Joanne Harris - Runemarks

However, the others had not agreed, and as a result there had been as little ceremony as possible as the twelve members-all high-ranking officials of the Order-had been chosen by lot for the privilege of Communion.

Among them were the Magister Emeritus himself; his colleague Magister 73838, a mere Junior at seventy-five; and a number of other Magisters of varying seniority, including the Order’s oldest member, Magister Number 23.

All had fasted, prayed, and purged; all had spoken the relevant canticles and meditated deeply on the Word. Now, at last, they were gathered in the Council Chamber, a large auditorium at the center of the Universal City, where a dozen rows of empty pews encircled a single large conference table of heavy carved oak.

Like many of the Order’s most secret ceremonies, Communion with the Nameless was not an especially interesting spectacle. Anyone watching would have found it dull in the extreme-just twelve old men in red robes sitting around a table with the Good Book on a reading stand in the center. Several of them looked asleep; it might have been a dull seminar, with the reader slumped over his lectern in the dusty afternoon sun.

Even the Word, uttered an hour later by every man at the table simultaneously, might not have been easily detectable to a spectator. It came as a shiver in the air, as if a small child had skimmed a stone across the reflection of the Worlds, causing a series of widening ripples that went all the way to the far side.

Magister Number 23 felt it first. He was the most senior member of the Council of Twelve, a man as dry and shrunken as a winter apple who, it was rumored, could trace his parentage right back to the childhood of the Order.

O Nameless, he said, and a tremor went through the members at the table as each man-all of whom had experienced Communion at least two dozen times in their lives-struggled with the same sensation that had so nearly broken Elias Rede.

Of course, these men were Elders of the Order. That made a difference; and yet even Magister 23 felt the burden heavy on his shoulders as the chill presence of the Nameless filled his mind.

I HEAR YOU, said a Voice that resonated through every mind in the Council of Twelve and sent a shiver up the spine of every Magister, Examiner, or scrub in the Order itself.

Magister Number 23 felt the weight of that Voice like a mountain upon him. At the back of his mind he seemed to glimpse the far distant shore of the Nameless’s domain, a place where Perfect Order ruled supreme and perfect bliss was served out to such of the faithful who could endure it.

The Magister wondered whether he could endure it. Even after his long meditations he feared his mind was all Chaos, and the fear he had so assiduously hidden during all his career as a Magister bobbed to the surface like a rotten cork.

O Nameless, he thought. Forgive my doubts. And forgive this delay in contacting You on a matter that concerns You closely. One colleague has already died-we sensed it in Communion-

There was irritation in the Voice. What, did you think to gain immortality in My service?

Forgive me, said the Magister. But our colleague had taken a prisoner. A man he was sure was a general of the enemy-Odin himself, whom we had thought long dead. But our colleague was killed before this man could be Interrogated, and we have not yet managed to identify the enemy’s associates, although we believe that one of them may be his half brother, Loki-

I know this, interrupted the Voice. I presume that you have not entered Communion with Me simply to give Me information I already possess. How does it proceed?

O Nameless, said the Magister. A development has occurred.

A development?

There was a pause that lifted the hairs on the Magister’s neck. Then, hesitantly, he began to explain. How a parson of the Folk had acquired the Word in Communion with Elias Rede; how they had formed an alliance with the Faërie and were even now in pursuit of their enemy as he worked his way toward Netherworld-

But it’s all right, added the Magister hastily. Our agent has it under control. The enemy will be stopped in time. He will-

Be silent!

Another pause, during which all twelve members of the Council felt their thoughts being rifled by a presence immeasurably superior and entirely without compassion. Elsewhere in World’s End the ripples were felt: heads ached, stomachs griped, eyes crossed, and a sensation of icy rage swept through every member of the Order as its Founder searched-with increasing urgency-for the information It sought.

Half-seen images flickered through their minds-images that might be visions, prophecies, or dreams: a woman in wolf skin, a woman with two faces, a Hill that led to Netherworld, a girl…

I see him not. It is unclear. The Lands of Chaos cloud My sight-

The images stopped. Then came a moment of eerie calm…

I see him. Yes. And-

Now came another of those tantalizing images-

– a symbol written in dark red. They sensed it as a glyph of power, but even Magister 23 hesitated to identify it. The Nameless, however, was quick to react.

In a moment a sudden terrible blast tore through the minds of the Council of Twelve. Eleven of them collapsed outright; Magister 23 suffered a massive stroke and died on the spot, Magisters 73838 and 369 suffered permanent brain damage, and all the Council members developed gushing nosebleeds.

Trickery! hissed the Nameless. Trickery, incompetence, and lies!

Throughout the Order, people collapsed; heads ached and elderly Magisters lost bowel control as the Voice of the Nameless vented Its displeasure in full. Then It seemed to calm a little. Its fury ebbed from homicidal rage to a glacial lull.

Magister Number 262-the one member of the Council of Twelve who had remained conscious-pressed both hands to his spouting nose. What is it, O Nameless? he thought desperately. What does it mean?

There was a long, ominous silence. Then the Voice in his mind dropped to a purr.

It matters not, the Nameless said. I have planned for this too.

Once more the Magister shivered as the Nameless shuffled minds throughout the Order as if they were nothing more to It than a pack of cards. Images flickered into his mind, too many to identify: faces familiar and unfamiliar, landscapes from nightmare.

When it was over, the Voice spoke again, and this time It addressed the Magister by his true name.

Fortune Goodchild, It said, and every man in the Order heard his own true name spoken and shivered. Too long have you sat in comfort and complacency here in your fortress of World’s End. Too long have you nursed your little empire, forgetting who really rules the world. Now is the time to prove your loyalty. The Seer-folk have shown themselves at last. I knew they would; I feel their presence. The battleground is chosen, the lines drawn. We march today.

Today? whispered the Magister.

Do you have some criticism of My strategy, Fortune Goodchild? said the Nameless.

No, no, said Fortune hastily. Of course not, O Nameless. It’s simply-ah-it’s a month’s hard march to the valley of the Strond. By the time we get there-

We’re not going to the valley of the Strond.

Then where do we march? said the Magister, thinking, Oh, you fool, you had to ask.

The Nameless caught his thought, and for a second Fortune Goodchild cringed under the weight of Its terrible amusement.

Where else? It said. To Netherworld.

“Your son?” said Maddy. “Gods, Loki, is there anyone here you’re not related to?”

Loki gave a sigh. “You know, I was once…involved…with a demon called Angrboda. She was a changeling, a child of Chaos, and she liked to experiment. The results were sometimes- exotic, that’s all.”