The Goddess Denied (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 2)

by Deborah Davitt

  After what might have been a half an hour of her holding on for dear life as Niðhoggr took her on supersonic barrel rolls, he leveled out, and Sigrun relaxed her leg and arm muscles, still laughing so hard tears streamed down her face as her hair blew back from her face, tearing loose from the braid. It wasn’t as if she would fall, but she didn’t even want to think about what the speed differentials and g-forces would feel like. Her own top flight ability was slightly under half the speed of sound. Falling off of him might feel like being thrown from the back of a moving truck on an imperial highway, minus the impact on pavement. “All right,” she told Niðhoggr. “That was . . . really fun.” She glanced around, a little guiltily, but there was no one there to hear that admission. “Now what? I do have to get home.”

  The dragon twisted his head back over his shoulder and snorted once more. Sigrun took a look around them. Night sky, above the clouds. So achingly beautiful, it made her heart hurt. Silver moonlight raining down on the bed of clouds below, some of them twisting up in columns and pillars towards the stars. And the stars and the moon . . . gods. Adam would love to see them so clearly. And then they flickered and went out.

  . . . timelessness. Blackness. The void, but water pouring into it. The sea was space, and space was the sea. Life in one began in the other. Life and death and life once more. Terrible monsters rising out of the depths to swallow little fish, and balls of fire raining down from the sky, plunging into the ancestral waters, boiling them, killing everything . . . but out of that death, new life. Microbes feasted on the flesh, the nutrients brought by the star-born flame and rock, and new creatures came about, and yet they passed them all by, as they flickered in and out of existence, veils of phosphorescent light streaming out behind them in the dragon’s wake, flying as freely in water as he did in air, except, this wasn’t water . . . .

  . . . they were flying through clouds once more, hurricane-force winds pushing and tearing at them, and the clouds were all the wrong colors, reds and sulfurous yellows and the rain that came down from above was molten lead, and she screamed as the first splattered against her skin . . . only to realize, dumbly, that it had done no harm at all . . . .

  . . . and then they were past and through, and elsewhere again. Nothing but stars here. The ring of the galaxy, multicolored, blazing on all sides, and the dragon caught the stellar wind, and flew on ionized particles, the ghosts of supernovae dead and gone a million years before they’d reached this place in space and . . . no. No time. No time at all.

  And they were watched, even in the blackness of space. She looked up and caught sight of creatures she couldn’t have put a name to, some all eyes, some like squid and some like . . . hummingbirds with the wings of butterflies. Spider-like creatures, who sang in their webs. Inky coils of darkness, darker even than the void around them, billowing down to give them a closer look . . . .

  . . . something filled this place where the sea was both the ocean and the void between stars place. It was old and cold, and frighteningly powerful, and filled with a sadness so deep she thought she might die of it. And it knew her, though she didn’t even know herself in this place . . . Ave, Sigrun Stormborn. The end is the beginning. Remember that.

  . . . and then they were through. Sigrun buried her face against Niðhoggr’s neck and gasped for air, feeling his massive muscles working under the steely scales. She shuddered. She knew where they’d gone. The Veil. Trennus hadn’t been joking when he’d told her that the forest he was planting for Lassair and Saraid was the shallow end of the pool. I think I just found the wild sea, she thought, shuddering. She’d still remembered who she was in the forest of Trennus’ imagination. And the voice that had whispered in her mind . . . . “Is every trip through there like that?” she asked the dragon.

  Naturally, he didn’t answer her. Just gave her a steady stare with his huge eyes, directed over his shoulder. And then she realized that below them was a city, its streets lit with electric lamps. The lights spread out under them like a carpet, and the air was warm. Sigrun stared down at it, and suddenly recognized the shape of the sprawl. “Jerusalem? You took me home in . . .” she fumbled the case atop her wristwatch open, and looked at the faintly luminous hands on the dial, “half an hour?”

  Niðhoggr snorted assent, and began to bank, taking her to the correct neighborhood, as if he’d done this a thousand times before. “But . . . why? How . . . ?” Sigrun stopped. She might as well ask the tide why it did what it did; she’d get an answer sooner. “Thank you.” That, from the heart. “You are . . . very kind.”

  His wings missed a beat, and his head swiveled around to regard her once more. This might have been the first time in his existence that he had been accused of such. Every muscle in the ridged back tightened for a moment, and then Niðhoggr faced forwards once more, his jaw hanging open, and cold white deathfrost pouring back from his mouth in choking clouds, catching and freezing in Sigrun’s loose hair. Somehow, Sigrun thought that the dragon might be laughing.

  He landed in the street, with a heavy enough impact that the alarms inside several automobiles parked outside the nearby houses began to squall as their motion detection systems went off. Niðhoggr hunched his wings almost apologetically, and Sigrun laughed under her breath as she slipped down, gliding to the ground easily. The creature’s size was suddenly hugely apparent in this neighborhood setting; his hindlegs were planted in the middle of the street, his tail lashed out, snaking and coiling, somewhere behind Maor and Abigayil’s house, rustling in some . . . yes, tree branches, in some neighbor’s yard. At the moment, he was keeping his bulk elevated by having placed his forepaws on the roof of her house, and his head was ducked down to peek between her house and Lassair’s. “Are you breathing on Trennus and Lassair’s window?” Sigrun said, suddenly, as various lights began flicking on in windows up and down the street.

  Niðhoggr raised his head, bared his teeth at her in a grin.

  “So you like practical jokes now, too?”

  The number of diamond teeth visible only increased. The more so, as the window opened, and Sigrun could hear, distinctly, in her head, Lassair’s bemused comment, You almost beat me back to Judea, Stormborn . . . and then, after a moment, Do tell your pet to stop breathing on my daisies.

  Sigrun froze in place, her mind locking. “He’s not a pet. He’s a . . .” Gods. “Companion. Ally. Friend.”

  She couldn’t even count the number of teeth that suddenly exposed in reaction to her comment, each of them glistening in the street lights. “Oh, go on with you.” Sigrun made a shooing gesture at the dragon, and hesitated at the door. “Do you want to go flying tomorrow? Adam uses a plane to fly. It . . . might be fun, if a little limiting for you. But he can’t ride on you.” She didn’t think there was enough padding in the world to protect a mortal from the death-cold inside Niðhoggr’s skin. “You remember him, right? My . . . mate. The one who shot . . . Hel.” She didn’t want to say ‘your mother.’ Then again, Niðhoggr had more or less finished Hel off, himself. He’s a godslayer now, too. We should have a club. Membership cards. Perhaps an exclusive taverna where we lord it over everyone else and . . . yes, that just sounds idiotic.

  The great head dropped on the sinuous neck, and the moonfire eyes looked directly into hers. And then the head nodded, once. The ground shook again as the dragon launched himself back into the air. She could hear dogs barking and people shouting all around in consternation, and quietly shut the door behind herself, trying to walk very quietly towards the stairs.

  “Sig?”

  Damn it. Your ears are far too good. “Adam. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  He padded down the stairs, barefoot, and she realized he had Caliburn in one of his hands. “Wasn’t you. The enormous dragon managed that, I think. The enormous dragon probably woke the entire country. You’re lucky they didn’t scramble fighters.” He safed the weapon, set it down on a table in the lobby, and opened his arms, and she wearily put her head down on his shoulder.

  “I’m not
sure he actually shows up on radar. We can test that, sometime. They didn’t start getting planes in the air up north until someone got a visual on him, though.”

  She felt his fingers catch in her knotted, frozen hair. “You know, I thought I was supposed to be the only one who got to make you look this wild.” His voice was teasing. “You’ve got a new lover, hmm?”

  Sigrun choked, laughed, and tried to say no, all at once. Adam chuckled a little, and found a light switch before she could stop him, at which point, all laughter faded from his face. He caught her chin, cupping her face in his hands, and traced the fading lines of the claw marks along her cheek, and the look in his eyes was suddenly so angry, so regretful, and so anguished all at once, that it took Sigrun’s words and turned them to ash. “God damn it,” Adam muttered. “I should be up there with you.”

  She shook her head against his hands, mutely at first. “You’re doing good work down here. You’re. . . letting people live real lives. Keep doing that, Adam.” Her voice was tired. You deserve a little damned peace. “Come now. I . . . would really rather kill for a hot shower and a bed that doesn’t smell of fenris. Oh, Ima and Vidarr had their children about an hour ago. I pulled Lassair up there for it. We’ll need to get something for them.” Brisk, business-like words. Anything. Anything at all to put that look out of his eyes.

  The one that said he felt useless.

  Interlude: Breakers upon the Shore

  1971-1978 AC

  October 25, 1971 AC

  The far-viewer was tuned to a Judean all-news channel in the ben Maor living room, as the group of friends gathered together for the first time in over a year. Kanmi and Minori had moved to Judea, mostly because there was, suddenly, a real and urgent need for a technomancy and sorcery department at the University of Judea. Bodi, now twenty, was still at the University of Rome, working his way through his undergraduate degree in sorcery, though he kept muttering under his breath about taking a year off to head up north and help—something that both his father and step-mother had strongly discouraged. “Degree first. Sorcery specialization second. Help when you can help, and not just be underfoot,” Kanmi had told his son.

  Himilico had just finished his pre-med degree, and was entering his first year of actual medical school. Kanmi had made a point of going to his son’s graduation in Carthage with Minori, Bodi, and Masako in tow, and Himi had, with an air of one attempting to reconstruct a bridge, brought Bastet, his mother, to meet them all. Kanmi still grimaced a little at the memory. Bastet’s temper had not become sweeter in her exile among the Numidians. She was clearly proud of Himi for setting out on the same path in life that she had followed, but her dark, still beautiful face, had set into lines of iron on seeing him. Kanmi had been willing to be polite, for Himi’s sake. His son was a man now, and he made his own decisions. Kanmi respected that. Unfortunately, Bastet had chosen to demand of Bodi, “Why do you never answer my letters?” right in front of everyone.

  “Perhaps a conversation for another time,” Kanmi had murmured. “This is Himi’s day.”

  “I want to know why my son does not speak to me! I want to know what poison you’ve poured in his ears!”

  Bodi’s face had gone blank, and Kanmi had, with approval, noticed that his son was doing his breathing exercises. “Father is right,” Bodi had replied, after a moment. “I’m here to congratulate Himi today, not to argue with anyone.” He’d turned and smiled at his older brother. “Father says you got a perfect score on your medical school entrance exam. I thought that was impossible.”

  Himi had reached down and picked Masako up to give her a hug, and sent his mother an uneasy glance as he’d done so. “Maybe not impossible, but I think I got lucky and guessed right on some of the answers I simply didn’t know.”

  It had been a very tiresome hour or two, as Kanmi had taken the new graduate out to dinner, and, perforce, Bastet, as well. Bastet, in spite of every hint from Bodi, continued to badger him for some kind of acknowledgement. Kanmi had grimaced and had not intervened. Both of his sons were adults. Their relationship with their mother was now up to them. He really hadn’t appreciated the way Bastet looked at Minori, however, as if she were some kind of poisonous snake. Why? he’d wanted to demand. You’re the one who decided that you didn’t want to be around me. I was the one who ended things legally, but you’d ended things in every other way long before then. Why look at Min as if she’s the reason for the divorce? But, he was on his most civil behavior, for the sake of his entire family, and kept his mouth firmly shut.

  Finally, Bodi had turned on Bastet, after her third or fourth plaint on the topic of you do not call and you do not write. “Why should I?” Bodi asked, with sudden, terrible bluntness, and Kanmi had winced, seeing a hint of his own anger in his son’s usually cheerful face. “I am a sorcerer.” His hands suddenly filled with flame, and the people at the linen-dressed tables all around them ducked in fright, and a waiter dropped a tray of dirty dishes at the sight. “My father is a sorcerer. The woman who raised me as if I were her own—my mother—” and Bodi’s eyes found Minori’s startled ones, “is a sorcerer. Even my little sister looks to have more power than can really be healthy.” Bodi doused his fires, and then ran one light tan hand over Masako’s dark cap of hair. “You made it clear that you hated Father for what he is. What do you think I am?”

  Minori cleared her throat. “Bodi-kun, you’ve made your point. Would anyone like dessert?”

  Subsequently, Bodi had chided his older brother, before they all left for the airport, “Why’d you even invite her, Himi? She wasn’t around when we were children. She wasn’t around for us when we were adolescents. Then she tried to steal us. Why did you have to invite her?”

  “I . . . feel sorry for her, Bodi.” Himi’s voice had been embarrassed and angry at the same time. “She’s got no one left but us. She needs someone.”

  Kanmi came back to the here and now with a start, as Min sat down beside him on the couch, and the news report began. “Today is dies Jovis, October 25, 1971, and this is the Imperial News Network. Our top story today is on Persian troop movements along the Chaldean and Assyrian borders, but we also have coverage of riots outside of refugee internment facilities in Alexandria and Jerusalem, and a retrospective on the Tawantinsuyu earthquakes, and their social impacts, some eleven years later.”

  “Oh, this should be interesting,” Minori said, her tone a little sick, as Masako came in and plopped down in her mother’s lap, followed by the entire tribe of Matrugena’s children. Kanmi occasionally considered telling his big Pictish friend that he didn’t actually need to father an entire new subspecies . . . but had held his tongue, knowing that Lassair was responsible for more than half of it. No one had that many twins naturally. And Trennus, when caught away from Lassair, say, at the office? He tended to wear a slightly worried and preoccupied expression on the topic of his children. Praetorians were well-paid. But that many mouths to feed had to be expensive. Kanmi had a feeling that Trennus might prefer not to have any more with Lassair. But how precisely did you tell a fertility spirit to stop being fertile?

  Right on cue, Tren, Lassair, and Saraid followed the children into the room, and the children scattered, making room for them on the couch beside Kanmi and Minori. Saraid’s form had become distinctly more lupine over the past year. The dainty deer hooves that had once been her feet had been replaced by paw pads that were, nonetheless, the size of normal human feet, for stability in walking and running. Lupine ears, little curving fangs, and a tail. In the main, she looked like a human-sized version of Ima. Kanmi had been there for her first walking-more-than-a-step-in-corporeal form lessons, much of which had involved increasing the size of her feet until she stopped losing her balance. All the while, Trennus had kept his hands on Saraid’s hips from behind, to steady her, finally letting go . . . and she’d wobbled off on her own, shaky as an newborn fawn at first.

  Now, Lassair snuggled under Trennus’ right arm, while Saraid, without fanfare, turned around so
that she could pillow her head in his kilted lap, her long legs, bare under her short leather skirt, and her paws, hanging over the edge of the couch. Kanmi looked up, met Trennus’ eyes, and said, mildly, “I remember when you were scared to talk to women.”

  And was rewarded when Trennus flushed, give the two spirit-women in his life a guilty look, and then a glance at all his children before responding, “Actually? I still sort of am. Saraid and Lassair don’t count.”

  How do we not count? Lassair demanded, archly.

  “Because your gender is purely arbitrary,” Kanmi suggested, raising his eyebrows. “You could as easily be male.”

  Yes, but I think this is much more comfortable for everyone involved. Well, mostly.

  Minori collapsed against Kanmi’s shoulder in a fit of the giggles, and reached up and put a hand over his mouth before he could respond. “No, no. Children in the room.”

  Kanmi nipped the inside of her palm with his teeth, but obeyed her, though he did think, fairly loudly, Anyone who thinks that the children of a fertility spirit aren’t born knowing the facts of life . . . . Well, even if they aren’t, they’re living in the same house as a fertility spirit, a wilderness spirit, and the man who’s more or less married to both of them. I think sooner or later, they’d get the picture.