Runelight

by Joanne Harris

  ‘Gods, aren’t ye the stubborn one? We can open Worlds, lass. We could open the gates of Hel, or of Netherworld, if ye wanted it so.’

  ‘I don’t want to open gates. Or rock cradles, for that matter.’

  ‘What does it matter what ye want?’ Now Hughie was getting annoyed. ‘I tell ye, it’s all written down. You’re the one, like it or nay. The key to the gate is a child of hate, a child of both and of neither. That’s you, or I’m a pigeon. What more do ye need, eh? Have ye any idea what will happen if the Rider o’ Carnage disn’ae ride?’

  Now Mandy, who had been watching the street, gave a cry of warning. Crawk!

  ‘What is it, Mand?’ said Hughie.

  Crawk, repeated Mandy. She looked as if she were trying to speak; raucous words came out of her mouth in a language neither human nor bird.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ Hughie said. ‘I’m guessing it’s your young man. Now listen. This is important.’ He turned once more to Mandy. ‘Come on, ye can do it, hen,’ he said, with an encouraging smile. ‘She disn’ae speak much,’ he explained, ‘but when she does, folk do well tae listen.’

  Mandy beat her dusty wings in mounting agitation.

  Crawk! Ack-ack!

  ‘Come on, Mand.’

  And now the raven began to speak. The words were harshly accented, but nevertheless understandable, and Maggie found herself listening to the words of a nursery rhyme she’d known as a child:

  ‘See the Cradle (crawk!)-ing

  High above the town.

  Down come the Firefolk

  To bring the baby down.

  All the way to Hel’s gate

  Firefolk are bound.

  Pucker-lips, a-pucker-lips,

  All (crawk!) down.’

  And then, as if human speech had proved too much of an effort, the white-headed raven hopped down from its perch and made for the balcony window.

  Hughie followed. ‘Ye heard what she said?’

  ‘Yes, but—’ Maggie protested.

  ‘No time!’ Hughie said, stepping out onto the balcony. ‘The Firefolk are on their way. The End o’ the Worlds is coming. Soon ye’ll have tae make a choice. Ye know how tae find us.’

  Maggie opened her mouth to say that no, she didn’t know how to find them, and besides, she had no intention of trying, but Hughie had already reverted to bird Aspect, and before she could even find the words, both he and Mandy had taken wing, and were nothing but specks in the city sky.

  ADAM HAD SPOTTED the pair on his tail as soon as they’d left the market. He could have shaken them there and then; all he had to do was to step into a hire carriage, or walk into one of those elegant shops, or call for help and pretend he’d been robbed. But the presence of the Whisperer that always lurked in Adam’s mind warned him now to be cautious, and to allow the two that shadowed him to follow his steps through the city.

  Take care, boy, the Whisperer said. Don’t let them see you’re aware of them.

  ‘Why?’ said Adam. ‘Who are they?’

  In his mind the Whisperer made a sound of impatience. Who do you think, idiot? Now get us home, and quickly! We have no more time to waste!

  So with Maddy and Perth in hot pursuit, Adam fled through the streets of World’s End. He arrived to find Maggie waiting for him by the open window, wearing an innocent expression. Perhaps a little too innocent, but Adam did not notice it; he was too preoccupied with his own concerns.

  ‘Did the Old Man speak?’ he said.

  Maggie sighed. ‘The Old Man – is that all you care about?’

  ‘No, but …’ Adam faltered.

  ‘I’ve been waiting here all day. You never ask how I spend my time. You disappear for hours, and then all you can think of is that thing …’ She gestured fiercely towards the plinth, where the stone Head stood impassively. She suddenly felt angry – not with Adam, but with the Head; the Old Man who refused to speak, whose stubbornness now stood in the way of Adam’s chance at freedom.

  In Adam’s mind the Whisperer tried to curb its impatience. For gods’ sakes, boy, give her a kiss! The last thing I need right now is for her to be uncooperative.

  Adam gave Maggie his sweetest smile. ‘I bought you a present. I chose it for you.’ He dropped his parcel of silk beside her. ‘Go on. Open it,’ he said.

  Maggie felt her anger recede. Now she only felt guilty. Once more she wondered whether she should tell Adam about the ravens. But the Whisperer might be angry, she thought; it might even punish Adam.

  She took the parcel and opened it. She looked at the roll of primrose silk, soft as sunshine, sewn with pearls. This is my wedding veil, she thought, and her eyes were filled with sudden tears.

  ‘I love it!’ she said. ‘And I love you!’

  This time it was easier to forget the events of the afternoon. Prophecies and nursery rhymes – even rumours of a war – were easy to forget about when faced with such a gift as this.

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said, unfolding it and wrapping it round her shoulders. ‘It must have cost you the Nine Worlds—’

  ‘You’re sure the Old Man didn’t speak?’

  ‘Not a word. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I think we may have a problem. Someone may be spying on us. I’m almost sure I was followed here.’

  ‘Spies?’ said Maggie doubtfully, thinking of the ravens.

  Adam looked at her earnestly. ‘You think I wanted to keep you here while I went out in the city alone? We can’t afford for you to be seen. And the Æsir will do whatever they can to stop us being together.’

  Maggie’s eyes widened. ‘Why would they do that?’

  Adam shrugged. ‘A boy from the North marry one of the Firefolk? Their pride would never allow it,’ he said. ‘If they find out, they’ll kill me, just as they killed your parents and friends and everyone else you’ve cared about—’

  ‘Kill you?’ Maggie’s heart froze, and then began to stutter. Of all the fears she might have had regarding her long-lost family, it had never really occurred to her that the Æsir might want to hurt Adam. And for what? Their monstrous pride, which refused to accept that a child of the Fire could learn to love a child of the Folk?

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  Adam sighed. ‘I mean they want to claim you. Everything they’ve done so far has been done for just that purpose. They cut you off from everything. They killed your foster-family. They made sure you were all alone before they tried to contact you. The only thing they didn’t predict was that you and I might fall in love. But when they do find out – and they will – we’ll have to be ready to fight them. And if their spies have followed me here …’

  Once more Maggie thought of the ravens. Could they be spies? Of course they could. But they had offered themselves to her, to Maggie, the Rider of Carnage. They had shown her how to trap the Firefolk in Rhydian. But according to Hughie, the gods had escaped. And if they found out about Adam …

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she said.

  She knew the answer to that, of course. The ravens had predicted it. She could no longer wait, she knew, for the Old Man to find his voice again. The runes of the New Script were in that Head, waiting to reveal themselves.

  Adam looked at her tenderly. ‘You know it’s time, don’t you?’ he said.

  Maggie gave a long sigh. This was what she’d been dreading. Ever since she had spoken with the prisoner inside the Head; ever since he’d told her of the relationship between them, she had known that some day soon she would have to break him. She would have to make the choice between torturing the Old Man and risking the life of the man she loved. It was not a fair choice to ask her to make. She hated the thought of making it. But the Æsir had threatened Adam. To threaten Adam was to cross a line. If that meant war, then let it be war. The Firefolk had declared it.

  She turned to Adam once again, her eyes like little points of steel. ‘Will the new runes keep you safe?’

  Adam nodded.

  Maggie smiled. ‘Then you’ll have them, I p
romise,’ she said. ‘This time he’ll tell me everything.’

  THE GOOD BOOK was still lying where Maggie had left it by the bed. A double turn of the golden key, and the Closed Chapters lay revealed. On its plinth, the Old Man stood in stony silence; but the spark of awareness that Maggie had seen earlier through the rune Bjarkán remained like the gleam of a half-open eye.

  Odin was awake, she knew, watching every move she made.

  She opened the Book of Invocations, followed the script with her finger, chose the relevant canticle and read the ritual words aloud:

  ‘I name thee Odin, son of Bór.

  I name thee Grim, Gan-glàri …’

  The words felt almost familiar now, like those of a well-practised song. This time she did not stumble or mispronounce the secret names. On her neck, the runemark Ác began to flare a silvery white.

  Maggie? What are you doing?

  The voice of the Old Man was deceptively gentle in her mind. Maggie ignored it. Instead she focused on the words, making the runes flare like molten steel, spinning them into a cradle of light.

  Maggie. You don’t have to do this.

  Maggie ignored the coaxing voice and steeled herself for a counter-attack. The Old Man was sure to try something soon, once he knew her intention.

  ‘I name thee Ialk and Herteit.

  I name thee Vakr and VarmaTyr.

  I name thee Father of ravens.

  I name thee one-eyed Wanderer …’

  Now Maggie’s head began to ache. Her vision doubled; trebled; swam. The light at the heart of the piece of rock started to flare like molten glass.

  Please, it hurts, said the Old Man.

  I’m sorry, said Maggie silently. I have no choice. It has to be done. I name thee Father of Misrule—

  Maggie! Please!

  The cradle of runes was now so bright that Maggie could barely look at it. The headache grew worse – a cap of pain tightening against her skull.

  ‘Stop it!’ Maggie cried aloud, and now, with all her glam, she tugged on the cradle of runelight like a choke-chain on a dangerous dog. ‘A named thing is a tamed thing—’

  The voice in her head gave a howl of pain. Mercy!

  But that was a sentiment Maggie could no longer afford. She looked up from the Good Book and focused all her glam on the Head.

  ‘Thus are you named, and bound to my will.’

  At last the struggle was over.

  And now she turned to the Old Man in his net of runelight. ‘I’m sorry I had to do that,’ she said. ‘But time’s running out. You know what I want. The runes of the New Script …’

  The prisoner gave a mental sigh. You could just have asked me, he told her. Instead of subjecting me to all of this unpleasantness.

  ‘Yeah. Like you’d have told me—’

  Of course I would, said the General. The New Script is your birthright. Like your name – your true name – it is a thing of remarkable power. Be sure not to give it away unwisely.

  ‘What do you mean, give it away?’

  Oh, you’ll find out soon enough. I don’t have to be an oracle to know what the Whisperer will ask of you next.

  ‘What’s that?’ Maggie said.

  He’ll order you to kill me, of course.

  Maggie protested. ‘I wouldn’t do that—’

  Oh, but you will, said the Old Man. You’ll do it because you won’t have the choice. I can even show you the runes you’ll use to send me into eternity.

  ‘The runes,’ she said.

  Yes, Maggie. The runes.

  And now, at last, they came. The runes. The new runes of the Younger Script, all in their colours, like pennants in the wind.

  Aesk and Ác, Eh and Ea, Ethel and Perth, Daeg, Wyn and Iar. Their colours fluttered past so quickly that Maggie barely caught their names. But that didn’t matter; she understood. She already knew how to use them. And she knew she could summon them at any time and bend them to her purpose.

  ‘Nine runes. Is that all?’

  No, there’s one more, said the Old Man. One last, most important rune – the one that will change the shape of the Worlds—

  ‘What is it? Show me!’ she said.

  Patience, Maggie, patience. The tenth rune is already in your possession. Although you’re not aware of it yet—

  ‘How? Where?’ Maggie said.

  Don’t be so impatient, girl, said the Old Man in his dry voice. If you’re going to kill me, at least let me have my say first. A man may plant a sapling for any number of reasons. Perhaps the man is fond of trees. Perhaps he needs the shelter. Or perhaps he knows that some day soon he will need the firewood. Plant your seeds with care, then. From every Acorn, an Oak may grow.

  ‘What’s all that supposed to mean?’ Maggie said when the Old Man fell still.

  You work it out, said the Old Man. I speak as I must, and cannot be silent.

  ‘But who was the man you were talking about?’

  I speak as I must, and cannot be silent.

  ‘Is it someone I know?’ she said.

  I speak as I—

  ‘I do wish you’d stop saying that!’ Maggie looked at her hands. ‘Please. Tell me what you’ve got to say.’

  For a moment the Old Man paused, and the light inside the stone Head flared in satisfaction. Maggie, he said quietly, I have been searching for you since the end of the Age. It has taken me longer than I thought, but believe this. I never forgot you. Not for a moment. All this time I’ve been trying to find a chance to bring you home to your people.

  ‘My people?’ said Maggie, looking up. ‘The Firefolk killed my people.’

  No, said the Old Man in her mind. The Nameless killed your people. The being you call Magister, and which Adam calls the Whisperer, killed them all with a single Word—

  ‘That was the Bliss,’ Maggie said.

  There was no Bliss, said the Old Man. Just an army of ten thousand souls, sent out to destroy the Æsir. Your sister saved the Worlds that day. But now the Whisperer has you – the Rider whose name is Carnage – and now it means to wipe out the gods and reclaim Asgard for itself—

  ‘You’re lying!’

  I can’t. I’m an oracle.

  For a long time Maggie sat silently, watching through the rune Bjarkán. Through it, the Old Man blazed with light, but she could detect no thread of deceit, nor even a flicker of a lie.

  The Nameless had killed her parents.

  The Whisperer was the enemy.

  For a moment Maggie felt as if her whole life had been blown apart. The Order; the Good Book; Tribulation; all the immutable truths that she had been brought up to believe – suddenly it seemed that none of those things had been exactly what she’d thought. It was as if someone had told her that the Nine Worlds were not lodged in the branches of the World Tree, as she had always believed, but were somehow floating around in the sky, suspended by nothing but magic. It was appalling; it made no sense; and yet, she understood, it was true.

  The Whisperer had caused the Bliss. The thing that inhabited Adam was a dangerous, vengeful entity sworn to destroy the Firefolk. The sister she had never known had brought about the End of the Worlds, and saved the gods in the process – and now the Old Man – her grandfather – wanted her to do the same: to ride with them into battle and to help reclaim their lost kingdom …

  ‘So – what about Adam?’ she said at last.

  What about him? said the Old Man.

  ‘The Whisperer said you’d kill him. That the Æsir would never stand to see me marry a son of the Folk. Is that true? You want him dead?’

  The Old Man glowed in his net of fire. Why should I want him dead? He said. Maggie, I’m an oracle. This wedding isn’t going to take place. However much you may want it to—

  Maggie started to interrupt, but the Old Man continued.

  So Adam isn’t our problem, he said. His passenger, on the other hand, is very much our enemy. Remove one from the other, and Adam no longer concerns us.

  Maggie struggled to understand wha
t the Old Man was telling her. The Æsir didn’t want Adam dead. And yet the wedding wouldn’t take place. How could that be? she asked herself. How could that be, if Adam was safe?

  Eagerly she seized upon the thought that was foremost in her mind. ‘Will you swear not to hurt him, then? As soon as the Whisperer sets him free?’

  Of course I will.

  ‘On your true name?’

  On my true name, I swear it.

  Maggie sighed. She knew enough to understand that the oath was binding.

  Of course, if you kill me, all bets are off, the Old Man went on casually. In fact, it’s more than likely that the others will come after you both. Your sister, in particular. You’re very like her, by the way. Such a shame you were raised apart …

  And now a series of images flicked through her mind like a fortune-teller’s pack of cards; of faces and places she almost knew …

  A little girl with long, wild hair sitting in the crotch of a tree; the same little girl, now older, flinging a rune at a boy with mean eyes and a damp patch on his trousers. A girl on a hillside; a man with a pack sitting beside her, smoking a pipe. The same girl, older, underground, looking down into a fiery pit where a ball of molten glass bobbed up and down like a fisherman’s lure. The same girl once again, on a plain that seemed to reach out for ever …

  And now, somewhere in the city below, a man in a cloak and that girl again, watching through the rune Bjarkán.

  ‘Is she here?’ Maggie said. ‘Is my sister here, in World’s End? Did she follow Adam here? And what about the Firefolk? Where are they now? How far away? How did they get out of Rhydian? And can they get to St Sepulchre’s in time to stop the wedding?’

  The Old Man sighed. I speak as I must, and— Yadda yadda yadda. I guess you know the drill by now.

  ‘But what about the wedding?’

  Odin sighed again. Please, Maggie. Try to concentrate. There’s more to this than wedding cake. Worlds may rise or fall on this, and even the best-laid plans may turn on as small a thing as a lover’s kiss.

  And with that, the Old Man fell silent again, and Maggie Rede opened her eyes.

  ‘What did it tell you?’ Adam said. Of course, he had heard only one half of Maggie’s conversation. ‘Did it give you the New Script? What did it tell you about me?’