The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Read online

  There were, in fact, new murals. On one wall, a sky with a single sun, one so large and so bright, it looked as if it were poised to swallow the person who’d painted it . . . pictured as a silhouette of a female form, long black hair, no more than two inches tall at the very bottom of the wall. “I like that one,” the nurse offered, from the doorway, nodding. “All the yellow is so cheerful.”

  Sophia began to laugh, and midway through the jag of laughter, began to cry. Sigrun sighed, and pulled her sister down to the bolted-down chair, and began to brush her hair for her, while she looked at the rest of the images. Burgundoi, again, clearly. Gargoyles and gods and bear-warriors and valkyrie in the streets, lined up to defend the Odinhall. Two mad gods in the sky, pictured as circular black blobs, their tendrils spearing through people at random and reeling them up into the sky. Floating corpses ascending to the heavens. And an army facing the gods—flayed men, ahuizotl, cherufe, humans with rocket-launchers, tanks, machine guns, and bows. Humans wielding magic, tearing down the walls of the buildings so that bricks collapsed upon the defenders, while, off to the right, Jormangand reared up out of the ground like a pillar of fire, and flame erupted along the entire horizon, consuming the edge of the earth.

  “I have visitors for you today,” Sigrun told Sophia, once the tears had faded, and her sister had started singing to herself, holding up her fingers as if she pulled at the strings of an invisible cat’s cradle.

  Zaya and Prometheus both came to the door, but the titan lurked outside until Zaya entered. Sophia started at seeing the girl, and put both hands to her head, screwing up her face in pain for a moment. “I like it when he screams,” Sophia said, after a moment, relaxing. “Even if it leaves a vacuum in its wake, like my sinuses might explode from the sudden lack of pressure.” She beamed at Zaya. “He’s so very frightened of you, you know that? Of who you’ll become.”

  Zaya smiled uneasily, and perched on the edge of the bed. “Be careful! Don’t burn my pillow!”

  Zaya gave Sigrun an appealing look. “Can you explain to her that I’m . . . just human? My brothers and sisters can burn things, but I need a match to do that.” She suddenly looked abashed, and ducked her head.

  At least Zaya’s managing to joke, Sigrun thought. Now, if I just keep acting normally around the girl, she might forget what she heard yesterday. “Sophia, I think you can trust Zaya here not to damage your belongings. She is quite a conscientious young woman.”

  She slid one hand to the base of her sister’s head, and concentrated. Saw again the fine, swirling powder that was the mayfly awareness in the mind . . . and frowned. Right now, she could . . . almost see a pattern in the millions of glimmer motes that swirled her sister’s form like a barely-contained nebula. Almost.

  Apollo of Delphi was concentrating on her. She has his fixed attention, it would seem, Prometheus said, coming around the corner before Sigrun could stop him. But when Fireflower entered the room, he fled. Stormborn, you may . . . disrupt your sister’s memories of who I am, once I leave. I think so long as Fireflower is here, we may all spite Apollo freely.

  Sophia sat up a little, staring at him. “Foresight,” she said, sounding dazed. “But . . . you’re dead. I never saw you alive before . . . Why don’t I remember seeing you? Oh . . . maybe this is the first time that I will have seen you. But usually, I see everything two or three times, at least.”

  Prometheus entered the room, and very gently touched her face. Because it is important that you never remember me, Trueseer. Else Olympus will hunt me. Some things should remain hidden.

  “Then why are you here?” Plaintive voice, shaken and wondering. Sigrun realized, in an instant, why. Sophia had never had to deal with anything unexpected before.

  Because I need the information that you possess. You have more information at your disposal than anyone else in the world. I will not cause you pain. On that, I would swear by the Styx.

  Sophia nodded, and then she began to sing under her breath, another children’s song. Her voice cut off, and Sigrun gently deflected memory-formation. She wouldn’t let her sister remember any of this.

  It took just under a half hour, and Prometheus was frowning by the end, before he leaned down and gave Sophia a gentle kiss on the forehead. Thank you, young one. Rest now. You have given me . . . fascinating insights. And many more questions than I had before.

  Outside the room, Sigrun folded her arms. “I trust you got something valuable enough to make the entire exercise worthwhile?” Betraying my sister’s trust in me. Putting a madwoman—little more than a child, now—at the mercy of others. My ethics are crumbling.

  Your sister sees a deterministic future, shaped by Apollo of Delphi’s memories. The fact that she does not remember seeing me, may mean that Apollo will never know that I exist once more. I am thus an outlying factor in all my own calculations. Her information . . . her data set, if you will . . . is skewed. Biased. But even taking that into account when adjusting my calculations for her information, the odds of your success in calming Jormangand actually drop to less than twenty percent without significant assistance from your various allies. She does see Loki returning . . . but relatively late. We might be able to change that. We can send Hiddenstar to retrieve Loki earlier, and perhaps that might change the course of events. He might, however, being returned earlier, be the weaker for it.

  “There is no time in the Veil,” Sigrun said, her voice sounding like a crow’s to her own ears. “No matter when he returns, he should be as strong as he ever will be.” She paused, frowning. “Though . . . was it eighty-five, when Rig and Inghean got married?” Time was a river, and the years blurred for her. “He came back then, and said he was yet too weak.”

  No time in the Veil, no. But his power there is one thing. His power here, the amount of faith invested in him by those who believe in his return to fight Ragnarok? The fenris and the jotun and the nieten who have been born the way they are, and who have come to look on him both as a creator and a destroyer? That is a . . . significant amount of faith. I calculate its apex in 1999, but it is steadily increasing. If he is called forth early . . . he might not be as capable of so much. Faith might actually drop, out of disappointment in him. It would have to be managed, and that will be a choice left to your gods . . . or, rather, to you northern gods. Prometheus smiled at Sigrun. A little teasing poke.

  She stared past him. “I will contact my gods,” she told him, her voice empty. “I will inform them of your findings. Erida’s chauffeur should still be waiting for both of you. Thank you both for your time this morning.”

  “Wait,” Zaya said, catching Sigrun’s arm, and again, looked abashed and pulled away.

  Sigrun closed her eyes. “Zaya, I’ve helped look after you and your siblings. Taught you once a week, when I could. I’ve done the same for no less than eighteen of Lassair’s children. Four of Saraid’s. Three of Kanmi’s. Fritti’s son. And now Latirian, Solinus, and Rig are all adding children to that total.” She sighed. “And I have never yet bitten any of you. Please do not act as if I am suddenly apt to start.” Sigrun put a leash on her temper. “What did you wish to say?”

  “I . . . Prometheus, you said you had questions. What . . . what are they?” Zaya bit her lower lip.

  The titan looked down at the girl steadily. Why Apollo of Delphi fears you, is foremost in my mind. But also of interest . . . your sister, Stormborn, has most interesting vision, when she veers even slightly outside of the deterministic box of Apollo’s memories. She has told you that she can see beyond the end? She uses words you have no . . . acquaintance with, in any language in this world?

  “A ceegar is just a ceegar,” Sigrun quoted the foreign words, staring at the floor. “Other things. Nonsense.”

  Prometheus nodded. Your Truthsayer has spoken to me of ‘quantum universes.’ New words. A new concept. It fascinates me. But, in simplest terms . . . .

  “I go to work one morning, and make a decision at a cross-street. At that decision point, the world breaks in
to two realities, one where I get hit by a bus and die, and one in which I make it to work alive.” Sigrun looked at the floor. “There are billions of people just on this planet, every one of them making decisions like that every day. Not to mention how many other planets out there might have sapient life, making decisions. If every decision makes a new universe, there would be . . . hundreds of billions of them. Beyond counting. I object to the egotism inherent to this theoretical model, incidentally.”

  I would expect nothing else of you. Prometheus’ tone was crisp. However, I think that only important decisions split off universes. I think many of the small decisions create universes that collapse back into each other, seamlessly. What you have for breakfast on any given morning doesn’t make much difference. But if it kills you, and in another universe, you live and have a child? Even that might not be a statistically important difference, unless that child grows to adulthood and does something . . . significant. Creates a new vaccine, or saves a ruler’s life. So there might be . . . truncated realities that collapse back into a mainline universe after a certain half-life of decay.

  Sigrun’s head came up. So did Zaya’s. “This is like talking to Kanmi,” Sigrun said, after a moment, shaking her head.

  I have seen Emberstone in all your minds. I would greatly have enjoyed meeting him, I think. A powerful mind and an irreverent spirit. Kin! Prometheus grinned at her, and Sigrun’s lips twitched, reluctantly, at the corners. Ah, good. You are not entirely dead within yourself yet, Stormborn. Now, consider this. Statistically important deviations create universes that bear striking differences from our own. Look at it like . . . galaxies. One large one, like our own . . . with attendant satellite galaxies, swarming around it. Some split off ages ago. Some calve off when a major differentiation point occurs. Sometimes, galaxies collide, and form a new, larger one . . . and sometimes, stars are knocked loose from the galaxy when these collisions occur. They are ejected, and, perhaps, in time, are captured by a new galaxy.

  “Or die, alone, in the void between them,” Sigrun said, dryly.

  Quite so. With all this in mind, picture, if you will, this as time, and not as space.

  Sigrun grimaced, trying to envision this, but Zaya’s expression shifted, rapidly. “Sophia can see the other galaxies,” Zaya exclaimed. “She has a good enough ‘telescope’ that she’s seeing the other universes.”

  I think that is a possibility.

  Sigrun stared at the titan. “How?” she demanded.

  Prometheus grimaced. Are either of you aware of what happened when Hachiman died in Nippon?

  “Explosion of energy, minor mutations, destruction, earthquakes, a tsunami, and a lot of deaths,” Sigrun replied, succinctly.

  All of that. And, coming at the tail-end of a spate of gods’ deaths? Enough energy was released to tear a small hole in the reality of this universe. Ley-line disruption caused it. Oh, Amaterasu and the other survivors did their best to patch it. But no spirit of the Veil is an expert in such. We do not meddle with the constants of your universe. Oh, some might work with gravity, but we do not touch the things that make up the edifice of your realm. Cosmic strings and continuity. That was one of Cronus’ great crimes. He paused, but then went on swiftly, But add to that more god-deaths? Add to that ley-lines—the cosmic strings that shape our reality in this universe—being snapped by the mad gods? Prometheus shrugged. I will have to talk with Shadeslore and Truthsayer, but my projections suggest that we might have full tears between this world and the Veil, and perhaps other universes, within the next three years.

  Sigrun shook her head. “I don’t care about the other universes. I only care about this one. And what we can do to save our portion of it.”

  Keep the tears in reality from happening, Prometheus told her, wearily. Keep the gods alive, and put an end to the mad ones. Go. Talk to the other northern gods, as you said you would.

  Outside, Sigrun looked up at the sky. It was half-past nine antemeridian. Hardly a time to be calling Nith, or flying over Jerusalem. But this wasn’t the Veil. Time mattered here. And she needed more of it than she could afford to waste, making her way out of town. “Niðhoggr,” she said, quietly, as she walked around the back of the parking garage where she’d left her automobile. “I need your assistance, if you would not mind . . . .”

  The ground shook, as two huge paws planted themselves in her path. Of course. Where are we going?

  “Everywhere, I’m afraid. But first, the Odinhall.”

  Not Valhalla? You are entitled—

  “No.”

  They cannot deny you entrance.

  Sigrun lifted herself up and landed on his neck, adjusting the leather straps there. “It would be presumptuous of me. The Odinhall, please.” She did some mental math. It was eleven-thirty the previous night in Burgundoi. “We shouldn’t even need to be concerned about late-night crowds at the main entrance. The last time you took me there, your entrance was . . . ostentatious.”

  You seem unwilling or unable to claim the power and the privileges that are yours by right of battle, but all too eager to embrace the responsibility. The victor has the right to the spoils, my friend. Nith swiveled his head around on his neck, and exhaled frost crystals at her. I thought it best to remind people who you are. Including you. Though the message appeared to go unheard.

  Sigrun turned her face away and tightened the straps. Nith snorted at her again. You might not need those anymore. But away we go. Valhalla awaits!

  Nith!

  They tore through the Veil . . . and for once, the dragon actually paused in his flight. Circled, and passed through what looked like a tear in space. Sigrun ducked low on his neck as she perceived the space around them like a jungle of carnivorous vines, reaching out for her. Niðhoggr snorted at her again. The first time we two met, you reset the simulation room of the Odinhall. You can control the area around you here. You have the will. You have the power. Your friend, Worldwalker, can do this. So can you.

  He has spent close to thirty years shaping the Forest.

  You could have been doing the same thing, for as many years, if you had cared to do so.

  I am not him. I have no need of a place in the Veil.

  Yes, you do. And you already have one. To the victor go the spoils. Niðhoggr came to a halt, and Stormborn . . . oh, how she hated that name, even here, when it was all that defined her . . . looked around. A door, which opened before them, leading into . . . a vast hall, ancient in construction. Oak timbers supported the ceiling, stained by years of wood-smoke from a central fire-pit, the beams carved into fanciful shapes of hunters and boars and deer. Old stag horns and boar tusks hung from them, and drying herbs, as well. She could smell cattle and horses and dogs, and her nose twitched at the reek. A longhouse. Built to shelter man and beast under one roof.

  She slipped off Niðhoggr’s back, and stepped inside, warily. Saw a long trestle table near the fire. A feasting board, certainly, with empty wooden trenchers and empty horn cups. There were slumped forms at the table, hundreds of them. No, thousands. The more she looked, the vaster the hall became, seeming to stretch on to infinity in all directions. The windows were slits, covered with hides to keep out the winter chill, the walls were chinked with moss, and the floor was bare dirt, pounded flat and covered in straw to make bedding for the animals and men . . . .

  . . . but none here lived. Hel’s domain, Stormborn thought. Here, she was chatelaine. She walked closer, each stride seeming to cover acres of ground at once, and stopped at the table. She pushed one of the forms at the table, and the man’s hood slipped back from his head, revealing a face crawling with maggots, which fell out of the hollow eye sockets and onto the table. The valkyrie recoiled in disgust. I feel no death here. This was never living.

  Something materialized behind her, white hoarfrost blazing at the heart of an obsidian form. Only the size of a lindworm here, Niðhoggr was . . . small. A chain wrapped around him, made of links of ice. This is where she kept me as she formed me.

 
; Stormborn . . . Sigrun Stormborn . . . stared around herself. A domain that had not changed since the world was young. A mind made of rot and decay and a desire for power over those who could not possibly argue with her. And a single slave. She turned, and a spear of light formed in her hand, and she shattered the chain with it. She formed you?

  The dragon of shadow and ice looked down at the remnants of the chain around his neck, as the links fell across the floor. I have sundered that chain a thousand times. It always grew back. Perhaps this time it will not. He nudged her elbow with his snout. I do not remember much. I know that I was born to her. I remember running on two legs here, dimly.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. The most ancient legends of lindworms—the original ones, not the ones that darkened the skies of northern Europa today—said that they had been created when miserly men were warped by their own greed. That the story might have had a tiny kernel of truth in it . . . that the greatest of dragons, might once have been a small child . . . hurt on many levels.

  The dragon rubbed his face against her. I named all of the bodies. Each one had a face, then. She would find a king or a warrior who impressed her, and make his effigy here. Niðhoggr swung his head, looking around. Sometimes women of valor or wisdom, too.