The Testament of Loki

by Joanne M Harris

  The Oracle? said Jumps. The runes?

  “That’s what I believed at first. But remember the game of Asgard!™? Remember the sleeping Vanir? What if those sleeping gods were buried somewhere in our World—a world linked to this one by this Hill, this castle, these lines of energy? What if Odin did a deal? The Vanir in exchange for the New Runes? New runes will come to Odin’s heirs. That’s what the Oracle prophesied. But what if the runes were his bargaining chip, his way of controlling Gullveig-Heid? What if he sold his inheritance for a greater, more valuable prize?”

  Like what? said Jumps. It doesn’t make sense. What could be more precious to him than the New Runes?

  I let her work it out for herself. “What’s the thing that doesn’t make sense? How did Odin connect with his host? What’s the thing that, apparently, makes the whole of this World go round?”

  Jumps was silent for a beat. Then she said aloud: “Oh fuck.”

  “Well, quite,” I said softly. My mind was already racing: making connections, imagining things too dreadful to articulate. Imagine if the General’s plan had been to liberate Freyja from Dream. Imagine if the plan had gone wrong—that Gullveig-Heid had taken her place. Odin had already told me that he had first thought she was Freyja. Imagine if Odin and Gullveig-Heid had come to some agreement. Perhaps the Head of Mimir in exchange for the rest of the Vanir? And imagine if Yours Truly—and, by close connection, Jumps—had been a pawn in their game from the start—a pawn, intended for sacrifice?

  Evan wouldn’t do that, said Jumps.

  “Why ever not?” I told her. “After all, there’s a precedent. The Runes of the Elder Script came at a price. Odin sacrificed his friend to gain the knowledge he needed. And then he used his new-found skills to bring him back, as the Oracle. Now, we’re not exactly friends nowadays, but I can deliver the New Runes. And when he has them, what’s to stop Heidi from doing to me—to us—just what was done to Mimir the Wise?”

  For a moment Jumps was lost for words. But that would be—

  “That would be Odin,” I said.

  And yes, I thought: that would be Odin. Odin, who called me out of Dream to do his bidding one last time. Who knew my bond with Sleipnir. Who knew that my presence on the Hill would release what lay beneath, and open the way to another World—

  Odin, maybe. Not Evan, said Jumps. Evan would never hurt me.

  “Not even for Stella?”

  I sensed her doubt.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve got a plan. All we need to do is make sure that Heidi’s never alone with the Oracle. That way, the New Runes—and therefore Meg—are safe until I figure out a good way to get Heidi out of her human host, and Odin out of his, although I’ll concede that it sounds like a juggling act, rather than an actual plan, but, trust me—”

  “You’re babbling,” said Jumps. “What plan? You don’t have a plan.”

  I shrugged. “Shows what you know,” I said. “I’m Loki. I always have a plan.”

  And then, just then, from behind me, there came the sound of clapping. A fairly innocuous sound, you’d think, except in the context of that deserted Hill, with the river of stars above me and that runemark shining out from my arm. I turned, and saw Odin, in his chair, with the fluffy dog, Twinkle, beside him.

  “Ah,” I said, and closed my eyes.

  And then I heard a familiar voice, as troubling as incense: “I warned you, Loki, didn’t I? I said he wasn’t on your side.”

  “Yes, Heidi. You did,” I said. “Please tell me Meg isn’t here with you.”

  Heidi laughed. “Of course she’s here. Would I leave her out of this? Say hello to Loki, Meg.”

  “Hello to Loki,” said a familiar voice.

  I opened my eyes, and there she was, standing behind Odin’s chair. The Golden One in full Aspect, unveiled, and as full of poison as a spitting cobra. And next to her was Margaret, smiling fit to break my heart. I guessed at once that she had been charmed—only Heidi’s glamours would have given her such tranquillity—but inside me, Jumps was bouncing like a squirrel piñata covered in firecrackers. For a moment I was lost for words. To my shame, my silver tongue had turned to paper in my mouth.

  “So tell me,” said the Sorceress. “What exactly is this plan?”

  6.

  The moment spun out like the threads of our lives in the hands of the blind Norns. It was humiliating to say so, but, caught as I was, I had no choice.

  “Yeah. I don’t have a plan,” I said.

  “I thought as much,” said Gullveig-Heid. “You’re as much of a liar as ever. But congratulations on working out so much of ours. Odin thought you might figure it out,” she went on. “That’s why we followed you here. Just to make sure you didn’t try anything—unpredictable.”

  I narrowed my eyes at Odin. “I thought you were having a bad day.”

  “Oh, I was,” said Odin. “But I had some help.”

  Inside our shared space I could feel Jumps climbing the walls. “Send Meg home. You don’t need her,” I said.

  “You know I can’t do that, Captain. But as long as you do what I tell you, I promise nothing will happen to her.”

  I thought he looked weak behind his smile—weak and unconvincing. I wondered how much energy just climbing the Hill had cost him. Enough for me to try to escape? But then, if I did, what would happen to Meg?

  “You’re looking peaky, Odin,” I said.

  “Not looking so good yourself,” he replied. “I may have omitted to mention the effects of the energies under this Hill on your current Aspect.”

  He was right: Come to think of it, I wasn’t feeling all that great myself. My arm still hurt, and violet light was bleeding out onto the grass. In this corporeal Aspect, at least, the return of my glam was accompanied by a growing physical weakness. Great, I thought. Just what I need.

  “And what might these effects be?”

  “Wildfire burns. You know that. And when you combine Wildfire with something even more volatile—”

  “Poof,” said Heidi, helpfully.

  “Not that it matters anymore,” Odin went on. “Because very soon, we’ll both be out of here and in accommodations more suited to our status.” He gave a very Odin-like wink that did nothing to reassure me.

  “The last time I let you choose my accommodation,” I reminded him, “the bed was too hard, the décor stank, and the snake motif was decidedly de trop.”

  “Oh, that,” said Odin dismissively. “I was a different person then. But you—you should be saving your strength. After all, it’s a while since you last gave birth, and—”

  “Since I last did what?”

  He smiled. “Of course, I never explained that part. But maybe now’s not the time, eh? You need to concentrate. It’s close. You only get one chance at this.”

  “This?”

  “Why, birthing Sleipnir, of course. Just as you did when the Worlds were young. Except that you had your Aspect then, and all the power of your glam. And now all you have is a single charge; but it should be enough for what we need. Just take the reins and think of home.”

  “Just like that?” I said. “And then? Let me guess. First, we defeat the enemy. And then, we free the Vanir, of course, and then we rebuild Asgard . . .”

  For a moment I thought he looked shaken. “What makes you think that’s even possible?”

  I shrugged. “Dude, relax. It was a joke. Remember that stupid computer game?”

  Odin gave me a look. I grinned. I wasn’t about to reveal my suspicions just then, but it was kind of fun teasing him.

  “And what about Heidi? What does she get?”

  “She gets her father’s Head, of course, and any information she can persuade it to divulge.”

  Oh please, I thought. And what if the first thing it wants is to put an end to us, once and for all, using those New Runes you gave her?

  But the General was in a stubborn mood, and I knew he wouldn’t listen to me. Besides, there was Heidi, with Meg at her side, her mouth all twisted
like barbed wire, and there was no escaping her, not without making a sacrifice I couldn’t bring myself to make. I’d have to find the Oracle. For Odin, for Heidi, for Margaret, for Jumps. And so I gathered the runes with my mind, and closed my eyes, and thought of home, which somehow looked more like Jumps’s World than Asgard, as it used to be. There came a grating, rumbling sound, as if the whole Hill were coming alive, with rocks surging out of the dry ground, and that violet light coming out in spikes.

  “Now!” cried Odin. “Now! Push!”

  So I grabbed for the reins of runelight and pushed as hard as I possibly could.

  Dream

  In space, no one can hear you dream.

  (Lokabrenna, 9:12)

  1.

  I have to say that giving birth was a whole lot easier the first time. But this birth was beyond flesh: It was a kind of chemistry.

  Odin had described it as a meeting of volatile elements. I have to admit, that’s how it felt—as if I were being consumed by fire. Bit ironic, come to think of it, fire being my element: But still the pain intensified, blooming like a sunrise, becoming something greater than the sum of my nerve endings. Blood drizzled onto the ground from my broken runemark; the humming, like a swarm of bees, seemed to encompass the whole sky.

  Inside our little cell of flesh, I could feel Jumps’s anguish and disbelief. Of course, I was forgetting: She was new to real suffering. Those little cuts on her wrists, the odd grazed knee or persistent headache—that was nothing next to this. I wanted to tell her there was worse—that she might even experience it before this escapade was over—but I didn’t want to frighten her more than she was already.

  What do you mean? said Jumps.

  “That this is where we part company,” I said, from between clenched teeth. “There’s Nine Worlds of hurt out there, and you’re not built to survive them.”

  The gridwork of luminous runes on the ground shone with hectic energy. I reached for them and once more pushed with my mind, seeking the Fire within me. All around me the forces that had lain for so long under the Hill responded—sang like telephone wires, arced like bolts of lightning.

  The fluffy dog, Twinkle, was barking. I wondered why Odin had brought him. I couldn’t imagine him being of much use, even as a guard dog. But something about the energy under the Hill inflamed him; I saw him cavorting over the grass, his shadow grown suddenly monstrous, like the hound at the gates of Hel.

  Still, there was no time to think of that. The Hill shook. The air hummed. The runes at my fingertips shivered with glam. Then suddenly, there was silence. The sky lit up. The air grew still. And there it was above our heads: a sprawl of colour that spanned the sky eight ways, like a giant spider—

  That’s supposed to be a Horse?

  Jumps was apparently unimpressed, both by Sleipnir’s ethereal Aspect and by the fact that I had single-handedly birthed him out of Castle Hill, with nothing but runes and willpower.

  “That’s my boy,” I told her.

  But it’s nothing like a Horse. It’s—I don’t know what it is.

  I grinned. “Did you expect it to look like those rainbow ponies from the cartoons?”

  No, but—

  I looked back at Odin. “I’ve done what you wanted,” I told him. “Now’s the time to let Meg go.”

  “Not yet.” That was Heidi, looking like Hel incarnate, with one side of her face alight and the other side deep in shadow. “Little Margaret stays with me until you deliver my father’s Head. And just to make sure you don’t decide to simply keep the Head for yourself, we’re sending a friend. For security.”

  “Whose security, exactly?” I said, glancing back at the dog, Twinkle. Sure enough, the mutt was cavorting around my ankles.

  Heidi smiled. “Oh, ours,” she said. “And we knew you’d be happy to see Thor again, in his natural Aspect.”

  I winced. “But he’s so cute as a dog.”

  “You’ll love him even more,” she said, “now you’ve seen his fluffy side.”

  I suppressed an anguished howl. The Thunderer. Back in full Aspect. Odin couldn’t have asked for a more effective means of keeping me under control. Loyal, strong, but not too bright, Thor would obey without question. Which, even without the threat to Meg, reduced my chance of escape to nil.

  Jumps read my thought. Escape? she said. No way. I’m coming with you.

  I tried to protest. “You can’t do that. Didn’t you hear what I just said? There are things between the Worlds. Things that can bring down even a god. You could lose your mind or, worse, never find your way back home.”

  Within our shared space, I felt her push back. I already knew her stubbornness, her refusal to face facts. Now I felt her anger, her fear, her feelings of guilt and affection for Meg, and behind it all, the childish hope that she could be a hero, like the heroes of the books and games and shows she liked so much, and save the day against all odds, and be back home in time for tea—

  Stop it, I told her. This is no game. You won’t be the hero. You’ll just die quietly in the wings, and life will go on without you.

  I sensed her disbelief. She was young, and the young really don’t believe that death could ever happen to them. I know. I used to be like that myself.

  You don’t know anything about me, she said, sensing my thoughts in her turn. Just because you’re, like, five hundred years old, or something—

  I happen to have a certain amount of—shall we say, experience?

  Says the guy who didn’t even know what pizza was until last week.

  Pizza is unlikely to leave you stranded forever in Dream, or to suck out your soul like an oyster, or tie you naked onto a rock with a massive snake spitting venom into your face—

  Whatever. I’m coming.

  Whatever. You’re not.

  Odin fixed me with his one living eye. “No time for arguments,” he said. “Your steed awaits. It’s time to go.”

  He was right. The eight-legged Horse was now a luminous arch reaching far across the sky. Marking all points of the compass, it looked quite a lot like the sky trail I had seen the other day. And, if I had read the signs aright, it was a trail that would lead me home.

  I turned my attention once more to Jumps. In spite of all she’d put me through, somehow I didn’t want to leave her now without at least saying good-bye. After all, I might never make it back into her flesh—and the thought of that exile made me feel suddenly, queasily, starkly cold.

  Listen, I said. I may not have been the easiest person to live with. But I want you to know—

  I told you, she said. I’m coming.

  I thought we’d discussed that, I told her. This is Dream we’re travelling through. It’s not like a day trip to Bognor.

  I don’t care. I’m coming.

  Listen, I said. Leave your body to travel through Dream, and you may never find it again. Come in your current Aspect, and you run the risk of being torn apart by forces beyond your comprehension.

  Shit happens, said Jumps. Are we leaving, or not?

  Well, faced with that level of stubbornness and stupidity, what could I do? I had more on my mind than safeguarding the well-being of a human with a death wish. The eight glowing runes on the side of the Hill had merged into a silvery rope—a glamorous harness for Sleipnir. The dog, Twinkle, was barking furiously, and Odin was smiling at me as if all his birthdays had come at once—all fifteen hundred or so of them.

  “Whatever,” I said. “Your funeral.”

  And with that I grabbed hold of the silver harness—the thing that Odin thought of as reins—and with one final effort of will, I hurled myself right out of the flesh and into the turbulent vastness of Dream.

  2.

  Dream, as I may have mentioned before, isn’t a wholesome element. Filled with the debris of human minds, it is a sink of feelings, aspirations, subconscious urges, forbidden passions, and broken taboos, with fantasies, and hopes, and fears thrown into the blender to make a kind of emotional soup, in which the sharks of Otherworld cir
cle and lurk in the shadows. It had almost consumed me the first time I had entered it, and I wasn’t looking forward to taking a second dip.

  Of course, travelling unprotected through Dream was different to riding Sleipnir, but even so, the ride was not what you’d call “enjoyable.” Sleipnir’s Aspect shifted constantly from the abstract to the monstrous—one moment a giant spider, the next a ship with wings for sails, the next a train of camels with legs that reached like ladders to the stars. And through the rushing of the night and the starkness of the light and the roaring of the dreamstuff that surged around us from every side, I could hear Jumps’s voice in my inner ear: “Seriously, you call this a horse?”

  I turned back to look at her. She had used my own momentum to follow me out of the body we shared, and was currently in her dream-Aspect, dressed in her penguin pyjamas and looking scared and determined, borne along by the river of light that was Sleipnir’s current manifestation in this very liminal World.

  “Oh, now you’re asking questions,” I said. “Sleipnir isn’t just a Horse. In Dream, he can take any Aspect—a horse, a car, a flying machine . . .” I gestured vaguely at our steed, which had taken the shape of a string of red birds, dragging a kind of sky-sled that bounced across the ridge of clouds. “Never mind. Just hold on.”

  “What to? What with?”

  I gave a shrug, or what passed for one in the space between the Worlds. My own Aspect here was familiar—that of a young man with fiery hair and a certain louche charm, with the runemark Kaen on his arm—but in the corporeal World, I knew, I was no more than the stuff of dreams. Jumps, however, being alive, was still connected to her corporeal self by means of a gossamer-fine silver cord, which spooled out in the Horse’s wake.

  I indicated the silver cord.