The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 10

  Stormborn? Her voice was apprehensive, and after yesterday, Sigrun couldn’t blame her.

  She bowed her head, ashamed, and said, simply, I have a child here who has been transformed against his will. You might be able to reform his body. If not, he will still need your help.

  Saraid materialized, almost instantly and looked around in mild consternation. Everyone has been busy, she noted, and stepped over the daeva’s body on the floor, delicately moving around the pool of blood. You are . . . better, Stormborn?

  Sigrun looked down. Saraid had seen her at her worst yesterday. But at the moment, the only thing that mattered was the boy. She shrugged “Better is not the word I would choose.” She gestured towards the boy. “Please see what might be done for young Hannibal here.”

  Saraid dropped to her knees, herself, her tail wagging slightly, even as the boy lurched back a little from her sharp-fanged smile. I am Saraid. Stormborn here is my old friend. Solinus and Latirian are my . . . far-children. I am going to try to make your body back the way it was. Do you remember what you looked like?

  “N-not . . . really . . . .”

  “I have pictures,” Latirian volunteered, and rummaged in a case file.

  While they were busy, Sigrun gave Solinus a pat on the shoulder, and a quiet injunction to be more careful, and to write to Masako before he made any decisions about the boy, and then beckoned to Rig, who was having a quiet talk with the Magus who’d been in the room. Erasing pertinent memories, apparently. “I actually came here to borrow you, Rig.”

  “Is this going to be like the last time you ‘borrowed’ me, Aunt Sig?” Rig’s eyebrows rose over his clear gray eyes.

  She considered it. “No. It will probably be worse. It always seems to be.”

  “You are such an optimist, Aunt Sig.” They walked out together. “You have enough rank to pull with my commander?”

  “Apparently.” Her tone was terse. “If that does not work, I would like for you to consider assuring your commander that I do, in fact, have that authority.” She paused. “As you were just encouraging the Magus in there to forget Sari and me.” She glanced at him. “I appreciate that. And I know that Sari will not mind it. She is as . . . private as I am, in her way.”

  Rig hesitated, looking up at Nith, and then back down at Sigrun. “You were the one who told me not to use that ability much.”

  “I know. And I stand by those words. But with Jormangand awake in the north? I do not have time to deal with the niceties untangling you from the Legion’s bureaucracy. Either they accept my word, or I must beg you to go absent without leave.”

  “Jormangand—oh gods. I don’t think he’s going to listen to me.”

  “Perhaps not. But he might listen to you and to Nith.” Sigrun shrugged. “Perhaps if I yell very loudly, too.”

  “. . . all right. Let’s try it by the book, first, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll . . . push a little.” Rig cleared his throat. “Do I . . . do I really get to ride on Nith with you, this time?”

  If you wish it, Loki’s son.

  Rig’s eyes half-closed, joy and awe in his face. “I have a Name.” Rig cleared his throat, looking up at the dragon. “It would . . . please me very much, if you would use it, Niðhoggr.”

  As you wish, Visionweaver.

  “A very fitting name.” Sigrun rested a hand on his shoulder. “Now. Where’s your commander?”

  As she and Rig circled away a half hour later, Saraid’s voice came to Sigrun’s mind once more. I was able to remove the extra arms. The wings and the tail will have to remain, I think. The young one asked after you. I told him your Name.

  I wish you had not done that, Saraid!

  I would not lie to him. He asked about the lady who had awakened him, and who had killed the ‘bad thing.’ Saraid’s tone was reasonable. She hesitated, then asked, gently, Is it well with you? I am . . concerned.

  Sigrun looked back over her shoulder. Rig’s arms were locked tight around her waist, a look of beatific joy on his face at Nith’s speed and the glory of flight. Sigrun loved flying, but since she had learned the skill at the same time as walking, she sometimes took it rather for granted. I have agreed to use the powers that have been . . . bestowed upon me, on condition that they be removed if we manage to kill the mad gods and prevent Ragnarok.

  You used them to save the boy. You could not have done that, if you were what you were when Worldwalker met you.

  I will not deny that it eased my heart to be able to offer the child more than a painless death.

  So these unwanted gifts might not be such horrible things? Saraid pressed, gently.

  Sigrun shrugged. It didn’t matter. The powers were not hers. They had not been asked for, or earned. She changed the subject, completely. You know, I think it amusing that everyone except for Lassair calls Trennus Worldwalker. I think it suits him far more than Flamesower. One shows what he is to everyone. The other only shows what he is to Lassair. Sigrun had long since learned the art of turning aside most difficult conversations. Prometheus, Freya, and Tyr could not be put aside. Saraid? Saraid was simple to divert.

  As Saraid’s spluttering embarrassment quickly proved.

  Chapter 2: Transformations

  There is no myth more pervasive than that of the god who goes down into the earth in fall, dies, or in some cases, merely sleeps, until the time of spring or renewal. We see it in a hundred different forms. Tammuz, the ancient god of Babylonia and Sumeria, was one such. The fragmentary beliefs left in his cult were later adopted by the followers of Baal-Hamon of Carthage, and adopted, too, as the cult of Adonis in Hellas. Isis found the torn pieces of her husband, Osiris, and brought him back to life, and from that moment on, Osiris, lord of the dead, became associated with the cycle of flooding of the Nile. Life, death, life. This legend is echoed in the legend of Orpheus and Eurydice, and the tale of Demeter and Persephone. There are even parallels in tales of Nipponese kami—Izanagi going to the underworld in a vain effort to rescue his beloved Izanami. It is echoed in the hundred-year’s sleep of a princess in a castle of roses, the rest of a sorcerer trapped in a cavern in the underworld, the convalescence of a wounded king who promises, one day, to return when needed, and restore the world.

  In the case of poor shepherd Tammuz, he was loved by the goddess Innana. In some versions of the tale, he was torn apart, and she went to the underworld to bring her beloved back to life. In others, it was she, goddess of fertility, love, and war, who was banished to the underworld, and faithful mortal Tammuz went there to bring her back. In exchange, he had to give up his own life . . . for at least six months of the year. Most schoolchildren have heard the similar legends of Demeter (Roman: Ceres) and Persephone (Roman: Proserpine); Persephone is kidnapped and raped by Hades, the lord of the underworld, and held captive; her mother pleads for the return of her daughter, and the land grows cold and barren with her grief and inattention. Finally, Zeus permits her to go to the underworld to redeem her daughter; in some versions, Hecate accompanies her as her guide. But Persephone has eaten of the fruit of the underworld, and must now stay with her unloved, unwanted husband during the unfruitful months of the year . . . just as Izanami had eaten of the food of the underworld, and could never return. The western versions of this legend usually end with the return of life and spring, as the god or goddess returns to the world, and the love of those separated is renewed.

  The cycle of life, death, and rebirth requires that death and destruction be a part of it. They are an integral whole, the legend teaches us. And bringing about renewal always has a cost. But nothing is without price, without sacrifice. This, everyone knows. I personally find this comforting, in part, in our current turbulent times. Because while destruction surrounds us, there is always a chance of renewal, if we are willing to pay the price.

  —Erida Lelayn. “Cycles of Rebirth and the Vegetative Gods.” In Thaumaturgy: The Journal of Sorcery, vol. 4, issue 122, 1993 AC.

  ______________________

  Martius 20, 19
92 AC

  The random nature of mad god attacks made air travel somewhat hazardous these days. Not within the Empire itself yet, and the mad gods did not appear to like traveling over wide stretches of ocean any better than normal gods did, and thus, the chances of being attacked over the Mediterranean were currently minimal. But once a traveler got up past the fiftieth parallel of latitude, where the gods and people of the north were in full battle against the grendels, ettin, and lindworms, there were sporadic reports of mad god attacks. Since their destination today was the Arctic, they would be far outside the protection of any god’s jurisdiction . . . and obviously, the mad gods were moving there.

  Rig had climbed up behind Sigrun onto Nith’s massive shoulders, moving gingerly. She’d spread a rug over the dragon’s sleek back to protect him from the cold of the scales, at first. “I don’t think I need that, Aunt Sig.”

  “You once complained that his saliva froze on your face. You seemed uncomfortable at the time.”

  Rig reached out, and put a fingertip against Nith’s scales, cautiously. The dragon’s massive head swung around to regard him, steadily. It was cold, for certain. But not as bad as he’d thought it might be. “I’ve done a little growing up since then, I suppose. My teeth may chatter after a while, and if they do, you may certainly say I told you so . . . .”

  It is doubtful that she would do so, Visionweaver. The dragon’s low voice echoed in Rig’s mind, and he once again felt a pang of pure pride. Nith would speak to him now. My lady is careful never to speak those words.

  Sigrun snorted, and tossed the rug aside. “As you wish, Rig. You have certainly come into your power since that long-ago day.”

  Rig gingerly slipped his arms around her waist as the dragon lifted off, leaning forwards with her as the air began to roar, dully, over the enormous wings. Raw joy in being off the ground in this visceral fashion. An airplane or ornithopter could not possibly compete. “So . . . Niðhoggr,” Rig shouted over the roar of the air, though there was probably no need to do so; the dragon could hear the thoughts in his mind, after all. “Why didn’t you speak before?”

  For many reasons. Foremost, was the fact that Hel forbade me to speak to any but her, for nigh on two thousand years. It took some time to grow accustomed to the thought that I might speak to any whom I wished. The dragon paused. And after that, I did not wish to speak to any, until my lady first heard my voice. I made an exception for Truthsayer, when Stormborn was injured by the kraken.

  “. . . kraken?” Rig was lost. He’d been peripherally aware that there had been a creature roaming the Mediterranean, but he hadn’t been aware that Aunt Sig or Aunt Minori had been involved in dealing with it. He needed to keep his head wherever he was fighting. He couldn’t afford a wider, more strategic focus. The result was a kind of tunnel-vision that didn’t let him see much outside of the fifty-square-mile area in which he was currently positioned.

  “Yes. Don’t mention it to Adam, please.” Sigrun tossed over her shoulder. “He doesn’t need to know I was hurt. He just frets.”

  And then they were . . . elsewhere. Visionweaver had never been to the Veil before, and panicking, he froze. All of his senses were useless. Human sight required duration. The amount of time for a photon to strike a surface, bounce to a retina, and then the data from the nerves there to be collected and assessed by the human brain, was fractions of a second. But there wasn’t even that much time in the Veil. Sight, sound, smell, touch, taste. The only ways in which humans could perceive the world around them, all negated. And yet, because these were the only pathways that the human brain had for processing input, as new information types entered him, his mind, screaming, tried to map them to existing neural pathways.

  At least Visionweaver had the advantage of othersight. Othersight that Sigrun Stormborn had trained him in using, and suppressing, when he didn’t want its intrusions on his thought processes. So seeing a flower bloom, proportionately as large to them, as if they were a honeybee, and then seeing that same blossom become a star, engorged and ancient, suddenly spewing its death in cataclysmic fury, rocked him . . . but he was able to deal with the sudden sensory overlays better than a normal human might have. There was also a faint shift in the universe around him, as if . . . yes. Niðhoggr and Stormborn both focused, and he could feel their wills expand out, wrapping around him. Duration returned.

  The way in which Visionweaver perceived them shifted, from instant to instant. Niðhoggr was . . . multifaceted. He was a dragon, under them, and a sword of pure, edged steel, and an enormous black shadow that encompassed and overhung both Loki’s son and Tyr’s granddaughter. But there was white fire at his heart, barely shrouded by that darkness, too bright to look on.

  And Stormborn? The black cloak stayed the same, but sometimes, she looked like an ancient crone, white hair tumbling free, and every rune-mark on her body was a bleeding wound. And sometimes, he caught sight of something else. Something emerging from her, like a phoenix from the egg. The black cloak was the same, but inside the folds, he could see shimmers that looked like a night sky, full of stars. Instead of the crone’s white locks, pale copper hair tugged loose from a braid, whipping on the wind, and electrical sparks crackled here and there in it. Her face, when she turned back to look at him, was shrouded by her hood, but the features were young, though her eyes were as old as night. Surrounded by the black hood, every inch of her skin blazed with radiance, illumined from within by the rune-marks, and her spear, balanced in front of her, crackled with blue-white light, as well. His head spun, trying to reconcile the two images.

  No time. The ineffable future meeting the omnipresent past and the eternal present, all at once.

  Are you well, Visionweaver? That, from the dragon.

  He grappled with it. I think so. I never expected to come here. He paused. Where do we go?

  To meet with the others with whom we will travel. It will be a motley assortment, to be sure. Stormborn’s words were dry.

  Another eyeblink, and the dragon-blade-shadow banked, taking them through a crowded, dark tunnel filled with . . . sea water? . . . but what buffeted them on every side were churning, rushing blood cells. And then they emerged into a huge, perfect forest that stretched for hundreds of miles in every direction. Oak and pine and aspen rolled out beneath them, though the sky overhead was gray, and it was raining. The dark wings flared, and they came in for a landing in a clearing. Visionweaver slipped down, staring around himself in awe as a hundred smaller spirits emerged from the trees to regard them. Monkeys, foxes, birds. Spirits that looked like ambulatory trees, spirits made of stone, and spirits that had little more shape than a jellyfish and were made of light. A spider almost as large as Niðhoggr ambled in, setting down its chelicerae delicately, and asked if it could sing them all a song.

  Another glance, and some of the greenery around them resolved itself into vine-covered walls, tremendously difficult to see in the dappled dimness of the forest around them. Within those expansive walls, a lake, at the heart of which looked to be an island, which was a tangled mound of trees and vines. Hard to believe that there is a fortress under all that greenery, is it not? Stormborn said. This is what Worldwalker has spent thirty years building. The forest. The lake. The island. The protected places beneath the waters. This entire place . . . is a sanctuary.

  Visionweaver drank it all in. Filed away questions for later. He had known that Worldwalker, father of his beloved Cinderrose, was powerful, but not to this extent. And then the man himself appeared. Ever-young, hair partially loose, and partially dressed in braids, Pictish-fashion. No shirt, just a kilt, wrapped around his waist and draped over a shoulder, all his markings visible. A hunter’s boots, with a bow and quiver across his back. Saraid appeared at his side, part lupine, part human, and smiled, giving Stormborn an embrace in greeting. Sister. You are always welcome in my forest. The mortal one, or the Veil. A pause. You seem better.

  The children have ever had that effect on me. A slight glance at Visionweaver, who didn�
��t bristle at being referred to as a child. He could see the weight of centuries on Niðhoggr. Stormborn’s mere decades paled in comparison, but still radiated out from her. And Worldwalker . . . somehow, he seemed as old as Stormborn, if not older. Another thing to file away for later.

  Are we all here? He was anxious to depart, yet giddy with terror and anticipation at once. He was being trusted, once more, to play the game at their level. He’d done it once before, and to his knowledge, no one else of his generation had yet been pegged with that peculiar distinction. It was an honor, and a nerve-wracking one, at that.

  Not quite. We have two more who will travel with us.

  A column of flame and smoke appeared before them all, stretching up into the sky, before solidifying down into the form Visionweaver recognized as Illa’zhi; glistening, transparent skin that barely contained the seething smoke and flashes of fire inside of it. Human in shape, but minimal facial features, beyond the golden eyes. Hecate sends you greetings by way of me. She declines to meet with Jormangand once more. I note that the fire-that-creates, Lassair, is no more enthusiastic about being so near seawater than I am. That sounded grimly amused.