispered Nat, his eyes widening. “Are you a demon? Am I possessed?”

  In his mind there came a sigh no louder than a breath of air.

  He hears me, it sighed. At last, he hears me.

  “What are you?” he repeated sharply.

  A man, it said. A man, I think…

  “What man?” said Nat.

  Elias Rede, whispered the voice. Examiner Number 4421974.

  For a time Nat Parson stood transfixed. The dawn had turned out to be a disappointment. No sun shone; the day’s promise was lost under a pall of cloud, and suddenly Nat Parson was bursting for a piss, but to relieve himself in the nearby bushes now felt somehow indecent with this interloper in his mind.

  “You’re supposed to be dead,” he said at last.

  Perhaps, said the Examiner, but I’m still here.

  “Well, go away then,” said Nat. “Go join the Nameless, or the Hordes of Hel, or wherever you’re supposed to go when you die.”

  You think I haven’t tried? said the Examiner. You think I wanted to be stuck inside your mind?

  “It’s not my fault you got stuck.”

  Oh, isn’t it? said the Examiner. Who got in my way when I spoke the Word? Who stole power from my final casting? And who’s been using the Book of Words without control, without any kind of authority—not to speak of fasting, meditation, or indeed any of the Advanced or even the Intermediary States of Bliss—ever since?

  “Oh,” said the parson. “That.”

  There was rather a long silence.

  “I meant well,” he said at last.

  No, you didn’t, said the Examiner. You meant to seize power.

  “Then why didn’t you stop me?”

  Ah, said the Examiner.

  There was another silence.

  “Well?” said Nat.

  Well, as an Examiner, I had certain duties, certain restrictions—protocols to be observed, fasting, preparation—and now… It paused, and Nat felt its laughter inside his head. Do I really need to explain, Parson? You’ve tasted it—you know how it feels…

  “So all that stuff—about using the Word without authority—all that was just to make me feel inferior, was it?”

  Well, let’s face it, you are only a parson, and—

  “Only a parson! I’ll have you know—”

  My good fellow, I—

  “And don’t call me fellow!”

  And at that he turned, unbuttoned, aimed for the bushes, and watered them, luxuriantly and at length, as Examiner 4421974 spluttered and protested in his mind and Skadi, in wolf form, caught the scent of their prey and began to run, heedless of the little drama being enacted on the road behind her, toward the Horse’s Eye.

  The posse on the hilltop saw them coming. A small posse—a group of four, posted there by Nat with orders to report any unusual activity to or from the Horse’s Eye. There had been none—much to their relief—save a few scuttling things at around midnight that might have been rats (but were probably goblins).

  Now the men were dozing under the wheel of one of the silent machines while Adam Scattergood, who had bravely volunteered for the safest duty, sat cross-legged on a stone, eating a smoked sausage and watching the road.

  He jumped from his perch at once when he saw Nat.

  “Mr. Parson! Over here!”

  As he’d intended, his cry alerted the sleeping men. (His uncle had promised him a shilling if he would stay awake.)

  Dorian Scattergood opened one eye. At his side Jed Smith and Audun Briggs were already stirring. By the time the parson reached the foot of the Hill, all three looked as if they had been alert for hours.

  It was then that they saw the white wolf. She had run ahead of the parson, breasting the Hill on the blind side, and so was upon them before they knew what was happening. A white snow wolf, brindled with gray, her dark muzzle folded in a velvet snarl displaying teeth as sharp and white as a row of icicles.

  They panicked. Wolves were rare in the Strond Valley, and it was the first time any of them but Dorian had seen one so close. That experience saved his life; instinctively he faced it, spreading his arms with a loud cry, and Skadi veered away, catching the scent of an easier prey, leaped at Audun, who had gone for his pack (a knife dangled uselessly from his belt), and took out his throat as neatly as a boy bobs an apple.

  It had been a trying night for the Huntress. The frustration of her plans, the weakness of her companion, the escape of her quarry, and the cumulative effect of having spent so much time in animal skin—all these things conspired to strengthen her wolf’s instincts, to urge her to hunt, to bite, to seek relief in blood.

  Besides, she was hungry.
She shook her quarry energetically, though by then Audun was almost certainly dead, and having sniffed delicately at the blood, she began to feed.

  The other three stared in disbelief. Jed Smith, sagging with shock, went for the crossbow at his side. Dorian began to back away, very carefully, down the far hillside, without taking his eyes for one moment from the feeding wolf. (This too was to save his life.)

  Adam, no hero, was violently sick.

  And it was at this point that Nat reached them.

  “Mr. Parson,” said Jed in a low voice.

  Nat ignored him. He stood in a trance, head slightly lowered, eyes fixed on the opening in the Hill. The feeding wolf looked up for a second, bared her teeth, and returned to her kill. The parson seemed hardly to notice.

  Adam Scattergood, who had never been given to fanciful thoughts, found himself thinking, He looks dead.

  In fact, Nat had never felt so much alive. The sudden discovery in his mind of Examiner 4421974 had unexpectedly put things into perspective for him. He was not mad, as he’d feared. The voice was real. His initial terror and outrage at his mind’s invasion had settled; now he realized that there was nothing to be afraid of. His was the power. He was in control. And wasn’t it fine—wasn’t it right—to wield such power over the fellow who had snubbed him?

  Your wolf is eating that man. I thought you should know.

  Nat glanced at Skadi. Her muzzle, ruff, and forelegs were illuminated with blood. “Leave her,” he said. “She has to eat.”

  Jed Smith, his crossbow raised, overheard and stared in horror. Since the roundhouse he’d been glad to give Skadi a wide berth, but tales of her powers had been whispered afar, and he was in no doubt that this was the same demon woman who had killed the Examiner and taken hold of the parson’s mind.

  “Mr. Parson?” he said.

  Eyes that seemed unnaturally bright fixed Jed in their gaze.