Worldsoul

Mercy looked at the ka, conscious of a creeping and sudden sense of mistrust. “Are you sure?”

The ka blinked. “There is nothing here, beside the usual ghosts. The girl who died; the little dog.”

“All right,” Mercy said, reluctant. The impression was fading: perhaps she’d simply imagined it. But then she looked at the window-the back panes, which looked out over the garden from the kitchen-and knew that she had not.

“Perra!”

Cautiously, she approached the window. Flowers had caught her attention; flowers of frost, which even now blossomed and grew, white across the surface of the glass. Mercy knew winter, of course: the Western Quarter was not immune, though not nearly as chill as the Northern. Towards the height of the year, the solstice, mists came in from the sea, rainstorms lashed the western coasts and the morning air was pale with frost, stiffening the blades of grass and the leaves, and making patterns on the glass. But this wasn’t winter. It was late summer now and the air that night had been sultry and still as she walked down the hill from the Library. No natural change in the weather could have accounted for these flowers of frost. Mercy made sure that the Irish sword was still in reach and when her fingers closed over its hilt, the blade sang a sudden sharp note of warning, as it had not bothered to do that afternoon in the Library.

Then there was a knock at the back door, a single rap, and Mercy froze.

“Who’s there?”

No reply. The knock came again. Mercy brought the sword up.

“I’m not answering the door until you tell me who you are!”

The flowers were blooming across the windowpane, spreading upwards and out until the whole of the kitchen window was whited out. Looking down, Mercy saw frost was beginning to spread under the kitchen door, pallid fingers like a skeletal hand reaching out across the boards. The sword twitched again in her fist, but how do you fight frost? Mercy threw her splayed hand outward and spoke one of the house spells, the warding conjurations which were passed down through the family, peculiar to each household. She increased them in strength, racheting the incantations up in power, but the frost continued to spread.

“… emecherala, halacherala… ”

But it was starting to rise upwards from the floorboards in a thin spray of mist, sparkling and crackling in the air. Mercy took a step back. The ka was watching wide-eyed, like a cat about to pounce. The frost rose up until it was at head height, when it began to take on shape.

Its lips moved. “My name-” The face cracked like a chipped glaze, but then it was solidifying once more, congealing into a human shape. A crown of starlight glittered across its brow. It opened cold dark eyes, brushed a languid hand over the fur collar of its cloak. It was the woman from the sleigh.

“Forgive me for not introducing myself on our first meeting. My name is Mareritt. And forgive my intrusion, but I need to speak to you.”

“I’m at the Library most days,” Mercy said. The frost-woman smiled.

“House call.”

“I was ‘here’ before. You awoke from your journey to the north in your own bed, did you not?”

“After you drugged us.”

“It was necessary.”

“So now you’re here.” Mercy was outraged. “I mean, I’m grateful for you rescuing us, but what are you?”

“I am a nightmare.”

It was a moment before Mercy, bridling, realised that the woman was not issuing a threat, but speaking literally.

“You’re from the Northern Quarter?”

“I get around. But originally, yes.”

“Scandinavian?” Mercy’s professional curiosity was piqued. Mareritt smiled.

“Once upon a time.” She raised her head and scented the air like a hunting dog. “I understand you’ve had a visit from the Ladies. Not here. Where you work.”

“The disir? Yes.”

“How unpleasant,” Mareritt said. She sounded as though some social undesirable had dropped in uninvited for tea. Then she turned to Mercy and the well of her eyes exerted a sudden pull, as though the gravity itself had altered. Mercy felt herself flinch away.

“You’re carrying the touch of the god’s hand. Did you know?” Mareritt cocked her head on one side. “But how could you not, unless he’s wiped it from your mind.”

“He hasn’t,” Mercy told her, dry-voiced. The ka looked from one to the other, as if watching a tennis match.

“What did he tell you?”

Mercy was reluctant to say. Is my enemy’s enemy my friend? Hard to tell, in this instance. But she felt the words being pushed out of her throat, as if Mareritt had taken up temporary residence inside her.

“He-he wants me to find a story.”

“Does he, now?” The black eyes were bright. “How interesting. What story is that?”

“A story about demons and a garden.”

“Loki is a lord of intrigue, you know that? You’re familiar with the tales of the north?”

Mercy nodded. “My mother, Greya-she’s from a northern clan.”

“But Greya isn’t here.” Did she know everything?

“No. She’s gone on the Barquess.”

“I’m going to do something for you,” Mareritt said. She stepped across the kitchen, taking care to avoid the frond of a fern which, Mercy saw, withered at her approach.

Standing over the kitchen table, she reached into her mouth with a finger and thumb and took out a key. It was similar in size and shape to the key Loki had given Mercy. She placed it on the table.

“That’s for you.”

“Loki gave me something, too. What does it open?”

“It opens the door to the Library that belongs to the Court.”

“What? How did you get that?”

“I picked a pocket.”

“In the Court?”

“I need a book,” Mareritt said, “The name of the book is The Winter Book.”

“Have you checked our own lending section?”

Mareritt clicked her tongue with a noise like chiming icicles. “I know for a fact that the book is in the Court’s library, not yours.”

“I’m sorry,” Mercy said. “I don’t have visiting rights.”

“Oh, but you will fetch it for me.”

“I don’t think so.”

Mareritt turned. “This is the name,” she said.

“I don’t-”

The woman touched a chilly finger to Mercy’s brow.

“This is the name of the clan: they are the People of the Birch Forest and the Stone. I ask you to do this in the name of the People, of your mother’s clan. I place you under geas to bring the book to me.”

Mercy felt the geas go into her mind like a silver hook, snaring her will in a binding net.

“Damn you,” she managed to say.

“Oh, come. That’s no way to talk to your-” She reached out and touched the phial of golden oil to Mercy’s brow and that was the last thing that Mercy remembered that night.

Thirty-One