And yet, for all that, she missed him terribly, and if she hadn’t been certain that to involve him in this would be to put him in the most terrible danger…

I wonder if he’s looking for me.

I wonder if he misses me.

And if he knew-would he be proud?

“There’s only one way to find out,” she said.

Doggedly she moved on.

How long now? Impossible to tell. So close to the edge of Chaos, the laws that bind the Worlds are already warped beyond recognition. Logic tells us that such a journey to such a place cannot possibly exist, but Maddy and Loki were traveling between possibilities, to places where Logic, the first servant of Order, cannot pass.

The trick, like magic, is not to think too hard about what you’re doing, to pass through the world as if in a dream, untrammeled by ideas of what is possible and what is not. And so they cast Naudr to open the way and moved impossibly down into the Underworld, and when morning came (not that they knew it was morning), they found themselves standing on a craggy cliff looking down onto a subterranean landscape of stagnant mists and slow dark rivers, a long plain lit from all around with a wan light the color of an old bruise, and knew they were looking at Hel itself.

Hel is cold but not freezing. To freeze implies a kind of action, but Hel is a place of inaction, and its chill is the coldness of the empty hearth, of the silent earth, of the grave. And so Loki and Maddy were cold, but not unbearably so, and they were tired, but reluctant to sleep. Most of all they were hungry and thirsty, for their small supplies were running out, and they dared not touch the foul water of Hel. They took turns carrying the Whisperer (on Loki’s insistence, to Maddy’s surprise), but even so their progress was slow as they trudged toward a sullen horizon that never seemed to get any nearer.

“Does it go on forever like this?” said Maddy as they stopped once more to rest.

Loki glanced at her and shrugged. “For some people it goes on forever. For others-well, it takes the time it takes.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Maddy said. “Distances don’t change depending on who you are.”

“They do here,” Loki said.

Wearily they trudged on.

There aren’t many rules in the Underworld, but those that exist are rarely broken. Death is a place in permanent balance, a place of no movement, no progress, no change. Of course, living, moving, changing people were never meant to visit Hel. A few have tried (they always do), but little good ever comes of it, and most, if they come back at all, come back mad or broken.

Even the gods had made a point of avoiding the Underworld as often as possible. It’s a dreary place, and although many have tried to bargain with its Guardian-to plead for aid, to negotiate the return of one single, very special soul-such a pact has always ended in tears, failure, lingering death, or a bit of all three.

For Hel’s safe balance comes at a price. No one raises the dead without disturbing that balance, and so close to Netherworld, the consequences could be disastrous. As a result, Hel’s Guardian had a reputation for being cranky and disobliging, and no one had left the Underworld alive since Mother Frigg returned alone after pleading for the release of Balder the Fair, before the end of the Elder Age.

Loki was well aware of this. On the other hand, he had reason to believe that the Guardian of the Underworld might deign to make an exception in his case. Evidently the Whisperer believed it too, which suited Loki just fine, because that belief was what had kept him alive so far.

Now he sensed the thing’s impatience.

You said she would be here, it said.

She will, thought Loki, hoping it was true.

It had better be true, because if you’ve lied…

“Don’t worry. She’ll come,” he said aloud. “As soon as she knows I’m here, she’ll come.”

“Who?” said Maddy, looking at him.

“The Guardian of the Underworld,” he said. “Half-Born Hel. My daughter.”

2

As Maddy and Loki were entering Hel, the Vanir aboveground were losing no time. The ambush at the parsonage had alerted them to Skadi’s betrayal, but the murder of Ethel Parson suggested that there was another dimension to the business. Had it been an accident? Was the woman a bystander, caught in the crossfire? Or was she a sacrifice, sent out to make them believe that no treachery was intended on the part of the Folk?

“Of course there was treachery,” Frey had said. “They lured us out there with promises of parley, then tried to use the Word on us. What other reason could there be?”

“But what about Odin?” That was Bragi, looking shaken, combing dust out of his hair. “He wanted to talk. He broke bread with us; he wanted peace with the Vanir-”

“Oh, grow up,” snapped Frey. “He was hardly going to wear a sign saying This is a trap, was he? I say we waste no more time. Go after him now. Make him talk.”

Freyja was looking thoughtful. “A poison handkerchief,” she said. “It doesn’t really seem like Odin’s style.”

“And what about Skadi?” Bragi said. “If she’d wanted to do us harm, she could have done it in the Hall of Sleepers, when we were helpless. Why turn against us now?”

“Perhaps she was waiting for something,” said Frey.

“I don’t believe she means us harm.” Njörd was looking stubborn now, his sea blue eyes shining dangerously.

“No, really?” said Heimdall, losing his temper. “You old idiot, what does she have to do to make you believe? She could have her hands round your throat and you’d still think it a sign of affection.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous. You think that because you were together once-”

“You leave my marriage out of this.”

“Your marriage was over before it began…”

As discussion erupted once more among the Vanir, Idun, who had taken no part in the battle, wandered over to its only casualty. Ethel Parson was lying in the yard, facedown in her nightdress, the wisp of glamours that had been the handkerchief already dissolving in the first rays of dawn. Her hair had come unpinned, there was a smudge of earth on her cheek, and she looked small and discarded, just a footnote to the real business at hand.

Kneeling quietly beside her, Idun considered, with pity and some wonderment, the mysterious resilience of the Folk. Such frail creatures they were, she thought, with such short lives and such a depth of misery to endure. And yet a blow that might have annihilated a goddess had failed to extinguish the life in this woman. Oh, she was dying-but there was some spark in her yet, and when the Healer touched her face, her eyelids moved, just a little.

Some distance away the remaining Vanir were still arguing. The cause of the argument did not interest Idun. Too many people seemed dissatisfied too much of the time and, for the most part, for a trivial cause. Death alone was not trivial. She glimpsed its mystery in Ethel’s blurry eyes and wondered whether she should let it come. The woman was troubled and in pain. Very soon she would be at peace. And yet she fought it-Idun sensed this very strongly-with every particle of her being.

Passive Ethel had always been: obedient to her husband, dutiful to her father, modest and self-effacing throughout her life. Such a woman facing death submits quietly, without a struggle. But there was steel in Owen Goodchild’s daughter. She wanted to live-and so Idun reached into the pouch at her waist and brought out a tiny sliver of dried fruit. It was no larger than her little fingernail, but it was the food of the gods, and she laid it under Ethelberta’s tongue and waited.

A minute passed. Perhaps it was too late, thought Idun; not even the apples of youth could save her if her spirit had already been accepted into Hel’s domain. Very gently she turned Ethelberta onto her side, pushing away the soft brown hair to uncover her face. It was a plain face, to be sure, and yet death had given it a kind of dignity, a stillness that was almost regal.