“Perra!”
“Yes?”
“Do you—feel anything?”
The
ka’s
tail twitched. “I do not.”
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 •
The Devil’s Ears had fallen far behind. Shadow had not seen the watching woman again, and she had kept the sighting from the demon. Periodically, the spirit stirred inside her head, found Gremory’s red-black gaze fixed upon it, and retreated hastily. Shadow was enjoying the relative peace and quiet, but she kept thinking of the woman, and of Ator. She could not help feeling they were connected, that Gremory had drawn her into a wider web. Yet there were advantages: the immense weight of heat that lay upon the desert diminished the disir in Shadow’s memory, diminished even the Shah. She did not think the creature of the north, of those great ice wastes, would pursue her here. The Shah’s influence did not stop at the city wall, however. She would be wise not to discount him entirely. That left the demon herself.
Beneath her, Gremory’s camel-feet relentlessly pounded across the desert. It was evening. The sun had gone down in a burst of rosy flame and the sky was now green and water-cool. A single star hung like a lamp over the dunes. The demon had, before changing back into animal form, told Shadow that they would be there by nightfall, but Shadow did not know where “there” might be. Asking Gremory had merely resulted in the shapeshift from woman to dromedary. This was not a slow process; one moment Shadow was talking to a woman, and the next, to a large and insolent camel. She found this disconcerting.
As she rode, she scanned the horizon for signs that they might be approaching a destination: there were hills ahead, a ridge that was higher than the Devil’s Ears and still catching the last red light of the sun. Gremory veered towards the hills and Shadow became increasingly sure that this was where they were heading. As they drew closer, a bright sword-tip appeared over the summit—the crescent moon. Shadow greeted it like an old friend.
Gradually, the sand became interspersed with rocks jutting up out of the dunes like a cliff from the waves. Gremory slowed, halted, kneeled, and Shadow climbed down, to stand—wobbling a bit before regaining her balance on the sand. A blink, and the demon was back in female form. This time, Gremory wore black armour, heavily ornamented with silver. Shadow had a brief moment of demon-envy; a pity humans couldn’t carry their wardrobes with them.
“So,” Gremory said. “Here we are.”
“Where is ‘here’?”
“Where the person I want you to meet lives.”
“Is he like Ator?”
“No, not like Ator. I don’t—” the demon hesitated. “Ator is sometimes an ally, but one can’t rely on him. Besides, he doesn’t have the ability we need.”
“So who are we going to meet?”
“Come with me,” the demon instructed, and walked between the rocks.
A pathway, very rough, was cut into the face of the stone. As she began to climb, Shadow saw that it was not badly made, but simply very old, worn away by erosion and time. The scouring winds that crossed the desert were not kind to stone, and few structures lasted long. But the sickle moon hung above the steps like a guiding lamp and Shadow climbed on.
Halfway up, she turned and looked back. The desert stretched below, undulating miles of shadow. Far on the horizon she could see the uneven line of the Devil’s Ears, but the city, as she had risked to hope, was happily invisible, unbetrayed even by light. The stars were thick and brilliant now, so vivid that they cast their own faint glow, and in its pale light Shadow, for a moment, thought she saw someone standing on the opposite ridge. Then it was gone. She turned to where the demon waited with a terrible patience.
“I thought I saw someone,” Shadow said.
“This place is too crowded,” Gremory replied.
At the top of the steps, the stone levelled out into a platform and there was a black arch in the rocks beyond, some kind of entrance. As Shadow stared, a flame flickered within and she glimpsed a chamber cut into the rock. The demon strode forward. Shadow heard a murmured incantation, a ritual greeting. She ducked to avoid the low lintel and stepped into the chamber.
She knew at once that the person sitting on the other side of the chamber was not human. Yet there was nothing ostensibly to suggest this. He was tall, white-haired, and although his face was unlined, it seemed filled with a great weariness. His eyes were the no-colour of clear glass. He wore a grey robe. He should, Shadow thought, have faded against the stones of the wall and yet he was vivid, drawing the gaze and snaring it.
“Not a demon,” she said, and did not realise she had spoken aloud until it was too late.
“An opposite number,” Gremory said, and smiled thinly.
“Fallen?” Shadow asked and was appalled she had said such a thing.
The person said, “You cannot help but speak the truth in front of me. It makes social conversation very trying, I know. No, I am not fallen. I choose to be here. Duke, it’s good to see you again.”
“His name is Elemiel,” the demon said. Shadow noticed Gremory—Duke?—took care not to step too close to Elemiel: around the entity’s feet, a faint golden glow spread outwards. Protective measures. Shadow had no doubt that the entity needed them.
“I got your letter,” the angel said.
“We’ve come because this woman is possessed,” Gremory said. “She needs your help.”
“I may not be able to give it.”
“Yet, you may.” They stared at one another for a moment.
“All right,” Elemiel said, at last. “Let’s see.”
The world was filled with light. It was as though her veil had become transparent, and Shadow’s eyes had opened wide as a door. Illumination flooded into her; she breathed light. She was a doorway, she realised, and the angel stepped lightly in.
“Now,” Elemiel said. “Where is this person?”
It was not like being possessed by the spirit, or invaded by the demon. The angel’s step into her soul was thistledown soft, as imperceptible as a moth. But she could not more have resisted it any more than she could have flown: there was an inexorable push behind it, sunlight-strong. She stood quietly back and let the angel in.
And then she watched, passive, but this time not minding, as Elemiel strolled down the walkways of her mind, quietly and methodically opening doors. He walked into rooms that Shadow had long since forced shut; chambers filled with cobwebs and matters of the dark, and the light wind of the angel’s passing stirred up the dust and opened windows, letting in the air of the spirit.
Housecleaning,
Shadow thought, and the angel laughed. Illuminated by the light that he brought in his wake, she was able to look on things that she had thought long buried—her mother’s death, her father’s disappearance—all without pain. She could sense the demon watching with detached interest. Gremory did not attempt to intrude. But always the spirit that had possessed her ran, fleeing swiftly down the corridors, and the angel went after it like a silent hunter.
He caught up with it at last in a basement room, somewhere small and walled and tucked away. Shadow recalled it as an early memory: a tense night of arguments, the family shouting around her as she lay, fearful, in her small bed. There were slamming doors and hissed accusations. She had never known what it was about. Yet she remembered now that on the following day, her aunt had taken her to the zoo, and the happy memory had eclipsed the other one, forcing it from her mind until now. She again had that feeling of miserable oppression, filled with lack of understanding and
wish-you’d-just-stop,
until the angel’s touch banished the unhappiness and brought healing in its place.