Joanne Harris - Runemarks

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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.

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.