Runelight

by Joanne Harris

  Maddy cast her mind back to the last time she’d spoken with the General. That had been three years ago, on the ravaged shores of Hel. Look for me in dreams, he had said. And Maddy had done precisely that, waiting and hoping for a sign that somehow her old friend might have survived – in spirit, if not in Aspect. But Maddy had taken his words as little more than cold comfort. One-Eye in dreams was not the same as One-Eye in the living flesh, and as time had passed, she had finally come to believe that dreams were all that remained of him.

  ‘Odin’s still alive?’ she said.

  ‘Well – yes and no,’ Hughie said. ‘That’s why he had tae send us, see?’

  Craw.

  ‘You leave the talking tae me,’ said Hughie, addressing Mandy. ‘Now what was that message again, eh?’

  Crawk.

  ‘No, I havenae forgotten.’

  Craw.

  ‘Mandy, I resent that. I am not inebriated.’ He drew out the word to its full five syllables, spreading his arms for emphasis and knocking over a vase. Maddy winced inwardly. Ethel was partial to her trinkets and, even in her Aspect as Frigg the Seeress, wouldn’t take kindly to these intruders in her home.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Maddy said. ‘Is Odin alive, or isn’t he?’

  Hughie shrugged. ‘That’s a little hard tae say. Dream runs through all Nine Worlds, Death and Damnation included.’

  ‘But you said he gave you a message for me—’

  Mandy crawed impatiently.

  ‘Aye, aye. Give me time.’ Hughie seemed to gather his thoughts. ‘So we heard there’d been a prophecy. Regardin’ the rise of the First World …’

  Maddy nodded. ‘That’s right.’ She struggled to recall the words of the Seeress.

  ‘The Cradle fell an age ago, but Fire and Folk shall raise her

  In just twelve days, at End of Worlds; a gift within the sepulchre.’

  ‘Crawk.’ That was Mandy, attempting to speak. ‘Crawk. Craw.’

  ‘Shhh,’ said Hughie.

  ‘But what does it mean?’ Maddy said. ‘The Cradle – that’s Asgard, isn’t it? How can anyone build it again, let alone in twelve days? And all that stuff about Fire and Folk …’

  ‘What it means is trouble,’ said Hughie. ‘And you’re right at the heart of it. You think those things coming out of Dream are coming at you by accident? The snakes, and the gribblies, and the what-d’ye-may-call-’em, ephemerae …’ He paused to scratch at a feathery armpit.

  ‘The rift between Worlds—’ Maddy began.

  Hughie interrupted her. ‘Dreams need to be summoned, hen. And for that they need a dreamer.’

  Mandy nodded approval at this, and flapped her arms in encouragement. ‘Drea-mer. Dreamer. Craw.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Maddy said. ‘You’re saying this is something more? That someone’s attacking us through Dream?’

  ‘Pull something out of Dream, hen, and it isn’ae a dream any more.’

  Maddy knew, of course, that Dream, by its very nature, was … complicated, to say the least. A World awash with contradictory truths; a state with no rules or natural laws; a river that runs through all Nine Worlds from a source that can never run dry.

  But could it be diverted like this? And who would want to do such a thing?

  ‘Who?’ said Maddy. ‘There’s no one left. The Order’s finished. The Whisperer …’ Now her eyes widened. ‘The Whisperer …’

  It could have survived, she told herself. In those thirteen seconds of Chaos, when Death, Dream and Damnation were one, Mimir the Wise could have escaped. Into Damnation, into Dream – and from there, to find another host …

  A dreamer?

  For a moment Maddy considered her own dream. In it, Odin had mentioned an artefact – had told her to seek out the Old Man of the Wilderlands. Could he have meant the Whisperer? It seemed more than likely, she thought, in the light of what she had just heard. The Whisperer in collusion with a dreamer of extraordinary ability – and they’d have to be something special, she thought, to do what Hughie had described.

  ‘Look, what exactly did Odin say?’

  ‘That’s what I’m tryin’ tae tell ye,’ Hughie said, looking pained. ‘He said, first of all, tae trust us. We speak for the General. We’re his eye and his ear in the Worlds. That makes us practically family.’

  Maddy looked at him doubtfully. ‘Is that a runemark you’ve got?’ she said.

  ‘Aye, hen. That it is.’ Hughie preened a little. ‘It’s Ea, the rune of eternity. One of the runes of the New Script that’s going tae build the new Asgard. That’s how important we are, hen. That’s why ye’ve got tae do what we tell ye.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Maddy. ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘He said we should say tae remember your dream. The one on the Hill, with the cloud game. Then ye must find the dreamer. She’ll lead ye tae the Auld Man. But not a word tae anyone, mind? Especially not the other gods.’

  Maddy was puzzled. ‘But why?’ she said. ‘If the Whisperer’s still around, then—’

  ‘Ye cannae tell them,’ Hughie said. ‘The General was very clear about that. Just find the dreamer, that’s what he said. After that, everything’s shiny.’

  Find the dreamer. Yeah, right.

  Like all Odin’s plans, of course, it sounded absurdly simple. As simple as finding the Whisperer in the tunnels under the Hill, a task that had ended in Hel and Damnation and the near-destruction of all the Worlds.

  So much for simple, Maddy thought. With Odin, nothing ever was.

  ‘This dreamer could be anywhere. I wouldn’t know where to start looking!’ she said.

  ‘But we do,’ said Hughie impatiently. ‘What do you think we’ve been doing all this time, flying about from World to World, spying for the General? Her name among the Folk is Rede. Maggie Rede – d’ye kennet? Maggie Rede of World’s End.’

  ‘Rede?’ It sounded familiar.

  ‘Aye. Follow her tae the Auld Man. That’s what the General says.’

  ‘But how does he know her?’ Maddy said.

  ‘He’s had his eye on her for a long time,’ said Hughie. ‘Been watchin’ her since before the war.’

  ‘But if Odin knew she was there all the time, then …’

  Hughie shrugged. ‘Ye’re askin’ me? But he had other concerns back then: the war with the Folk and the Order; his own people sorely divided. If the Vanir had known of a rogue in World’s End – and one of the General’s own kin, at that—’

  ‘What d’you mean, his own kin?’

  Mandy gave a sharp craw.

  ‘No, I hadn’ae forgotten,’ said Hughie. He turned once more to Maddy and flashed her his crazed and brilliant smile. ‘So there ye are,’ he said. ‘Oh yes – and there’s just one more thing ye ought to know about Maggie Rede of World’s End. The General said tae tell ye first in case it came as too much of a shock …’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Maddy said.

  ‘Why, hen. She’s your sister.’

  IN A ROOM in distant World’s End, Maggie Rede was trying to dream. Over the past twenty-four hours she had learned a great many things from Adam Goodwin, including a number of truths and half-truths and outright lies about his life, the Firefolk, their plans and how to combat them; and Maggie listened wide-eyed to his tale, her runemark burning the back of her neck as if something hot had been placed there.

  Adam had found them a place to stay in one of the more fashionable quarters of the Universal City. A penthouse suite near Examiners’ Walk, not ten minutes from St Sepulchre’s Square – with a sitting room, a balcony, a chandelier, a claw-footed bath, an ottoman couch and an enormous canopy bed with curtains of crimson velvet.

  Maggie Rede had never seen such a luxurious dwelling. It made her slightly uncomfortable – how much money did Adam have? – besides which, she told herself, surely a man of the Order, used to prayer and abstinence, would prefer to be in less opulent surroundings, a place more fitting to their task.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the cou
ch.’ Adam had noticed her unease.

  Maggie blushed. ‘That’s not what I meant – I …’

  Adam made a dismissive gesture. In fact, he too was wondering why the Voice in his mind had been so insistent on spending their gold. He gave the most obvious reason.

  ‘I chose this place,’ he told her, ‘because if your Mrs Blackmore talks – and she will – then news of both of us will be all over the city in days. They’ll look for us in cheap inns, in taverns and in chop-houses. They’ll be looking for two vagabonds. They’ll never expect to find us here.’

  All of which was true, of course, but the real reason, Adam suspected, was something very different. Between them, he and his passenger were preparing Maggie to play a part in something of great importance. Adam had already gleaned as much from what the Voice had allowed to let slip and, because he was no fool, had guessed what role he might have been chosen to play. It didn’t trouble him at all that the Voice was using him. Revenge was the glue that bound them together – revenge against the Gødfolk, and most especially against Maddy Smith, whose interference had cost them dear, both Adam and his passenger, three years ago on the shore of Dream.

  Over the past twenty-four hours Adam and his passenger had watched as Maggie explored her glam. It was hard, and sometimes frustrating work; Adam had warned her not to expect immediate results. Examiners of the Order, he said, might wait thirty years for the power of the Word; some, for all their labours, had never managed to earn it at all. But Maggie, with her runemark, with her untrained instincts, was already far more powerful than any mere Examiner.

  With Adam at her side, she learned to flex her glam like a muscle; to tease it into simple shapes; to strike it into flame like a match. With Adam’s help she learned to cast Bjarkán for perception; Thúris for strength; Hagall to strike at an enemy.

  In just one day Maggie had changed beyond all recognition, her fear and uncertainty shorn away as easily as her cropped hair. This was largely Adam’s doing, of course; in twenty-four hours Maggie had come to trust the young man implicitly. Not just because he stood up for her when Mrs Blackmore saw her runemark, but because he seemed to accept Maggie as she really was – to accept, and even to like her.

  Now, in their penthouse, just before dawn, Maggie closed her eyes at last and tried to banish the world around her.

  ‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ she said, opening one eye again.

  ‘Concentrate,’ Adam said. ‘Focus on the words in the Book.’

  Maggie tried again. Closed her eyes. The Book at her side was open at a page that Adam had indicated. A section of script – all in runes – stood out against the parchment. Above it there was a picture of a horse. An odd kind of horse, Maggie thought. It looked as if it had eight legs.

  ‘But I don’t even know what the words mean …’

  ‘Trust me. It doesn’t matter,’ Adam said.

  Maggie sighed and tried again. Focused on the words in the Book. Closed her eyes and tried to dream …

  At the nape of her neck, the runemark Ác lit up with a sudden silvery flare.

  ‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ she said.

  ‘You trust me, don’t you?’

  Maggie nodded.

  ‘Then trust me now. Open your mind. Open your mind and let it float. Don’t worry, I’m standing guard. Nothing’s going to happen to you.’

  Maggie gave another sigh. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘You must be exhausted,’ Adam said. ‘Close your eyes. Let yourself go.’

  She lay down on the bed. She was very tired. More than twenty-four hours had passed since she had last slept. She closed her eyes. The bed was soft – softer than any she’d ever known. The pillow was stuffed with duck down; the coverlet was tasselled silk.

  Gently Adam drew the bedspread over her shoulders.

  Good, a soft Voice whispered.

  ‘Good,’ repeated Adam.

  Now Maggie found herself floating, rising gently into the air; rising out of herself, the room, floating above the alley. For a moment she saw herself, her cropped curls ablaze with runelight. She saw Adam at her side, watching her with a curious – and not entirely pleasant – expression, and for a split-second she saw him unmasked, saw the meanness, the arrogance beneath the handsome exterior.

  She tried to call him, but she was already half asleep, rising above the silent streets, the little shops and drinking dens deserted now in the cold pre-dawn. She saw St Sepulchre’s Square, lit up like a crown of lanterns; she saw Mrs Blackmore’s inn; she saw the maze and network of the streets; and, far away in the distance, the harbour with its tall ships, and the Outlanders’ camp with its tents and bazaars and pens filled with horses and sleeping slaves.

  ‘This is amazing!’ Maggie said.

  Higher, said the whispering Voice. It was something like her father’s voice – quiet, clever, a little dry. It’s all right. I’m a friend, it said.

  ‘A friend of Adam’s?’

  Yes. That’s right. I’m here to see that you come to no harm.

  Now Maggie was rising higher still, far above the Universal City. And now she could see the avenues, set out like the spokes of a giant wheel around the University of Immutable Truths, with all its colleges, libraries, chapels, quads embedded into the pattern like escutcheons on a battle-shield, and the sweep of blue cliff to one side and the roll of green hills to the other, and at the centre of it all, the great glass-domed cathedral of St Sepulchre …

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ Maggie said.

  Even in defeat, said the Voice, Asgard was always beautiful.

  ‘Asgard?’ she said. ‘But wasn’t that …?’

  Yes. Fallen more than an age ago. But the seed never falls very far from the tree. Don’t you agree, Maggie Rede?

  ‘You know my name,’ Maggie said.

  There came a whisper of laughter. Oh, I know much more than that. I used to be an oracle.

  ‘Used to be? What happened?’ she said.

  Again, that distant laughter. It made Maggie feel uneasy somehow. What kind of a dream was this, anyway? What kind of a dream gave the power to fly, to speak with spirits and oracles? Was this the place she’d been warned about, where demons and Gødfolk and Faërie awaited their chance to steal her soul? And if Adam had known about the Voice, then why hadn’t he told her?

  Don’t be afraid, Maggie, it said. No harm will come to you with Me.

  Who are you? she said. A demon? A god?

  Neither, said the dry Voice. But if you still feel the need for names, then you may call Me … Magister.

  If ever there had been a name to instil trust into Maggie Rede, then surely this was it. A title of the Order, with all its associations of culture, learning and purity. She responded as she’d been taught, with instant respect and relief, and the thing that had named itself Magister smiled inwardly and addressed her again.

  We’re going to travel through Dream, it said. You may see things that disturb you.

  ‘What kind of things?’

  You’ll see …

  And now she was flying higher still: higher than the rooftops; higher than the cathedral spire. Clouds like muslin drapery parted to allow her to pass; a couple of black birds – ravens, perhaps – shrieked their warnings across the sky.

  Dream is a river, said the Voice. It carries all kinds of flotsam. Nothing here is ever lost. Everything returns in the end. Whatever you want, you’ll find it here, somewhere, among the islets of Dream. As long as you know what to look for …

  ‘And what are we looking for?’

  A Horse.

  Later, when Maggie tried to recall her trip through Dream, she found that only fragments remained – pieces of a larger picture of which only details had survived. She remembered a river, all in mist, with islands that rose and sank like drowning men on the surface; and as she watched, Maggie understood that every island was a dreamer, each in his own little fleeting world.

  There were dreams of chance meetings and dreams of the past; of food
; of being buried alive; of cats; of duties undone; of battles fought; of being naked in public places; of flying; of sailing ships and abandoned buildings; of oceans and battlements and the dead. A maelstrom of shrieking shadowy things took monstrous shape around her – a creature with an eye for a head glared at her from the vortex.

  Ignore them, said the Magister’s Voice. They’re nothing. Just ephemera. Look for the Horse.

  But which horse? Dream was alive with horses. Riding, leaping, grazing, running; carousel horses with gilded manes; wild horses galloping free; cart-horses pulling ploughs; hobbyhorses with skirts of straw; horses with hooves like sledgehammers; ponies with ribbons in their manes; race-track horses – and they’re off!

  For what seemed like a very long time Maggie searched through the islets of Dream. The Voice had assured her that she would know when she saw what they were looking for, but so far she had no idea what that was.

  And then, at last, she saw something. Something in one of those passing dreams that spoke to her like a memory. At first sight it seemed like nothing much: just two figures on a hill, a long, long way below her. But something about them caught her eye; casting Bjarkán, Maggie saw a skein of bright light that crisscrossed the hill and rose into the morning sky …

  What’s that? she said. St Sepulchre’s Fire?

  Not that she’d ever seen such a thing – except, of course, in books. But the northlights – or St Sepulchre’s Fire, as they were better known in World’s End – was something she had always wanted to see in spite of the tales that surrounded it; tales of sky-demons in the clouds who carried away the unwary to a place once known as Asgard.

  No, it’s a signature, said the Voice. The banner of the Firefolk. Move closer now. Do you see the Horse?

  Maggie narrowed her vision once more. Her eyes had become an eagle’s eyes; the scene below her was stark and clear. And now she was right above the Hill – a hill that was half covered in snow – looking down at the shape of a horse cut into the red clay.

  ‘A horse,’ she said in surprise. ‘A red horse …’

  That’s right, said the Magister. There’s an old Northlands saying that goes like this: ‘If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.’ Do you know that saying?