Jed swallowed. Turning, he saw that Dorian had fled; only he and Adam remained on the Hill. “She’ll need some clothes,” the parson said. “The other man’s are bloody.”
Jed Smith shook his head. His hand was trembling so much that the crossbow was a blur. “Don’t let her kill me,” he said. “I won’t say a word.”
Interesting, thought Nat Parson. He’d always thought Jed a lumpen fellow, good for hitting things and not much else. But here he was, showing signs of real intelligence. Of course, it was obvious: Nat could not expect even the most fervent of his flock to acquiesce to the murder of a villager. Without witnesses it would be clear that Audun had fallen victim to a prowling wolf. But if Jed talked…
Nat pondered with some surprise how easy it was to kill a man. Perhaps it was Ethel’s death that had hardened him to the fact, perhaps the Examiner’s experience in the field. A week ago Nat Parson would no more have contemplated murder than he would have held mass stark naked, but now he did, and realized with astonishment that he didn’t much care.
Good, said the Examiner. It takes courage to do what needs to be done.
“Then there is—” Nat broke off, consciously turning over the words in his mind. Then there is no sin attached to such an act?
Of course not, came the immediate reply. The only sin is to fail in one’s duty.
We think alike, said Nat in surprise.
Perhaps that is why our minds meshed as they did.
For a moment Nat was lost in thought. Was that the reason for what had happened? A meeting of like minds at a crucial moment, both striving for the same goal?
He smiled at Jed. “Very well,” he said. “But I’ll need your clothes. Come quickly, man. I don’t have all day.”
“Promise?” said Jed, who was still shaking so violently that he could hardly untie his bootlaces. “Promise you won’t let her kill me?”
“I promise,” said Nat, still smiling at Jed, who, reassured, began once more to unlace his boots.
It was almost the truth, after all, he told himself as he spoke the relevant canticle and Jed Smith fell heavily to the ground. Besides—he staggered a little as the aftershock of the Word slammed through the Hill—why should Seer-folk have all the fun? 339
1
Many roads lead to Hel. In fact, it could be argued that all roads lead eventually to Hel, the frictionless pivot between Order and Chaos, where neither holds sway and nothing—and no one—ever changes.
True Chaos, like Perfect Order, is mostly uninhabited. The many creatures that exist within its influence—demons, monsters, and the like—are simply satellites, basking in Chaos as the earth basks in the warmth of the sun, knowing full well the dangers of over-familiarity. Even Dream—which has its laws, though they are not necessarily the laws of elsewhere—is far too near Chaos for comfort, which is why so few dare to stay there long. And as for Netherworld—you’d have to be mad to even think about it.
Loki had been pondering this with increasing unease as he and Maddy followed the long, well-traveled road to Hel. Not a difficult road, for obvious reasons, though less worn than you might have expected. The dead leave fewer tracks than the living, but even so, the passageway was deeply rutted and its stone walls had been polished to a mirror-like glaze by the passing of a million million—perhaps more—world-weary travelers.
Not that Hel was to be their final destination. That, thought Loki, would have been far too easy. No, beyond the Underworld lay Netherworld, not so much a land in itself as an island among the many that spread out across the vast river that marks the boundary between World Below and World Beyond: the greatest, the Cauldron of all Rivers; eternal, lethal, even to the dead.
The Whisperer had been mercifully silent as they drew ever closer to the Underworld. But Loki sensed its excitement—as it sensed his fear—persistent enough to tax him to the limits as he struggled ahead. And it was a struggle; Loki’s glam was not at its strongest, and it was no comfort to him to know that the Whisperer could reach into his mind anytime it liked and twist it like a wet rag.
So far, however, it had left him alone, and Loki guessed that behind its silence lay a wariness that had not been present at the beginning of their expedition.
He had read something in its thoughts—or it believed he had—and he could sense that although it enjoyed its power over him, it was wary of what he might see there next—and of what he might tell Maddy. And so it said little to either of them, and there was no repetition of the incident at the river crossing, but even so, Loki’s head ached, as if a storm was on its way.
They had stopped to sleep after the river. Three hours’ sleep, a mouthful of bread, and a sip of water and they had set off again, looking only ahead and never to the side, speaking only when they needed to. They had left World Above at eleven o’clock of the previous morning, and if anyone had told Maddy that barely twelve hours had passed since then, she would never have believed them.
And yet she moved on without complaint. And Loki, who had half expected her to have turned back by now, watched in growing disquiet as they embarked on the final stretch.
By now the path was quick with the dead. A hundred dead per cubic foot, crammed all together into the fetid space, moving sluggishly onward, downward as far as the eye could see. Which wasn’t actually very far: their misty presences distressed the air; their stink—which was worse than any midden or slaughterhouse or garbage dump or field hospital you’ve ever smelled or imagined—enveloped everything, sinking loamy fingers into their lungs, tainting their food, their drink, the air they breathed.
The dead themselves feel nothing, of course. But they do sense, and as the travelers passed through them like ships through thick fog, the legions of the dead shifted instinctively closer to the warmth of the living, dead fingers plucking at their clothes, their hair, dead mouths moving in soundless entreaty.
Men, women, warriors, thieves; stillborn children and drowned sailors; vassals, heroes, poets, kings; ancients, murderers, desperadoes, and sellers of fake remedies against the plague; lost loves, old gods, scrubby schoolboys, spurious saints. All dead, existing now as shadows—less than shadows—of their living selves, and yet each with his or her own mournful colors, so that Maddy and Loki were close to drowning in their collective despair and even the Whisperer was silent.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” said Loki as Maddy trudged ahead. “I mean, what are you actually trying to prove? And who are you trying to prove it to?”
Maddy looked at him, surprised. It had been so long, it seemed, since she had even asked herself the question why—and the thought that she might even now have a choice…
Who am I doing this for? she thought. The gods? The Worlds? My father?
She tried to see her father’s face—red-bearded, slow-witted, good-natured Thor, known to her from so many tales that she was sure she’d know him anywhere—and yet when Maddy thought of the words my father, it was not the Thunderer, or even Jed Smith, that she pictured in her mind’s eye. It was One-Eye: clever, sarcastic, devious One-Eye, who had lied to her and maybe worse…
And yet, for all that, she missed him terribly, and if she hadn’t been certain that to involve him in this would be to put him in the most terrible danger…
I wonder if he’s looking for me.
I wonder if he misses me.
And if he knew—would he be proud?
“There’s only one way to find out,” she said.
Doggedly she moved on.
How long now? Impossible to tell. So close to the edge of Chaos, the laws that bind the Worlds are already warped beyond recognition. Logic tells us that such a journey to such a place cannot possibly exist, but Maddy and Loki were traveling between possibilities, to places where Logic, the first servant of Order, cannot pass.
The trick, like magic, is not to think too hard about what you’re doing, to pass through the world as if in a dream, untrammeled by ideas of what is possible and what is not. And so they cast Naudr to op
en the way and moved impossibly down into the Underworld, and when morning came (not that they knew it was morning), they found themselves standing on a craggy cliff looking down onto a subterranean landscape of stagnant mists and slow dark rivers, a long plain lit from all around with a wan light the color of an old bruise, and knew they were looking at Hel itself.
Hel is cold but not freezing. To freeze implies a kind of action, but Hel is a place of inaction, and its chill is the coldness of the empty hearth, of the silent earth, of the grave. And so Loki and Maddy were cold, but not unbearably so, and they were tired, but reluctant to sleep. Most of all they were hungry and thirsty, for their small supplies were running out, and they dared not touch the foul water of Hel. They took turns carrying the Whisperer (on Loki’s insistence, to Maddy’s surprise), but even so their progress was slow as they trudged toward a sullen horizon that never seemed to get any nearer.
“Does it go on forever like this?” said Maddy as they stopped once more to rest.
Loki glanced at her and shrugged. “For some people it goes on forever. For others—well, it takes the time it takes.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Maddy said. “Distances don’t change depending on who you are.”
“They do here,” Loki said.
Wearily they trudged on.
There aren’t many rules in the Underworld, but those that exist are rarely broken. Death is a place in permanent balance, a place of no movement, no progress, no change. Of course, living, moving, changing people were never meant to visit Hel. A few have tried (they always do), but little good ever comes of it, and most, if they come back at all, come back mad or broken.
Even the gods had made a point of avoiding the Underworld as often as possible. It’s a dreary place, and although many have tried to bargain with its Guardian—to plead for aid, to negotiate the return of one single, very special soul—such a pact has always ended in tears, failure, lingering death, or a bit of all three.
For Hel’s safe balance comes at a price. No one raises the dead without disturbing that balance, and so close to Netherworld, the consequences could be disastrous. As a result, Hel’s Guardian had a reputation for being cranky and disobliging, and no one had left the Underworld alive since Mother Frigg returned alone after pleading for the release of Balder the Fair, before the end of the Elder Age.
Loki was well aware of this. On the other hand, he had reason to believe that the Guardian of the Underworld might deign to make an exception in his case. Evidently the Whisperer believed it too, which suited Loki just fine, because that belief was what had kept him alive so far.
Now he sensed the thing’s impatience.
You said she would be here, it said.
She will, thought Loki, hoping it was true.
It had better be true, because if you’ve lied…
“Don’t worry. She’ll come,” he said aloud. “As soon as she knows I’m here, she’ll come.”
“Who?” said Maddy, looking at him.
“The Guardian of the Underworld,” he said. “Half-Born Hel. My daughter.”
2
As Maddy and Loki were entering Hel, the Vanir aboveground were losing no time. The ambush at the parsonage had alerted them to Skadi’s betrayal, but the murder of Ethel Parson suggested that there was another dimension to the business. Had it been an accident? Was the woman a bystander, caught in the crossfire? Or was she a sacrifice, sent out to make them believe that no treachery was intended on the part of the Folk?
“Of course there was treachery,” Frey had said. “They lured us out there with promises of parley, then tried to use the Word on us. What other reason could there be?”
“But what about Odin?” That was Bragi, looking shaken, combing dust out of his hair. “He wanted to talk. He broke bread with us; he wanted peace with the Vanir—”
“Oh, grow up,” snapped Frey. “He was hardly going to wear a sign saying This is a trap, was he? I say we waste no more time. Go after him now. Make him talk.”
Freyja was looking thoughtful. “A poison handkerchief,” she said. “It doesn’t really seem like Odin’s style.”
“And what about Skadi?” Bragi said. “If she’d wanted to do us harm, she could have done it in the Hall of Sleepers, when we were helpless. Why turn against us now?”
“Perhaps she was waiting for something,” said Frey.
“I don’t believe she means us harm.” Njörd was looking stubborn now, his sea blue eyes shining dangerously.
“No, really?” said Heimdall, losing his temper. “You old idiot, what does she have to do to make you believe? She could have her hands round your throat and you’d still think it a sign of affection.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous. You think that because you were together once—”
“You leave my marriage out of this.”
“Your marriage was over before it began…”
As discussion erupted once more among the Vanir, Idun, who had taken no part in the battle, wandered over to its only casualty. Ethel Parson was lying in the yard, facedown in her nightdress, the wisp of glamours that had been the handkerchief already dissolving in the first rays of dawn. Her hair had come unpinned, there was a smudge of earth on her cheek, and she looked small and discarded, just a footnote to the real business at hand.
Kneeling quietly beside her, Idun considered, with pity and some wonderment, the mysterious resilience of the Folk. Such frail creatures they were, she thought, with such short lives and such a depth of misery to endure. And yet a blow that might have annihilated a goddess had failed to extinguish the life in this woman. Oh, she was dying—but there was some spark in her yet, and when the Healer touched her face, her eyelids moved, just a little.
Some distance away the remaining Vanir were still arguing. The cause of the argument did not interest Idun. Too many people seemed dissatisfied too much of the time and, for the most part, for a trivial cause. Death alone was not trivial. She glimpsed its mystery in Ethel’s blurry eyes and wondered whether she should let it come. The woman was troubled and in pain. Very soon she would be at peace. And yet she fought it—Idun sensed this very strongly—with every particle of her being.
Passive Ethel had always been: obedient to her husband, dutiful to her father, modest and self-effacing throughout her life. Such a woman facing death submits quietly, without a struggle. But there was steel in Owen Goodchild’s daughter. She wanted to live—and so Idun reached into the pouch at her waist and brought out a tiny sliver of dried fruit. It was no larger than her little fingernail, but it was the food of the gods, and she laid it under Ethelberta’s tongue and waited.
A minute passed. Perhaps it was too late, thought Idun; not even the apples of youth could save her if her spirit had already been accepted into Hel’s domain. Very gently she turned Ethelberta onto her side, pushing away the soft brown hair to uncover her face. It was a plain face, to be sure, and yet death had given it a kind of dignity, a stillness that was almost regal.
“I’m sorry,” murmured Idun. “I tried to save you.”
And it was at that very moment that the dead woman opened her eyes, that her colors came to life once more, flaring from autumn brown to pumpkin orange, that she leaped up with her hair wild and the colors flying in her cheeks and announced in a ringing voice to Freyja: “I’ll be taking my dress back now, my lady!”
3
Odin had fled the moment his meeting with the Vanir had begun to go wrong. Red Horse Hill was the nearest refuge, and, skirting Adam and the sleeping possemen, he made it inside fifteen minutes ahead of the Huntress and the parson, but in his haste he forgot to check his path and ran straight into one of Skadi’s traps.
At any other time he would have seen it: a thin band stretched across the tunnel mouth, ready to snap shut on any trying to pass through. This time he didn’t, and the trap—a primitive thing, but primed with Hagall—caught him straight in the face, and he went out like a light.
Co
ming to his senses a few seconds later, Odin found himself in darkness. He cast Sól to light his way, but no light shone from his fingertips, and not even the faintest gleam of phosphorescence came from the tunnel’s rocky walls. It was not an absence of glam, he thought; there was plenty of power in him still, and it was only when he tried the rune Bjarkán that, reluctantly, Odin conceded the truth. There must have been more to Skadi’s trap than a simple device to wound or kill.
He was blind.
In haste Odin considered his options. Certainly he could not stay where he was. He had not seen the outcome of the fight at the parsonage, but he guessed that the Huntress would be on his trail. He had to assume that Loki had fled. Maddy, who might have helped him, was gone. The Whisperer was lost. And it went without saying that any further contact with the Vanir was out of the question—at least until his sight returned.
If it returned.
For now he needed to get away. Skadi could track him in wolf form, and his first concern was to throw her off the scent.
His shirt was still bloody from Jed Smith’s crossbow bolt; carefully he took it off and felt his way down the tunnel until he came to a narrow crossroads, trailing the shirt behind him. He took it some distance down the left-hand passageway and abandoned it there, wedged under a rock. Then, retracing his steps, he took the right fork, walked thirty paces, flung the rune Hagall at the roof hard enough to collapse it in part, and ran down the passage as fast as he could.
Blind as he was, he tripped and fell, though luckily out of range of the falling roof. He hoped the rockfall had blocked the tunnel: acrid dust fretted the air, and if his ruse worked, then at least it would slow the Huntress down, or at best send her off on a false trail while he found refuge under the Hill. Even so, she would have caught up with him if the instinct to stop and feed had not been so strong, but as it was, she lost precious minutes, and by the time she entered the Hill, the trail was blurred and the true quarry had fled.
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