Fantasy: The Best of 2001

by Robert Silverberg

  Before I could devise a response, he turned his attention away from me and spoke to Munin. “Do you remember my funeral?”

  “Of course. I’m Memory. I remember everything. Odin came with his Valkyries, and Frey came in a chariot drawn by a boar, and Freyja was there with her cats. Her dress was very pretty. And there were the trolls and elves, the mountain-giants and frost-giants. Everyone showed up. The Aesir wept. Thor kept blowing his nose, and it made a great schnoork sound that shook the leaves from the trees.”

  Leave it to Munin to remember the thunder of Thor clearing his nostrils. I remembered something else.

  Odin the All-Father frightened me. In the dark hole left behind by his sacrificed eye, I saw his fear. He remembered the sibyl’s prophecy from so long ago. She’d told him that Baldr would die, that his death would be the first step towards the doom of everything Odin had ever known. He’d always hoped that somehow the sibyl would be wrong. Sometimes witch babble is just witch babble. But now there was the shocking white corpse of Baldr, whom Odin loved not in the way a war god loves a warrior, but in the way a father loves a son.

  That day, everything started to die.

  I thought about some of the things Munin and I had seen recently. The world-spanning serpent who churned the waters and brewed tidal waves and hurricanes. Thor’s son, Modi, had loosed him a week ago. And there was the Ship of Dead Men’s Nails, freed of its moorings by the young god Magni. I thought of the bloodbath Midgard was becoming, with people killing each other over a can of ravioli. All the portents were coming true.

  Bent over her twig, the sibyl muttered softly to herself. “And the serpent rises, and children drown in its wake, and the blood-beaked eagle rends corpses, screaming. Ragnarök, doom of the gods, doom of all. Battle-axe and sword rule, and an age of wolves, till the world goes down.”

  She spat upon the twig, and now it wasn’t a twig at all, but a spear with smoking runes burned down its side. I didn’t recognize them. She put the spear in Höd’s hands.

  Baldr nodded. “Tell me what Odin did at my funeral, Munin.” He wasn’t looking at Munin. He was looking at me.

  “He laid the gold ring Draupnir on your chest,” Munin said. “And then he knelt at your side, brushed the hair off your forehead, just like he used to do when you were a boy. He whispered something in your ear.”

  “What did he whisper?”

  Munin opened his beak, paused, shut it. He looked at me, and I shrugged. I didn’t know either. On that awful day, Odin used his cunning and spoke in a voice not even I could hear.

  The sibyl snorted. “I know what he said. I’m the one who gave him the words. And he had to say them, too. Didn’t want to, but he had to. No choice. That was my price for giving him a heads-up about the future.”

  “Tell the ravens, please,” said Baldr.

  “This: The sibyl’s magic can give you true death.”

  Baldr stood at the head of the table. “Now, Höd,” he said.

  “Wait,” I squawked. “You’re not really going to do this.” Stupid, stupid bird. Baldr wasn’t working with Vidar and Vali. He wasn’t interested in freeing monsters. He wasn’t trying to accelerate Ragnarök and end his days in Hel.

  With a slight shudder, Höd rose to his feet. He fin­gered the mistletoe spear. “I don’t want to do this,” he said. “Not again. It’s not fair. The prophecy says we get to live. That’s what’s supposed to happen. Not this.”

  Baldr’s face darkened. “I thought we were agreed. Who are we to build a new world on the corpses of others?”

  After a very long moment, Höd lifted the spear over his shoulder. He sighed. “I just . . . I just want to say thanks. For not ever being mad at me. Everybody else hated me for killing you. But you always treated me like a brother.”

  “It’s all right,” said Baldr. “You are my brother.”

  “This has all been for my benefit,” I said to Baldr. “Mine and Munin’s. That’s why you sent for us. That’s what this whole thing has been about.”

  Baldr nodded. “I wanted Odin to know what happened here tonight. I wanted him to know why I did it. I was always the first link in the chain. The most important link. Remove me, and the chain shatters. Send me to a true death. End my existence.” Baldr closed his eyes. “Munin can tell Odin of my deed. But you, Hugin, you have to tell him . . .I don’t know. You’ll think of the right thing to tell him.”

  “I could tell him something right now,” I said. “He’d never allow this. And if I don’t stop to observe the world as I fly, I can be at his side before Höd lifts a finger.”

  “I know you can,” said Baldr. “It would be very easy for you to do that.”

  I felt a tightness in my throat.

  How often do you see a god defy the universe to save a world? How often do you realize that you can let it happen, or you can stop it? And how long do you have to think about it before you figure out the right thing to do?

  Höd pulled the spear back a little farther and took a deep breath.

  I took a deep breath, too.

  “Your aim’s too far right,” I told him. “A little left. A little more. There.”

  Baldr smiled at me, this time with some of his old magic, and the hall seemed to warm, and I basked in him.

  “Hey, wait!” said Munin. He was just now figuring it out. “Can they do this?”

  I shushed him. “I think it’ll be all right.”

  And Baldr stood there, his arms stretched out to his sides. And when the rune-burned mistletoe spear punched through his chest, he was laughing.

  The world changed color again.

  Munin and I left them there, Höd staring blindly at his hands, the sibyl reading her magazines. And Baldr, not just exiled from the living but truly and finally dead.

  Later, after the long flight home, when we perched on Odin’s shoulder and he asked us what we’d seen and heard, Munin told him everything in detail from his perfect memory. He told him of the break in the leaden clouds and the melting of the snow. He told him how we saw the great Fenrir wolf slink back to his rock, frightened for the first time of an unknown future.

  And me, Hugin, Thought, I told him that he had better start making some plans.

  Because Baldr had given us a whole new tomorrow.

  And today, anything was possible.

  THE LADY OF THE

  WINDS

  POUL ANDERSON

  SOUTHWARD THE MOUNTAINS LIFTED to make a wall across a heaven still hard and blue. Snow whitened their peaks and dappled the slopes below. Even this far under the pass, patches of it lay on sere grass, among strewn boulders—too early in the season, fatally too early. Dry motes blew off in glittery streaks, borne on a wind that whittered and whirled. Its chill searched deep. Westward, clouds were piling up higher than the heights they shrouded, full of darkness and further storm.

  A snow devil spun toward Cappen Varra, thickening as it went. Never had he known of the like. Well, he had gone forth to find whatever Power was here. He clutched the little harp with numbed fingers as if it were his courage. The gyre stopped before him and congealed. It became the form of a woman taller than himself. She poised utterly beautiful, but hueless as the snow, save for faint blue shadows along the curves of her and eyes like upland lakes. The long, tossing hair and a thin vortex of ice dust half clothed her nakedness. Somehow she seemed to quiver, a wind that could not ever come altogether to rest.

  “My lady!” broke from him in the tongue of his homeland.

  He could have tried to stammer on with words heard in this country, but she answered him likewise, singing more than speaking, maybe whistling more than sing­ing: “What fate do you seek, who dared so to call on me?”

  “I—I don’t know,” he got out, truly enough. “That lies with my lady. Yet it seemed right to bring her what poor gift was mine to offer.”

  He could not tell whether he heard scorn or a slight, wicked mirth. “A free gift, with nothing to ask in return?”

  Cappen drew breath. The
keen air seemed to whip up his wits. He had dealt with the mighty often before now—none such as her, no, but whatever hope he had lay with supposing that power makes for a certain way of feeling, be it human or overhuman. He swept his headgear off, holding it against his breast while he bowed very deeply. “Who am I to petition my lady? I can merely join all other men in praising her largesse and mercy, exalting her name forever.”

  The faintest of smiles touched her lips. “Because of what you brought, I will hear you out.” It ceased. Im­patience edged her voice. The wind strengthened, the frosty tresses billowed more wildly. “I think I know your wish. I do not think I will grant it. However, speak.”

  He had meant to depart from Sanctuary, but not so hast­ily. After some three years in that famous, infamous city, he remembered how much more there was to the wide world. Besides, while he had made friends high in its life, as well as among the low and raffish—with whom he generally felt easier—he had also made enemies of either kind. Whether by arrest on some capital charge or, likelier, by a knife in some nighted alley, one of them might well eventually make an end of him. He had sur­vived three attempts, but the need to stay ever alert grew wearisome when hardly anything remained here that was new to him.

  For a time after an adventure into which he fell, res­cuing a noble lady from captivity in another universe and, perhaps, this world from the sikkintairs, he in­dulged in pleasures he could now afford. Sanctuary pro­vided them in rich variety. But his tastes did not run to every conceivable kind, and presently those he enjoyed took on a surprising sameness. “Could it be that the gods of vice, even the gods of luxury, have less imagination than the gods of virtue and wholesomeness?” he won­dered. The thought appalled.

  Yet it wakened a dream that surprised him when he recognized it for what it was. He had been supposing his inborn restlessness and curiosity would send him on toward fresh horizons. Instead, memories welled up, and longing sharpened until it felt like unrequited love. Westward his wish ran, across plains, over mountains, through great forests and tumultuous kingdoms, the whole way home to Caronne. He remembered not only gleaming walls, soaring spires, bustling marts and streets; not only broad estates, greensward and greenwood, flowerbeds ablaze, lively men and livelier women; he harked back to the common folk, his folk, their speech and songs and ways. A peasant girl or tavern, wench could be as fair as any highborn maiden, and often more fun. He remembered seaports, odors of tar and fish and cargo bales, masts and spars raking the sky, and beyond them the water a-glitter beneath a Southern sun, vast and blue where it reached outward and became Ocean.

  Enough remained of his share of Molin Torchholder’s reward for the exploit. He need not return as a footloose, hand-to-mouth minstrel, showman, gambler, and whatever-else, the disinherited and rather disgraced younger son of a petty baron. No, if he could get shrewd advice about investments—he knew himself for a much better versifier than money manager—he would become a merchant prince in Croy or Seilles at the very least. Or so he trusted.

  Summer was dying away into autumn. The last trader caravans of the year would soon be gone. One was bound as far as Arinberg. That was a goodly distance, well beyond the western border of this Empire, and the town said to be an enjoyable place to spend a winter. Cappen bought two horses, camp gear, and supplies from the master. The traders were still trading here, and did not plan to proceed for another week. Cappen had the interval idle on his hands.

  And so it came about that he perforce left Sanctuary earlier than intended.

  Candlelight glowed over velvet. Fragrances of incense, of Peridis’s warmth and disheveled midnight locks, of lovemaking lately come to a pause, mingled with the sweet notes of a gold-and-diamond songbird crafted by some cunning artificer. No noise or chill or stench from the streets outside won through windows barred, glazed, and curtained. Nerigo, third priest of Ils, housed his new­est leman well.

  Perhaps if he visited her oftener she would not have heeded the blandishments of a young man who encoun­tered her in the gaudy chaos of Midyear Fair and made occasions to pursue the acquaintance. At least, they might have lacked opportunity. But although Nerigo was not without vigor, much of it went in the pursuit of arcane knowledge, which included practices both spiri­tually and physically demanding. Today he had indicated to Peridis, as often before, that he would be engaged with dark and dangerous powers until dawn, and then must needs sleep in his own house; thereafter, duties at the temple would keep him busy for an indef­inite span.

  So she sent a note to Cappen Varra at the inn where he lodged. It went by public messenger. As she had made usual, her few servants retired to a dormitory shed behind the house when she had supped. If she needed any, she could ring a bell. Besides, like servants generally in Sanctuary, these cultivated a selective blindness and deafness.

  After all, she must shortly bid her lover farewell. It would probably take a while to find another. She might never find another so satisfactory.

  “You have asked about some things here,” she mur­mured. “I never dared show you them. Not that you would have betrayed me, but what you didn’t know couldn’t be gotten out of you, were he to become sus­picious. Now, though, when, alas, you are leaving for aye—” She sighed, fluttered her eyelashes, and cast him a wistful smile. “It will take my mind off that, while we rest before our next hour of delight.”

  “The wait will not be long, since it’s you I’m waiting for,” he purred.

  “Ah, but, my dear, I am less accustomed than I . . . was . . . before that man persuaded me hither.” With gold, Cappen knew, and the luxury everywhere around, and, he gathered, occasional tales and glimpses of mar­vels. “Let me rest an hour, to be the readier for you. Meanwhile, there are other, more rare entertainments.”

  A long silken shift rippled and shimmered as she un­dulated over to a cabinet of ebony inlaid with ivory in enigmatic patterns. Her single, curious modesty was not to be unclad unless in bath or bed. Having nothing else along, Cappen gratified it by resuming blouse and breeks, even his soft shoes. When she opened the cabi­net, he saw shelves filled with objects. Most he couldn’t at once identify, but books were among them, scrolls and codices. She paused, considering, then smiled again and took out a small, slim volume bound in paper, one of perhaps a dozen. “These amuse me,” she said. “Let me in turn beguile you. Come, sit beside me.”

  He was somewhat smugly aware of how her gaze followed him as he joined her on the sofa. Speech and manner counted most with women, but good looks helped. He was of medium size, slim, lithe and muscular because hitherto he had seldom been able to lead the indolent life he would have preferred. Black hair, banged over the brow and above the shoulders, framed straightcut features and vividly blue eyes. It also helped to have quite a musical voice.

  She handed him the book. He beheld letters totally unfamiliar, laid it on his lap, and opened it. She reached to turn the pages, one by one.

  Plain text mingled with lines that must be verse—songs, because it seemed the opening parts were under staves of what he guessed was a musical notation equally strange. There were pictures too, showing people outlandishly clad, drawn with an antic humor that tickled his fancy. “What is this?” he wondered.

  “The script for a rollicking comedic performance,” she answered.

  “When done? Where? How do you know?”

  “Well, now, that is a story of its own,” she said, sa­voring his attention. He knew she was not stupid, and wanted to be more to him than simply another female body. Indeed, that was among her attractions. “See you, Nerigo’s wizardly questings go into different worlds from ours, alike in some ways, alien in more. Different universes, he says, coexistent with this one on many planes, as the leaves of this tome lie side by side. But I can’t really understand his meaning there. Can you?”

  Cappen frowned, abruptly uneasy. “Much too well,” he muttered.

  “What’s wrong? I feel you go taut.”

  “Oh, nothing, really.” Cappen made himself relax.
He didn’t care to speak of the business, if only because that would spoil the mood here. It was, after all, safely behind him, the gate destroyed, the sikkintairs confined to their own skies.

  And yet, raced through his mind, that gate had been in the temple of Ils, where the high flamen made nefar­ious use of it. He had heard that, subsequently, the priests of the cult disavowed and severely discouraged such lore. They could have found themselves endan­gered. Yet search through the temple archives might well turn up further information. Yes, that would explain why Nerigo was secretive, and stored his gains in this house, where nobody would likely think to search.

  “He only lusts for knowledge,” Peridis reassured. Her tone implied she wished that were not his primary lust. “He does not venture into the Beyond. He simply opens windows for short whiles, observes, and, when he can, reaches through to snatch small things for later study. Is that so terrible? But the hierarchy would make trouble for him if they knew, and . . . it might strike at me as well.”

  She brightened. “He shares with me, a little. I have looked with him into his mirror that is not a mirror, at things of glamor or mirth. I have seen this very work performed on a stage far elsewhere, and a few more akin to it. True, the language was foreign to both of us, but he could discern that the story, for instance, concerns a love intrigue. It was partly at my wish that he hunted about until he found a shop where the books are sold, and cast spells to draw copies into his arcanum. Since then I’ve often taken them out when I’m alone, to call back memories of the pleasure. Now let me explain and share it with you as well as I’m able.” Heavy-lidded, her glance smoldered on him. “It does tell of lovers who at last come together.”

  He thrust his qualms aside. The thing was in fact fascinating. They began to go through it page by page, her finger tracing out each illustration while she tried to convey what understanding she had of it. His free arm slid behind her.

  A thud sounded from the vestibule. Hinges whined. A chill gust bore smells of the street in. Peridis screamed. Cappen knew stabbingly that the bolt on the main door had flung back at the command of its master. The book fell from their hands and they read no more that night.