Worldsoul

an outcrop of granite. Something stood before it and it was a moment before Mercy realised the figure was chained to the rock.

It wasn’t human. It was bigger than the disir she had seen, and it was male: a long white face, sharp-toothed, beneath matted pale hair. He wore leather rags, the remnants of armour. His nails had scored the rock: she could see the grooves. He smiled at her, head cocked to one side.

“I don’t often have visitors.”

The voice was sophisticated, resonant. It held promises and malice. It seemed to Mercy that she had heard it somewhere before, but not directly: like an echo through someone else’s voice. Warily, she stepped forward.

“Maybe this isn’t an easy place to find. Where are we?”

She wasn’t expecting an answer, but to her surprise, one came. “It’s called ‘the place of the crossroads.’ I’m afraid your ancestors were rather literal.”

“My ancestors?”

“This is the far north of the storyways, the far deep, but not as deep as where you’ve been. I can smell the tundra on you.” He raised his blade-like nose and gave a prim sniff. “An archetypal place, somewhere that’s found in the hollows of the head. You know how it works.”

“So how come there are roads? Someone must have built them.”

The thing laughed. “Logical, aren’t you? It’s my world. I can shift the furniture around if I want to.” She saw the glint of his eyes, silver-dark in the long face. His jaw worked. She felt a sudden tug of desire and it made her skin crawl.

“Who are you?”

“I am a god. But currently, I am a god under restraint.” He nodded upward and she followed his gaze. High on the rock, something writhed. She saw a long sinuous shape: a serpent. “It’s sleeping. But when it wakes, it opens its jaws wide, wide, and the poison that has accumulated while it sleeps drips down onto me.” For a moment, he inclined his head and she saw a line of blackened, festering blisters running down the back of his scalp and his spine. She should have felt sorry, but instead there was only revulsion.

“Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“No. It comes from an older magic than I, and I am among the oldest things in the world. I was born in the age of ice, very early, with my brothers and sisters.” A wolfish smile. “Only the sisters, these days. Well, mostly. And their daughters.”

“The disir.”

“As you say, the disir. That’s men’s word for them. They call themselves something else, but you won’t be able to pronounce it.”

Mercy suspected he was right and she knew who he was, now. Loki. After the first moment of realisation, she forced the name out of her mind, in case it provided a way in. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you don’t look very far from human. But the others-”

“The males are closer to men. To humans, that is, and their offspring are closer yet. The females-they have reverted, to an older type. We may be gods, but we still have genes.”

“You know about that sort of thing?”

“I know what the world knows. As the world changes, so I change. Besides, there’s not a lot to do here. I have to keep myself occupied.”

“Did you bring us here?”

“Us?” asked the creature, sly once more.

Mercy spun round and saw that she was alone. “Shit! Where are they?”

“Looking for you, I should imagine. I wanted to talk to you on your own, away from your colleague and the spirit.”

“Why?”

“I want you to do something for me.”

Mercy had the sensation of drowning, of events closing over her head. “What is it?”

“I want you to find a story for me.”

For a moment, Mercy glimpsed what he saw. The tree stretched before her: its root deep in the heart of the world, the fires of the world’s forge, and its crown in the stars. Its branches arched into air and then air’s lack: its fruit were planets. She saw suns spinning among its eternal leaves, moons hung cold from its shoulder-and she was whirled up into the branches, the pathways and permutations reaching in all directions, breaking, splitting, merging with each word spoken and each action done. It echoed in her head: the tree is time, and she knew then why that image had spent so long in the heads of men, why its power remained. She saw a man who was not a man, who was something else, not human, walking through the streets of Worldsoul. A man in a dark coat, dark-eyed, who smiled and spoke softly, who knew the words of magic that could change the world. She thought she’d seen him before. She did not know where for a moment, then it came to her with a rush of dismay: the fake doctor, Roke, who had taken her blood. Now she knew him for who he was: Jonathan Deed, the Abbot General of the Court.

“What story?”

“The legend of a Pass between the worlds. The story of an angel with a flaming sword and demons who roam within a garden.”

“I’ve never heard of that story,” Mercy said.

“No,” the god said, patiently, “that’s why I want you to find it.”

And in return? Her thoughts must have showed on her face, because the god said, “Magic. I’ll give you power. It all comes down to power in the end. Stealing necklaces, stealing horses, stealing spells. I may be chained. Doesn’t mean I can’t act.” He gave a wolfish grin. “Doesn’t mean that at all.”

“I-”

But the scene in front of her was gone. The rocks, the chained god-everything vanished. Mercy was left staring stupidly at a grove of trees. She turned, to find Benjaya.

“Thank the Skein! You’re all right.”

Benjaya gave her a look that suggested she’d taken leave of her wits. “What do you mean? You’ve just seen me.”

“Twenty minutes ago, perhaps. I was talking to the god and you disappeared.”

“What god? We haven’t lost sight of one another.”

Mercy felt as though she was going mad. “Perra? You saw?” But the ka’s golden eyes were blank.

“I saw only the trees, and you.”

Great, Mercy thought. For all she knew, she’d imagined the whole thing. But then she looked down. A thin silver chain encircled her wrist, snicking against the ward bracelet: a fetter, a band. A slender key hung from it. She stared at it, stupidly.

“What’s that?” Benjaya asked.

“I don’t know-”

But they heard again the long, low cry.

“Wolf,” said Benjaya.

Mercy shook her head. “That wasn’t a wolf. I don’t know what that was.”

They headed back to the crossroads, swords drawn. The altar and the skull were gone. The road stretched, empty, to the bleak horizon. The cry came again, closer. Mercy and Benjaya began to walk, warily, along the road: at least they could see.

It was Mercy who caught the first glimpse of the thing, travelling fast over the moor. It was four-legged, but bigger than a wolf, perhaps the size of a horse. As soon as she’d seen it, she realised that there were others following it. Three dark shapes bounded behind. She could not tell what they were: they had long, sinewy legs and whiplike tails and they were thin to the point of emaciation. And therefore, probably hungry. Mercy looked back but the trees had vanished: they were standing on open ground. One of the creatures bayed, a low echoing howl. Mercy brought the sword up and she could see the thing closely now-all sinew, with a narrow questing head. It was vaguely doglike, apart from the size, and wan. Its ears were scarlet and it had no eyes. The dreadful head swung from side to side like a pendulum.