The Testament of Loki

by Joanne M Harris

  “I swear I won’t let you down,” I said. “We’ll meet again, some day, somewhere.”

  Now why did I say that? I thought. It wasn’t like me to make such a promise, still less like me to mean it. Close contact with Jumps must have made me soft—she’d always had a soft spot for Thor—but I knew that my plan had always been to use him as a sacrifice.

  The Oracle was wakeful now: soon it would be back in the Head that it had occupied for so many centuries. In a second, the dream-World would be gone, the bubble dissolved into nothingness. And during that time, I had to ensure my own escape, while ensuring that Jumps returned to her World, and Odin ended up as far away from the Head of the Oracle as I could manage to take him. Forget the goat and the cabbage; this was a juggling trick of colossal proportions.

  But Heidi had one more trick up her sleeve. Assuming her full Aspect, she flung off the Thunderer’s embrace and raised her hand to summon a rune. I flung up a shield—the runeshape Ýr—knowing it wasn’t nearly enough to stop Heidi’s attack, and braced myself for the impact of Hagall, the Destroyer, and my subsequent fall from the sky and back into Pandaemonium.

  But what the Thunderer lacked in speed, he made up in perseverance. Hurling Thúris at Heidi’s rune, he intercepted it in midair, causing a violent release of glam and a sound like two armies colliding. A flash like the forges of Chaos, and both of the combatants were gone, blown into Dream by the impact, extinguished as completely as a candle flame in a window. And then, as that dissolving World finally popped into nothingness, revealing the scene on Castle Hill, I shouted, “Evan, throw it, now!” and the boy threw the Head like a rugby ball, using all his human strength, into the maelstrom of Dream.

  For a moment it hung there, shining like a bauble on a Christmas tree. Odin reached for it, but too late; summoning what was left of my glam, I caught it in a net of runes and flung it like a stone in a sling—flung it right through the skin of that World and into the honeycomb cell beyond—which, if Odin’s theory stood, should contain some other version of Castle Hill, maybe even some other version of Meg, or of Jumps, or Stella, or Evan.

  For a moment, Jumps’s World was all around us—safe and real. The stars shone down on Castle Hill. Evan stared up at the sky. Stella was there too, watching him, her face alight with something that might almost have been admiration. But I barely noticed her. Meg was running towards us, her golden eyes like pinwheels of fire. For a second I thought her smile was for me, until I remembered Jumps at my side, and summoning what strength I had left, I gave her an almighty push, sending her tumbling from the Horse onto the grassy crest of the Hill.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Things to do. Worlds to see.” And then we were off again into the air, faster than the speed of Dream.

  “No!” cried Jumps, as we passed overhead.

  I gave her a little wave.

  But will you be okay? she said.

  “Of course I will. I’m Loki.”

  Then Odin and I were shooting through Dream, with Sleipnir’s colours around us like a giant array of Northlights. For a second I thought I saw Jumps from very, very far away, her arms around Meg, both of them surrounded by something as bright as runelight. I’m not an expert on these things, but I thought at the time that it might have been one of those human emotions, viewed through the lens of my truesight. On the other hand, it might easily have been a fragment of Dream, or a mirage, or a ripple running through that distant reality. As for Thor and Gullveig-Heid, there was no sign of either.

  Odin looked at me and smiled. The eye that Heidi’s runebolt had struck was a mess, the socket empty, a bloody slash across the cheekbone that looked almost like the rune Raedo, reversed. As a consequence, the smile was hardly warm, and yet I took it as promising.

  “Well played,” he said. “I’m assuming you had all this planned from the start?”

  I grinned. “I had a few ideas. Not least, getting Heidi out of the way.”

  “And getting rid of the Oracle?”

  “I thought that might be safest, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t want it in your life,” I said. “It’s nothing but trouble. It’s never told you anything it didn’t plan for you to know; it didn’t give you anything that you could use to help yourself, or save us from the End of the Worlds.”

  “And what about my son?” Odin said.

  I shrugged. “My options were limited. Thor was our best chance of escape. He gave his life to save you.”

  “And the Vanir?”

  “Let sleeping dogs lie,” I said. “Why wake what’s best left sleeping?”

  Odin made a derisive noise. “I know you too well, Trickster,” he said. “You’ve got that innocent look on your face, but I can read your colours. The Oracle prophesied, didn’t it? When you and it were together?”

  “Can’t say I noticed,” I told him.

  Odin gave me a cynical look.

  “So shoot me. Yes. It prophesied. But I’m not going to tell you what it said. Not for the moment, anyway.”

  “Really? And why’s that?”

  “Because each of us has something,” I said, “that the other party wants. I have the missing segment of the Oracle’s Prophecy. Which I will deliver to you just as soon as you give me what I want.”

  “Which is?” said Odin.

  I told him. “Now swear on your name you’ll do it,” I said. “And give me your word you’ll let me go free.”

  Odin gave a wry smile. “You’ve got this all covered, haven’t you?”

  I made Jumps’s favourite noise. “Meh. I believe in being prepared.”

  He sighed. “Very well. We have a deal. Now, what did the Oracle tell you?”

  7.

  It’s always a risk, when you’re working with things that can tell the future. Oracles, though unable to lie, are seldom ever trustworthy. But Odin had never been able to let go of his erstwhile counsellor, and now that I was the only one who could give him Mimir’s prediction, I knew that I could count on him to get me what I needed. To whit: a corporeal Aspect, with a working runemark—which happened to be precisely what Mimir had asked of Jonathan Gift, and which he, in spite of his scruples, had been so close to providing.

  In this World, Gift had told me as we travelled together through Dream, runemarks (or ruinmarks, as he called them) were considered to be an evil sign: a throwback to Tribulation, and those unfortunate enough to be born with one were often shunned or, sometimes, worse. A girl with a visible ruinmark was unlikely ever to marry; elder sons with the mark were passed over in favour of their siblings. And yet these sporadic fragments of glam were all that was left of the Aesir: all that was left in this World of our power to shape and recast Reality.

  Jumps’s World, though marvellous in so many ways, with its screens and its magical gateways, had no such connection with the primal Fire. The World of Asgard!™ had such a connection, but it was a flawed reality, which mirrored ours in so many ways, but which could not be trusted to separate Reality from Dream. However, the World of Jonathan Gift was riddled with our leavings. Runes, the tales of Asgard of old, even the cinders that fell from the sky when Bif-rost collapsed onto the plain—everything was still in place, waiting to be exploited. All Mimir would have needed was the right physical presence in which to be reborn, and in this World he could have regained his Aspect, his powers—even his godhood.

  “So Gift had already located a host?” said Odin, his one eye revealing his eagerness. “A host with a workable runemark?”

  “Absolutely,” I told him. “But Jonathan was plagued with doubts. He knew the Oracle, you see; he knew of its ambitions. And he knew that in the right kind of host, its power would be dangerous.”

  “Whereas you, of course,” said Odin, “would present no risk at all.” I was glad to see he agreed with me, even though he was smiling. “So—where is this host of yours, and how do you mean to command it? Waking humans have minds of their own, and unless you intend to enter through Dream, you may find it
has other ideas.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan,” I said.

  He sighed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  8.

  Always have a plan, I say. Always have a backup plan. Always have another plan for when the backup plan fails. And always plan an exit route for when you abandon the plan and flee. I may sound overcautious, but it’s a strategy that has always worked for me so far, and I’ve been to some pretty dark places.

  Even so, when we landed in darkness, I wondered if we’d mistaken the place. Jonathan had been very precise in giving his instructions, but as Sleipnir came to rest in the corporeal World, I could see that we were not aboveground, but in some kind of a large cellar, with an earthen floor and rocky wall and a smell of dust and spices.

  Odin climbed from the back of the Horse, which had assumed the Aspect of a small, short-legged pony of the type the Tunnel Folk use in mines. It was an appropriate form to take: the tunnel was low, though not narrow, and seemed to lead to a larger storage space. In my discorporate Aspect I could not quite see, but certainly sense the topography of that space, and I knew that this was only a part of a sprawling series of tunnels and vaults that ran beneath the University of World’s End.

  “What are we doing here?” said Odin, striking a light—oh, not with glam, but with a humble tinderbox that he must have found in Jonathan’s pocket. The little flame flared, and we saw rats running away into the walls.

  Have patience, I said—voicelessly, although he could still hear me. I’m going to need you to say a word. A name, in fact, to be precise.

  I fed it directly into his mind, syllable by syllable.

  “And this will do what, exactly?” he said, by then beginning (quite rightly) to feel that some kind of trickery was afoot.

  “Jonathan had helpers,” I said. “Just as we did in Asgard!™. That World was closer to ours, in some ways, than the one into which we were born. And the Oracle had been planning for years its transition into the flesh. But a willing host is not easy to find. Unless made vulnerable through Dream, the host must accept the presence of another being inside his mind. A man with no runemark, a weakling, may sometimes be commanded. But the stronger mind resists. And the Oracle wanted a stronger mind: a mind that could control the runes—and fight with them, if need be.”

  Odin frowned. The blood on his face looked stone black in the light of the flame. “But you said he had secured a host.”

  “Oh yes.” If I’d had a body, I would have been grinning from ear to ear. The Oracle had indeed found a host—the perfect host for its purpose, and mine. Young, strong, but malleable—and yet with the gilding of glamour that came with knowledge of the runes.

  “And after you deliver it, then I can give you the Prophecy.”

  Odin frowned again. I knew that he was deeply suspicious, and yet, he had read my colours, and he knew that my oath was binding.

  “All right,” he said at last, and spoke the word: “Smá-rákki.”

  9.

  It wasn’t much of a trick, TBH. But, then Odin’s not much of a trickster. As he spoke the word, there came a rumbling sound in the underground, a scatter of rats across our path, and when the dust had settled, there was a short and hairy individual standing in the passageway. Not one of the Folk, I surmised: more likely one of the creatures of World Below that survived Ragnarók by mostly being somewhere else at the time. I was reminded of Asgard!™, and its goblin minions, although this creature seemed less generic, its golden eyes shining, its long tail twitching like a squirrel’s.

  “I come like you said,” said the creature, addressing the Aspect of Jonathan Gift. “Now mebbe we could discuss payment before I hands over the package.”

  “The package?” said Odin.

  The creature tutted. It looked aggressive in spite of its size, bristling with mismatched armour. An overlarge helmet covered its head; a breastplate shielded the generous paunch above its bowed and stumpy little legs. I’d had the odd dealings with goblins before: they were often erratic creatures, but their self-interest was reliable.

  “A hundred barrels of ale, you said,” the creature went on. “That was the deal. A hundred barrels, and then we’ll talk.”

  “We’ll talk now,” said Odin. “Or do you doubt my promise?”

  “No need to be narsty,” said the goblin sulkily. “We had a deal. I done my bit.”

  Meanwhile, with my ephemeral senses, I was searching for the host. I thought a runemark ought to have some kind of a tangible presence. Even here, the colours should be bright and unmistakable. But in the dark of the passageway, all I could see was the butterfly blue of Odin’s shadow against the wall, and the goblin’s golden signature, jumping like a cracker.

  “An hundred barrels of ale, you said,” repeated the goblin stubbornly.

  “You shall have them,” said Odin, clearly forgetting that in this World he was Jonathan Gift, not Allfather. “You have my word.”

  The goblin sniggered. “You’ll ’ave to do better than that,” he said. “Words don’t do nuthin’ when you’ve gotta thirst on.”

  Odin was looking frustrated. “Give me the Prophecy,” he said, apparently addressing me (although strictly speaking, I wasn’t there).

  When I’m in the flesh, I said, I swear that the first words I speak will be the words of the Oracle. Which was totally true, of course, though not quite as Odin expected it. And now I reached out to the creature, standing with its arms crossed, looking up at Odin with an air of belligerence.

  Pay no attention to Jonathan Gift. This is where the money is. Stick with me, Smá-rákki, and I promise you a lot more than a few dozen barrels of ale.

  The goblin narrowed its golden eyes at the figure of Sleipnir. Goblins don’t have runemarks, but they do have glam, of a lesser kind. Glam enough to move through walls, and to see things hidden to the Folk. I knew it could see me, ephemeral as I was, and the Horse, behind its disguise. Its colours flared suspiciously.

  “Like what?” it said at last.

  You’ll see. Now, when I give the word, do as I say.

  The goblin gave a whole-body shrug. “I don’t much care for—”

  Not aloud, Smá-rákki. A named thing is a tamed thing. Thus are you named, and bound to my will. Now, when I give the word—

  “Yes, sir,” it said.

  It’s all about the timing, of course. The trick, the tease, the sleight of hand. Odin should have known that, but he was distracted—perhaps by his wounded face, perhaps by the promise of prophecy. I’d been counting on his being slow to respond, slow to react, slow to understand the fact that he was being double-crossed again. And yet, even in his weakened state, his mind still unused to Jonathan’s, I was wary. His instincts were good. He might, even now, obstruct me.

  Now, I whispered silently.

  The goblin beckoned. “Over here!”

  Odin stepped away from the Horse. For a moment I saw him peering one-eyed into the darkness. And then the goblin took Sleipnir’s mane—rather gingerly, I thought—and hauled himself into position beside me.

  “I’m not so sure about this—” he began.

  Odin turned, and his one eye gleamed as he saw Sleipnir shifting Aspect from the mundane to the ephemeral. He started forward, anger and fear flaring through his colours, but it was already too late—we had begun the shift from the corporeal plane into Dream. I heard him call my name, and sent him the tiniest of waves.

  “No hard feelings, Brother,” I said. “See you on the other side.”

  Then I urged the Horse out of the World, passing through the thick stone walls and galleries of the underground, then, rising above the towers of the University of World’s End, and into the clouds, riding fast over valleys and rivers and peaks towards the place where my new host lay, fast asleep in his cradle.

  10.

  In this World, Jonathan Gift had said, babies with runemarks were often seen as changelings, left by the goblins in the place of a normal child. In rural parts, such babies were someti
mes even abandoned at birth—a practice frowned upon by the Church, but commonly ignored by it, too. Jonathan Gift had been under orders from Mimir’s Head to seek such a child, a child with a mark of power, which could serve as its human host. Which was good news for Yours Truly, currently between Aspects, and eager to be back in the flesh.

  On Sleipnir, our journey lasted only a matter of moments. My coconspirator’s wail of alarm had barely ceased to resonate by the time the Horse touched down, somewhere in the Northlands. Goblins don’t like sunlight, and as soon as Sleipnir’s hooves hit the ground, it scuttled under a fallen rock, leaving me to take in a scene of almost perfect tranquillity.

  We had landed on the crest of a hill, overlooking a valley. In my current form, I could not breathe the sweetness of the air, or feel the warmth of the dying sun; but I took a moment to take in the view, the gentle grassy slope of the hill, softened by tufts of rabbit-tail grass. Crows scattered across the purple sky; from the valley below came the sounds of sheep and cattle grazing. A valley of woods and meadows and fields, enclosed by a chain of mountains and containing several villages of no great size or importance, surrounded by farmlands and wetlands and woods. A good place to grow up, I thought, as Sleipnir, in mundane Aspect again, started to crop the grass of the hill. A good place to lay down some roots.

  “On what was once the battlefield

  A New Age dawns. Its children

  Find the golden gaming-boards

  Of bright Asgard, the fallen.”

  I hadn’t realized I’d spoken the words of the Oracle aloud. The goblin, emerging from under its rock to find that the hill was in shadow, blinked at me, golden-eyed, and said with some suspicion, “What’s that?”

  “Oh, just something I heard once,” I said, still looking out at the valley. I knew I’d never been there before, and yet I couldn’t help thinking that the place seemed vaguely familiar. Something about the shape of that hill and the ring of distant mountains behind, with the sunset turning the peaks to brass all around the skyline. I thought there was something familiar, too, about the shape of that valley: the soft steep incline down from the hill, and Sleipnir’s signature in the sky making a kind of runeshape—