Worldsoul

Twenty-One

Mercy and Benjaya sat on one side of the table in a downstairs office, the ka on the other. Perra sat with its paws on the ebony wood, a small severe judge.

“You have a choice, as I see it,” the ka said. “Stay on this side of the world and try to close the gap, or pass through and find out why.”

“I told the Elders that I would do my best to sort this out,” Mercy said. She felt the obligation like an uncomfortable lump in her throat. The ka looked at her. “And how do you intend to do that?”

“I don’t know,” Mercy admitted. The journey to the Eastern Quarter had clarified the danger, but had accomplished little in terms of resolution. The idea of going through the gap held a dark appeal: Mercy had to ask herself whether this was simply escapism, staving off the problem in the guise of taking action. She looked at Benjaya’s hopeful face and thought: Oh dear. Librarians. We don’t get out much.

When she turned to the ka, she saw to her irritation that Perra had already divined what she was thinking. The ka was not, so Mercy believed, reliably psychic-although it might just have been that Perra kept its own counsel.

“Should you go,” the ka said, “I shall accompany you.”

“Thank you,” Mercy said.

They set out that evening, when twilight was already falling in a soft veil across the city. Mercy once more carried the Irish sword; Benjaya bore his rapier. They had brought suitable clothes. Mercy was wearing one of the thick woollen sweaters that Greya had brought from the north and rarely wore in the temperate climes of the West, and toting a padded coat with a fur hood. The sweater-cream wool, with a design of small black snowflakes-made her conscious of a link with her mother, now who knows where on the Barquess… Even in the temperate climes of the Library, she was already feeling far too hot. The thought of that Arctic air was almost welcome.

Benjaya wore a leather coat, as dark as his skin, and sensible stout boots.

Perra padded alongside on small lion’s feet, saying little.

As they approached the stacks of Section C, Mercy thought she felt a cold wind already blowing through, but she was not sure if this was only her imagination. She looked down at Perra, but the ka’s face was as unruffled as ever.

“Do you feel a draft?” she asked Benjaya. He twitched as though she had poked him.

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“What happens if it doesn’t open?” Mercy said to Perra. “You said you can see a rift, but I can’t. What happens if we can’t get through?”

“Then we go home,” Perra said, sounding slightly surprised.

Perhaps, Mercy thought, it was that obvious.

But when they were standing in front of the stacks, there was no mistake. The blast of freezing air, seemingly blowing out from the pages of the books themselves, was very marked. Mercy donned her coat.

“Take a book down from the shelf,” Perra instructed. Mercy did so, an old fairy story book from Denmark, full of trolls and elves and dark old gods. As soon as she opened the pages, the edges of each page became rimed with frost and she breathed in a fresh clean cold, which soon became stifling, freezing her lungs and throat. Beside her, Benjaya made a small sound of fright.

“It is opening,” Perra said, and the ka’s calm voice steadied her. Mercy flicked swiftly through the pages of the book, aware of a gradual roaring in her ears. The cold intensified, making her gasp, and when she looked up again the rift was there, gaping up before her and letting through a glimpse of starlit snows.

“All right,” Mercy said, her grip tightening on the hilt of the Irish sword. “We’re going through.”

She stepped forwards. There were words in the air ahead, between her and the rift. Mercy found herself whispering aloud, telling the story, summoning the road that was the storyway that would take them into the world beyond:

“… and there was a troll who lived under the bridge, and his name was… ”

She stopped, but the words were scrolling up from the pages of the Danish fairy tale book, coiling into the air like silver and black threads and pulling them in through the weave…

… there was a vast tugging sensation, as though the air had been sucked out of the room. Mercy was gasping for breath, the oxygen knocked out of her. She was lifted off her feet and whisked upwards and through…

Stone hit under her heels. She heard Benjaya shout out. The ka, predictably, was silent. Mercy blinked into sudden light.

“Sunshine?”

It was a winter sun, low and red, hanging over a jagged black line of forest. She breathed in yet more cold air. They were high up, standing on stone flags which formed the arch of a bridge. Perra balanced on the low parapet and Mercy noticed that the ka’s coat had become thicker. A ruff of gold and cream obscured the sleek lines of its neck.

“I didn’t think spirits felt the cold,” Mercy said.

“This is a chill of the spirit,” the ka said, reprovingly.

“If this is the bridge,” Benjaya remarked, with unease, “then where’s the troll?”