Joanne Harris - Runemarks

With her hands Maddy swept the loose snow from the face of the last Sleeper. Freyja slept on, beautiful and impassive, giving nothing away.

Dared she wake her? Could she even be certain that Freyja-or any of the Vanir-would be any more helpful than Skadi or Idun? Of course, Skadi was only one of the Vanir by marriage; she came from the Ice People of the north, a savage race with whom the gods had held an uneasy truce. Surely it had been pure bad luck that she had woken Skadi first, and surely the other Vanir would be keen and ready to rescue their general.

Rapidly Maddy went over in her mind all that she remembered about Freyja. The goddess of desire, Freyja the Fair, Freyja the Fickle, Freyja the Falcon-Cloaked-

Ah. That was it.

Sudden excitement surged through Maddy. Now she could see a glimmer of hope-not much, but enough-that once more set her heart beating fast.

The runes felt familiar now, kindling quickly beneath her fingers. Here too the net that contained them seethed with impatience; the bindings itched; the glamours shone out with an imperious light.

Maddy reached for them with one hand, a bunch of colored ribbons like those on a maypole. She pulled-

– and the whole assembly came loose with a ripping and tearing and a great flare of colors and hues.

This time the ice did not shatter, but instead melted away, leaving the Sleeper damp but unharmed, dabbing at her eyes and yawning delicately.

“Who are you?” she inquired when the operation was complete.

Maddy explained as quickly as she could. One-Eye’s capture, Skadi’s awakening, the Examiner, the Whisperer, the Word. Freyja listened, her blue eyes wide, but as soon as Maddy mentioned Loki’s name, they narrowed again.

“I’m warning you now,” said Freyja stiffly, “I have…certain issues…with Loki.” (Maddy wondered briefly whether there was anyone in the Nine Worlds who didn’t have issues with Loki.)

“Please,” she urged. “Lend me your cloak. It’s not as if I’m asking you to come with me.”

Freyja looked Maddy over with a critical eye. “It’s my only one,” she said. “You’d better not damage it.”

“I’ll be really careful.”

“Hmm. You’d better.”

Moments later it was in Maddy’s hands, a cloak of tricks and feathers, light as an armful of air. She pulled it around her shoulders, feeling the delicious whispery warmth of the feathers against her skin, and at once it began to shape itself to her form.

The thing was alive with glamour, it seemed. Runes and bindings stitched it through. Maddy could feel them, delving, painlessly taking root in her flesh and bone, transforming her into something other.

It was blissful; it was terrifying. In seconds her muscles lengthened; her vision sharpened a thousandfold; feathers sprouted from her arms and shoulders. She opened her mouth in astonishment, but nothing emerged but a harsh bird cry.

“There. It quite suits you,” said Freyja, leaning over to inspect the result. “Now, when you want to take it off, just cast Naudr reversed.”

How? thought Maddy.

“You’ll manage,” said Freyja. “Just make sure you bring it back.”

It took her a few minutes to become accustomed to her new wings. For an agonizing time she fluttered wildly, confused by the altered perspective and half panicked by the enclosed space. Then at last she found the skylight and shot through like a flung projectile into the night.

Oh, the freedom, she thought. The air!

Below her the valley hung like a silver-stitched tapestry-the glacier, the road twining down along the Hindarfell pass. The sky was all stars, the moon was dazzling, and the joy, the exhilaration of flight was such that for an indeterminate length of time she simply let it take her, shrieking, into the illuminated sky.

Then she remembered the task at hand and, with an effort, took control. With her enhanced vision she could see about a mile ahead of her the hawk and the eagle-Loki and Skadi-streaking toward Malbry.

Below them the fields were beginning to turn, moving from Harvestmonth yellow to Year’s End brown. In Malbry a few lights still shone, and the smell of smoke from the bonfires hung over the land like a banner. Somewhere among those lights, she knew, her father would be awake, drinking beer and watching the sky. Her sister would be dreamlessly asleep on her bed of boards, a lace cap tied around her cowslip curls. Crazy Nan Fey would be sitting in her cottage talking to her cats.

And One-Eye? What was he doing? Was he sleeping? Suffering? Hopeful? Afraid? Would he be grateful to see her, or angry at how badly she’d handled the situation? Most important of all, would he play along? And if so, with whom?

Midnight. A potent hour.

The church clock tower struck twelve, then, a minute later, struck twelve again. In a small bedroom under the eaves of the parsonage the visiting Examiner, who had been waiting for just that signal, gave a tiny smile of satisfaction. All the rituals had been performed. He had bathed, prayed, meditated, fasted. Now it was time.

He was hungry, but pleasingly so; tired, but not sleepy. Once more he had refused the Parsons’ offer of a home-cooked meal, and the resulting slight feeling of light-headedness had been more than compensated for by a renewed intensity of concentration.

On the bed at his side the Book of Words lay open. Now at last he allowed himself to study the relevant chapter, with the familiar shiver of pleasure and fear. That power, he thought dimly. That intoxicating, indescribable power.

“Not mine, but yours, O Nameless,” he murmured. “Speak not in me, but through me…”

And now he could feel it already at his fingertips, moving through the parchment to illuminate him: the ineffable wisdom of the Elder Days, the desire, the knowledge, the glamour-

Tsk-tsk, begone! The Examiner banished temptation with a canticle. Not mine, but yours is the power of the Word.

That was better. The feeling of delirium subsided a little. He had a job to do, and an urgent one: to identify the agent of Disorder, the one-eyed man with the ruinmark on his face.

That ruinmark. Once more he considered it, with a tremor of unease. A potent glam, even reversed-the Book of Words said so-and there were verses in the Book of Fabrications, obscure verses, couched in terms so archaic as to be almost impossible to understand, that hinted at some dark and perilous connection.

By his Mark shall ye know him.

Aye. That was the crossroads.

If only the Examiner had completed his studies, stayed on at the Universal City for another ten years or so; then he might have been able to trust in his gut. As it was, he was still a novice in so many ways. A novice, and alone-but if Raedo meant what he thought it did, then he badly needed the support of his Magisters, and quickly.

A horseman riding as far as the Universal City might take weeks to bring help. Time aplenty for the Outlander to regain his strength and to contact his minions. All the same, the Examiner had held back until now. The Book of Words was not to be used lightly at any time, and the canticles of greatest power-Bindings, Summonings, and Executions-were especially restricted. Even more so was the Communion, a series of canticles through which, at a time of great need, a member of the Order could convey a message to the rest. It was a ritual of great power, a merging of minds and information, a mental link with the Nameless itself.

But Communion was dangerous business, he knew. Some said it drove the user insane; others spoke of bliss too terrible to describe. He himself had never used it before. He’d never had to; but now, he thought, perhaps he must.