Joanne Harris - Runemarks

“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: