“Where’s the fun in that?” Loki walks to the nearest door and sets his fingers to it. Every key that was and is, every key that will be, every key that could be.” “It’s a good key.” Loki meets the mage’s eyes. “How do you know it will open them?” Kelem’s gaze sweeps the room. “What key is that? Not Acheron’s? Taken from heaven when-” “I should hope so.” Loki spins the key around his fingers. “Is that . . . ?” There’s a hunger in the door-mage’s voice. So black it is nothing but the absence of light. So black that the silver tarnishes and corrupts. The wine darkens until it’s a black that draws the eye and blinds it. “Yes, yes.” Loki waves away the conjuring. “I command you by the twelve arch-angels of-” “Why would I want to leave?” A goblet appears in Loki’s hand, silver and overflowing with wine as dark and red as blood. I made it so.” A single candle lights the chamber, dancing as the occupants move, their shadows leaping to its tune. You can leave here, but no door will open until every door is unlocked. Thirteen, lined side by side on each wall of an otherwise bare room. From my failures.” He gestures at the doors. Kelem frowns at this nonsense, then with a quick shake of his head returns to his purpose. there was a lie, like a worm at the centre of the apple, coiled like Oroborus, just as the secret of men hides coiled at the centre of each piece of you, no matter how fine you slice? Wouldn’t that be a fine joke now?” What if at the core, if you dug deep enough, uncovered every truth . . . if it were I that pulled the strings and made the gods dance. “Me, I’m just a jester in the hall where the world was made. And watching-always watching-oh the things that he has seen!” Loki spins to take in the room. Wodin, father of storms, god of gods, stern and wise. Wodin sits there, old one-eye, with his ravens whispering into each ear.” Loki smiles. “You don’t always get what you want.” Almost sing-song. Command and a great and terrible concentration in stone-grey eyes. “Are you a god, Loki?” No humour in Kelem, only command. “Olik.” He smiles a smile that dazzles and cuts. “Ikol.” His clothes change, tattered yellow checks on blue where before it was scarlet fleur de lis on grey. “I have summoned you!” The tall man, teeth gritted as if still straining to hold the other in place, though his hands are at his side. The short man laughs, a many-angled sound as likely to kill birds in flight as to bring blossom to the bough. One tall in his robes, stern, marked with cruelty and intelligence, the other shorter, very lean, his hair a shock of surprise, his garb a changing motley confusing the eye.
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