We are three. A voice spoke in Beatrice’s mind.
The wound in her side hurt badly. She tried to get up, to help Loys but her injury was too severe. She wept in frustration and pain.
The tattooed savage, Azemar’s double, stood chanting in the pool, holding someone beneath the water, the wolf-thing tore at Mauger’s flesh and the boy splashed in the water calling out, ‘Why here’s the answer; there are runes aplenty here.’
You are the only. The existing. The now. A voice in her head. Her own? No, a girl’s. A name came to her. Elai, and another name too. Skuld.
‘What was?’ Beatrice didn’t know where the words came from but she knew she spoke them.
I release it.
‘What will be?’ said Beatrice.
I do not fear it. This is the well, the well of wyrd. The well where destinies are spun. For some life, for others death.
‘Is that skein spun?’
You are spinning it.
‘Where is Loys?’
He will die for you. Long ago the magic was set, burning in the back of the minds of strange sisters in dark places like this, burning in your mind — this is how you will escape the god. Put your blood into the waters to see. It is your blood that lets you see.
Beatrice clasped to the wound in her side. Her hands were soaked with blood. She knew what to do. She dipped her right hand into the stream.
What have you given? She couldn’t tell who asked the question. It was almost as if she asked it of herself.
‘I have given my lover and my blood,’ she said.
Then see.
Beatrice saw the black hillside: she saw the battle between Bollason’s Vikings and the giants and the two gods, she saw Snake in the Eye dodging and ducking the swipes of the great hammer; she saw her sister Uthr, she with the burned face, lying fallen on the ground and Loys staring up at the great bulk of the snarling wolf, who tore and snapped at his bonds.
She understood it all — how the god had brushed her sister aside. The woman with the burned face was the past. But other women might prove more difficult for him to beat. The gods had had Beatrice in their grip, had cursed and doomed her, but no more. Here she was her own mistress. She did not think of the past, so many lives spent in agony. She did not think of the future — so many more lives to be tortured and denied. She thought of that instant and her love for Loys.
‘I would go to him.’
What would you give? It was her own voice in her head now but she knew it was the well speaking to her.
‘My life.’
More is required.
‘What more?’
Snake in the Eye, who had been splashing in the waters as if searching for a lost coin, suddenly looked up. ‘I can go to the wall,’ he said, ‘and what little flame is this? A baby! These waters seem to want it snuffed, for sure!’
‘No!’ said Beatrice. The blood on her hands streamed out from her fingers through the water of the well, threads of crimson spinning towards Snake in the Eye to ensnare him. The boy fell back into the water, at the same time reaching forward his hand as if to snuff out a candle. A great spasm shot through her belly. A warm flow spread over her legs and she doubled up.
‘Get into the well!’ screamed Snake in the Eye. ‘Get into the well! The waters want your blood and they want the blood of your child. Get into the water! That will put the wolf off my scent.’
He came splashing towards her and pulled at her legs so she slipped into the pool. Then he held her down.
As Beatrice’s blood seeped into the water it became a river of light, and she twisted the light into a cascade of colour that streamed down into the depths of the well, swirled up through the leaves of the starry tree and out, to meet the light beyond.
Outside the cave, Beatrice appeared, the pale girl beside her, their hands linked. Loys could not get to the wolf’s remaining bonds, as it thrashed from side to side, turning and twisting and threatening to crush him with its bulk.
The woman spoke, the one with the burned face, but she was fading, her presence more difficult to register. She was there, and then only the idea of her was there, and then there was nothing. The last of her was her words.
‘Take the sword from its mouth. It will tear its final bonds if you take out the sword.’
But Loys only had eyes for his wife.
‘You are dead, Beatrice,’ said Loys.
‘I think so.’
‘I must go to the wolf, to protect you in eternal time.’
The pale girl was at his side. Something was in her hands, like thread, like blood in water, like light. She was spinning it through her fingers and it flowed out from them, engulfing Loys.
‘This is your fate. No more the torn and murdered, no more the tears of separation and death,’ said the girl. ‘Die for her peace; die so we might be released from this torment forever.’
The gods had killed the Vikings and the giants and came screaming up the hill. The wolf was held by only a few threads, though the sword still blocked its mouth.
‘I cannot get to the threads. The wolf will knock me aside.’
The girl spoke: ‘Then tear out the sword.’
The gods were running now, the red-haired man with the hammer. The one-eyed man with the noose about his neck galloped up on his eight-legged horse, the projection of his mind that had lurked at the cave’s entrance now gone.
Loys looked at the sword and knew he would die if he ripped it free.
The animal strained forward, its hot jaws an arm’s length from Loys. He only had to reach forward and take it.
‘She will be born again?’
‘Again and again.’
‘Loys, save yourself. It’s not too late. The waters tell me so. You can live.’
Beatrice went to the girl and pulled the streams from her hands, struggling for control of them, the woven blood, the blood light, the life light, streaming over Loys at one instant, past him the next.
Loys spoke to the girl. ‘I am human,’ he said, ‘not eternal. You are the fates, so you say. So you take care of the destiny of these demons. You ask me to end the rule of devils by freeing Satan. I will not do it. I would like to see my wife again.’
‘Take the wolf!’
The girl gave a great scream as Beatrice tore at the threads in her hands. Then she fell down and was gone.
The gods ran past Loys, leaping onto the wolf, holding it down, grabbing threads to tie it again. The animal strained forward towards Loys, the great head slamming into the ground an arm’s length from him. He could still remove the sword if he chose.
The bonds that still bound the wolf were long ones — long enough for the head of the animal to emerge from the mouth of the cave, to the limit of where the strange drowned god had worked his magic. And then Loys’ eyes met the green eyes of the wolf and he was transfixed. The ground seemed to swirl beneath his feet, he saw the stars spin in a great vortex above him. The wolf’s agonies were his agonies, the wolf’s struggle his struggles, and a seething animosity bubbled within him, hate raw and angry. It had put its mind into his mind, casting itself into his skin.
He was the wolf. There was no difference between them. He saw the gods for what they were — his bitter enemies. He would tear off his bonds, rip them apart and suck on their blood.
Ragnarok — the word burned into his mind like the sound of a branding iron into water. The twilight of the gods. That was his purpose, what he was for.
But then the god with the hammer beat at the wolf’s skull, the one-eyed man tying its paws with threads, the strange spirits — half-raven, half-women, things only glimpsed in flashes and flutters — were all around, dragging the wolf back into the cave.
Loys wanted to follow it, to do what he had failed to do, pull out the sword and free the animal, free himself.
‘Loys.’ Beatrice was beside him. She took his hand and kissed him.
‘We will meet again,’ she said, ‘in eternal time. Look for me. Find me.’
‘I will never abandon you.’
‘You once held me to life,’ she said; ‘now I release you to it.’
She let go of his hand, and he flew up through the strands of light, through the rainbow glimmer; he saw the ship of dead men’s nails beneath him, felt the rush of the wind through the branches of the tree of light. Then he was back in the cave of the well.