Runelight

by Joanne Harris

  The Outlander woman was folding the silk. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’ Adam said. ‘Wrap it up, and quickly. I don’t want your dirty hands all over it.’

  Maddy thought the woman’s face turned a shade darker beneath her veil. ‘Special occasion, sir?’ she lisped.

  Adam looked at her and smiled. It was not an entirely pleasant smile, but his blue eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Actually, it is,’ he said. ‘You see, I’m getting married.’

  ‘MARRIED?’ MADDY ALMOST said it aloud. Seeing Adam here at all was already enough of a shock to her, but to hear that he was getting married – Adam, who as a boy of twelve had liked to throw firecrackers at stray cats and stones at beggars – even at gods – was too absurd to contemplate. Who would want to marry him? And what was he doing here, anyway?

  Perth was watching her curiously, a gleam of interest in his eyes. ‘Old flame?’ he suggested, as soon as Adam had moved away.

  ‘Not even close,’ Maddy said, still following Adam with her gaze. She hesitated, frowned to herself, then came to a rapid decision. ‘We’re going after him,’ she said. ‘I want to know what he’s up to.’

  ‘But what about our business?’ said Perth.

  ‘Later,’ said Maddy. ‘Follow him first. And try to be inconspicuous.’

  ‘You really think it’s important?’ said Perth.

  Maddy nodded. ‘It might be. Anyway,’ she added, ‘he’s rich. You can rob him if you want to.’

  Perth shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’ Robbery wasn’t really his game, but he was always open to suggestions.

  It was easy to follow Adam through the crowds and tents and market stalls. Less easy by far were the open streets, the alleys and the walkways. The Universal City was vast, and had been built on a grand scale: the main streets were broad and spacious, with long, bare expanses of pavement, and only a row of linden trees providing any cover. Maddy had grabbed from a passing stall a pink bergha, which she now wore around her head in the manner of some World’s Enders; it went poorly with her tunic and boots, which marked her as a Northerner, but at least it hid her face, she thought, and she tried to keep well behind Perth – swathed as he was in his blue robes – as they made their way through St Sepulchre’s Square with its marble fountain and its great cathedral, and straight on down Examiners’ Walk into the heart of the city.

  This was the largest (and most expensive) shopping street in the whole of World’s End, and Maddy began to feel very conspicuous as she and Perth followed Adam past the rows of shops with coloured awnings – jewellers, drapers, milliners, coffee houses and makers of clocks, sellers of crystal and porcelain. So far Maddy’s time had been spent around the docks and the Water Rats as well as the city’s milling slums, and this new face of World’s End came as quite a surprise to her.

  Here the pavements were twelve feet across and inlaid with decorations of brass. Here there were carriages drawn by teams of horses, landaulets for dowagers and racy high-perch vehicles for the young and fashionable set. Here were ladies in bonnets made from the feathers of exotic birds; there were swaggering young men in furs and wealthy Outlanders with their strings of wives, veiled from head to foot in black, dark eyes modestly lowered.

  There were servants of all races here, some running errands, some alone, some carrying parcels in their master’s wake. Maddy noticed that many of these carried the mark of a brand on their arm – not quite a rune, but a symbol like two opposing arrowheads –

  ‘What does that sign mean?’ she asked.

  Perth shrugged. ‘Slave brand,’ he said. ‘People – criminals mostly, or folk who can’t or won’t pay their debts, or prisoners taken in battle by Outlanders and shipped here. Before the collapse of the Order, criminals just went to gaol, or were flogged, or Cleansed, or put in the stocks. But nowadays there’s a slave market every three weeks in St Sepulchre’s Square, and that’s where most of the scallies end up. Some are sent to work building roads, or digging for stone in quarries, or working on farms as labourers. Some, if they’re lucky, or if they can read, end up as house slaves to the rich and repulsive.’

  Maddy gave Perth a curious glance. He’d been looking especially furtive ever since they had entered this quarter of the city, and now, halfway down Examiners’ Walk, he was visibly uncomfortable. She had wondered why he dressed as he did, in the long robes of an Outlander, when he was clearly a native World’s Ender (and with the accent to prove it). And now she remembered the shape of the runemark that Perth had sworn was a tattoo –

  – and saw how easily it might have been changed – with iron and soot, or a tattooist’s ink – from the mark of a prisoner to a new badge of freedom.

  ‘Perth, were you a slave?’ she exclaimed, almost forgetting in her surprise that they were meant to be shadowing Adam.

  Perth winced and pulled his scarf further over his nose and mouth. ‘That’s right. Go on, tell everyone. I was a slave on the galleys. Have you any idea what they’ll do to me if ever I get caught again?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Maddy. ‘I didn’t know …’

  ‘Your friend is getting away from us,’ said Perth, with a nod towards Adam.

  ‘Oh,’ said Maddy, and quickened her pace.

  The market crowd parted to let them pass.

  NINE DAYS HAD passed since Maggie had first met Adam Goodwin in the catacombs under the old University. Since then, a great deal had happened. In nine days Maggie’s life had been completely overturned. She’d learned that the End of the Worlds was nigh; had spoken with demons and with gods; had ridden through Dream on a Horse of Fire and battled with the Æsir. The last of these had ended in a battle of wills with the Old Man, during which the General’s glam had been so thoroughly wiped out that barely a spark of consciousness lingered inside the piece of rock. In spite of all her efforts since then, the Old Man remained unresponsive, and the runes of the New Script stayed where they were, locked inside that stubborn stone Head.

  But something else had happened to Maggie over those nine days; something so unexpected, so new that it cast all her other adventures into the shade. Maggie Rede had fallen in love – headlong, purblind, thunderous love – and Adam had asked her to marry him, that Sunday morning at eight o’clock in the cathedral of St Sepulchre.

  The Whisperer, surprisingly, had taken the announcement with very little protest.

  ‘I see you’re both determined,’ it had said, in Adam’s voice. ‘I just hope it doesn’t end in tears.’

  ‘Why should it?’ said Maggie. ‘You sound like my mother.’

  ‘Oh, let Me see. The End of the Worlds?’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with it.’

  ‘Well, one might argue,’ the Whisperer said, ‘that with war on the horizon, with Chaos overrunning the Middle Worlds, with demons breaking out of Hel, with the Riders of Lunacy and Treachery already on their way, and with the runes of the New Script still locked up in there …’ It used Adam’s hand to gesture at the Old Man, still silent under his dust-sheet. ‘With all of those things going on, some folk might just expect you to have certain priorities other than choosing fabrics.’

  ‘Adam and I are in love. Why wait?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ said the Whisperer.

  The old, suspicious Maggie might have wondered why Adam’s passenger had taken the news so readily. She might even have asked herself how her forthcoming role as the Rider of Carnage was supposed to fit in with her role as a bride; but the wild exhilaration of love had clouded her suspicions.

  Besides, there was more to her change of heart than just the excitement of falling in love. Maggie, who nine days ago had been more than ready to face the foe; Maggie, who had dreamed of being a part of Tribulation, now found herself dreading the idea of war. Some of her misgivings had come from the Old Man’s revelations. Some of them had come from her meeting with Hugin and Munin. But mostly it was the fact that, for the first time since the Bliss had taken her family, Maggie Rede had something to lose – and the thought of losing
Adam now was just too cruel to contemplate.

  This was the reason why Maggie had tried to ensnare the gods in Rhydian. This was reason she hadn’t revealed the presence of Odin’s ravens. If the Firefolk could be stopped from ever reaching World’s End, then war would never happen, she thought; and the prophecy would stay unfulfilled.

  And so, far from dreaming of war, the reluctant Rider of Carnage filled her days with dreams of love and, as long as the Old Man slept, was almost able to believe that battle was not inevitable.

  As for the Whisperer, it was content. Its plan was working perfectly. The girl was in its power now. The General was defenceless. And when it had the New Script, and all the pieces were in place, then it would deal with the Firefolk – though not before Odin had understood the extent of his defeat and humiliation; not before he realized just how much he had gambled and lost.

  As far as the Whisperer was concerned, waiting enhanced the pleasure. Two days remained till the End of the Worlds; two days for the General to find his voice. No doubt he still had a trick up his sleeve; no doubt he would try to talk to the girl. The Whisperer expected it; that too was part of the plan. Maggie Rede was no longer to be seduced by the Old Man’s promises. Maggie was a woman in love. And that made her very vulnerable – as well as very dangerous.

  Now, on the Friday afternoon, as the Whisperer made his plans and Adam shopped for bridal silk, the subject of all this speculation was sitting by the penthouse window, as she had for the past week, looking down into the streets and feeling very bored.

  A week of the same old scenery, the same instructions not to go out; a week of nothing but waiting around while Adam made arrangements and she still kept watch over the Old Man – who had not said a word since his attempt to charm her, and who seemed unlikely to try again, at least until the End of the Worlds.

  Not that that looked likely. According to the Good Book, Tribulation was heralded by all manner of signs and portents: falling stars; rains of frogs; showers of brimstone; tidal waves and thunderstorms. Right now, Maggie thought, everything looked so ordinary. It had rained once or twice, but very ordinary rain, grey with the soot of the city, and without a trace of brimstone or even the smallest of amphibians. Sleipnir, munching oats in his stall, behaved just like a regular horse. There was no sign of the Æsir; no sign of the Riders of the Last Days. Even her dreams had been ordinary, dealing mostly with Adam.

  But now Maggie suddenly found that she was feeling restless. Even the thrill of a wedding to plan – such a romantic wedding too, just like in the old days of chivalry – was not enough to compensate for the loss of her freedom. She wanted fresh air; she wanted her books; but most of all she wanted the waiting to be over – for Adam to be free at last, and all this a memory.

  ‘Why do I have to stay inside? Why can’t I go out with you?’ she had asked Adam earlier.

  He gave a narrow smile. ‘Always asking questions,’ he said. ‘I have a wedding to arrange.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘I suppose so. But—’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Of course I do!’

  And yet her mind refused to let go. She was filled with unanswered questions. Cathedral weddings didn’t come cheap. How could Adam afford one? How had he managed to arrange such a thing at less than a week’s notice? His account of a last-minute cancellation had more or less convinced her; his refusal to discuss arrangements – or to even let her out of the penthouse to go shopping – she took as proof of his concern; even so, Maggie could not help feeling slightly left out of the proceedings.

  ‘But couldn’t I come with you today?’

  Adam’s smile was a little forced. ‘I’ve already told you, it isn’t safe. And besides, someone has to stay and keep an eye on the Old Man.’

  ‘Oh. Him.’

  Adam frowned. ‘Remember, Maggie, it’s dangerous. Don’t let it draw you in again. Don’t talk to it in my absence. Just watch it, and tell me if it speaks.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good. Now wait for me. I’ll try to be as quick as I can.’

  And so Maggie had waited, and tried not to feel anxious or impatient. The truth was, the wedding itself was a matter of indifference to her. Maggie would much rather have been married simply, without fanfare, than sit through a lavish ceremony when so many things remained to be done. But Adam (a romantic) refused to hear of anything but a cathedral wedding. If Maggie was going to take his name, she deserved a proper ceremony. A crown; a veil of primrose silk; flowers; brideys to throw to the crowd – in short, everything a young girl dreamed of, and Maggie, who cared nothing for these things, was nevertheless moved by Adam’s devotion to her, and had tried very hard to do as he said. But solitude brought reflection of the kind that Maggie hated most, and now, as she sat by the window, trying to imagine herself as a bride, the doubts that always disappeared as soon as Adam was in the room returned like a swarm of summer flies.

  There was so much she didn’t yet know about the man she loved. Who was Adam, anyway? How had he known where to find her? What did he do for a living, and how could he hope to support them? Where was he from? Who were his folk? What allegiance did he owe to the thing he called the Whisperer?

  She turned away from the window. I’m just being foolish, she told herself. Every bride in World’s End suffers from pre-wedding jitters.

  And yet …

  She looked at the plinth, where the Old Man’s head still stood, shrouded in mystic darkness. Odin had tried to tell her something just before she had silenced him. Since then, Maggie had come to regret the violence of her reaction. Now she cast Bjarkán at the Head, hoping for a sign of life.

  Are you awake? she whispered.

  Nothing. Just the darkness.

  Please, said Maggie. I need to talk.

  And wasn’t that a gleam of response, deep in the heart of the stone? Maggie’s own heart beat faster. Please. I won’t hurt you. Just talk to me—

  A sound from behind her made her flinch. She turned to see a raven sitting on the balcony rail. Another was perched on the window-ledge, the single white feather on its head standing up like a warrior’s crest. As Maggie approached the window, it pecked the glass impatiently.

  ‘You again!’ Maggie said, opening the window.

  At once Hughie flew inside and assumed his human Aspect, looking very pleased with himself. Mandy joined him in raven form, perching on his shoulder. He was wearing a shiny pendant that Maggie hadn’t seen before; a round disc, inscribed with runes, which caught the light like a mirror.

  ‘Ye said ye wouldn’ae talk to him,’ he said, with a glance at the Old Man.

  Maggie shrugged. ‘I wasn’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t care if he never wakes up.’

  Mandy crawk-ed.

  ‘No chance o’ that. Ye’ll have tae wake him soon enough. Ye’ll need the new runes, for a start, before ye face the enemy.’

  Mandy crawk-ed again. Ack!

  ‘Still, there’s time for that,’ Hughie said. ‘Good thing we’re here to help ye, eh? The End o’ the Worlds is nigh, hen, and we have lots to talk about. The Firefolk are on their way. The Rider of Lunacy joins them. There’s war and carnage in the air, and everything’s going to be shiny!’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘No thanks?’ Hughie said. He cocked his head, looking more like a raven than ever. ‘The End o’ the Worlds is coming, and you’re telling us no thanks?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Maggie said. ‘No thanks. I’ve had enough. I’ve fought the Firefolk in Dream; I’ve stolen the Red Horse of Carnage; I’ve got the Old Man trapped inside a piece of rock by the side of the bed. And this’ – she gestured towards the Good Book, propped up against the bed-post – ‘all the time I believed that this Book held the answer to everything. But it doesn’t, does it? I used to believe in the Nameless; in the fight for perfect Order. But now there’s no Order any more; only two sides that have been at war since before the Worlds began. So what am I doing in all this? Who says I have
to go to war?’

  ‘But hen—’ protested Hughie.

  ‘I am not your hen!’ Maggie said. ‘Now listen to me, both of you. I’m getting married the day after tomorrow. Married. In the cathedral. Married to the man I love. And nothing – not the End of the Worlds, not the Firefolk, not Chaos itself – is going to get in the way of that. Have I made myself quite clear?’

  Hughie and Mandy exchanged looks.

  Hughie shrugged.

  Mandy crawk-ed.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?’

  ‘Well, here’s the thing,’ Hughie said. ‘On Sunday morning – that’s the day after tomorrow, hen, in case ye’d forgotten – there’s going to be war. The Seeress predicted it. Which makes this the place for ravens and crows, not wedding veils and bridey cakes. And the sooner you face up tae that—’

  Crawk, said Mandy lugubriously.

  ‘Everyone keeps saying that,’ Maggie said impatiently. ‘War, war, the End of the Worlds – that’s all anyone can talk about.’

  Hughie cocked his head to one side. ‘You’re the Rider o’ Carnage, lass. D’ye think ye can change the future? Reconcile Order and Chaos? Cancel the War of the Nine Worlds? Rewrite the Book of Apocalypse? Shiny, if ye could, but no verra realistic.’

  Maggie made a face. ‘I don’t see why there has to be war.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what the God o’ War says. Funny, that. But we see more. We see into all the Worlds, past and present, quick and dead, and we know all the prophecies. The hand that rocks the Cradle rules the Nine Worlds, so they say. It’s writ on the very Foundation Stone of the cathedral. And unless the Seeress got it wrong, that hand belongs to you, hen, and you’re going tae need all the help ye can get. Which is why we’re here.’

  ‘Well, thanks. But unless you want to be flower girls—’