Which was why I presently took wing, and went after Frigg on her continuing mission to name and tame everything in the Nine Worlds that might present a threat to her son. Rocks, trees, wild animals; a mother’s love, it seemed to me, was endlessly anxious and tender, seeing danger everywhere, in every spark and splinter. Well, not my mother, obviously. But Frigg was never going to give up until everything – and I mean everything – that might damage her son had been rendered harmless.

‘I name thee Oak, son of Acorn, and command thee and thy folk to obey.’

‘I name thee Iron, son of Earth, and command thee and thy folk to obey.’

‘I name thee Wolf, son of Wolf, and command thee and thy folk to obey.’

And so on, throughout the animal world, the plant world, the mineral world. It was the longest lullaby the Nine Worlds had ever known, and as a hymn to maternal love, was almost enough to touch my heart.

I said almost. I have no heart. Well, not according to history, which called me a number of hard names – Father of Lies being just one of them, as if the Old Man wasn’t telling porkies long before I was a glint in the eye of whatever sparked me to sentience. Well, that’s history for you, folks. Unfair, untrue and for the most part written by folk who weren’t even there.

‘I name thee Wasp, daughter of Air, and command thee and thy folk to obey.’

‘I name thee Scorpion, daughter of Sand, and command thee and thy folk to obey.’

‘I name thee Spider, daughter of Silk . . .’

And so on. And so on. And so on. Words are the building blocks of the Worlds; words and runes and names. And there was one particular name – a name the Oracle had given me – that had a special relevance to my situation; a name that, in the right hands, might even bring down an invincible.

I’d been following her in hawk guise for weeks and months. She was tiring. Her memory was failing her. And the little, half-wilted plant in her hand was so very small and helpless . . .

‘I name thee . . .’

What’s that? Could that be . . .

Mistletoe?

I tried to recall the exact wording of the Oracle’s prophecy.

I see a branch of mistletoe
Wielded by a blind man.
This, the poison dart that slays
Asgard’s most beloved son.

At first, I’d taken the stanza to mean something clever and cryptic. There’s nothing very dangerous about a branch of mistle toe, and the phrase about the blind man had to be some kind of metaphor. But seeing Frigg with her mistletoe shoot, trying in her exhaustion to remember what it was, I felt an inspiration.

I shifted into the Aspect of a poor old woman of the Folk. Shielding my colours carefully, I approached Frigg, slowly, on foot, and greeted her with a toothless smile.