Runemarks (28 page)

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 the 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.”

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 would 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.