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

by Deborah Davitt

  Latirian Matrugena held the white-haired baby in her arms with a certain amount of skill, looking down at the jade-green eyes curiously. She did, after all, have seven younger brothers and sisters, and Mama was pregnant again. “She’s a lot different than the rest of my brothers and sisters,” she told her father, solemnly, as baby Vorvena closed her eyes and yawned up at her..

  “That’s because Aunt Saraid is a much different spirit than your mother is,” Father told her, his eyes kind, as they always were. “What do you think of your new half-sister?”

  Latirian considered the question for a moment. She couldn’t remember a time when there hadn’t been a baby around the house. Fyriacus and Enica weren’t even walking yet, but they would be, soon. It was a good thing Mama could make duplicates of herself, even though it made it so annoyingly easy for Mama to find Latirian whenever the girl just wanted five minutes to herself, to read in the attic, with no one else around. “I think she’s a quiet baby,” she said, softly. “Not as noisy as Enica. Not yet, anyway.”

  Father put a hand on her shoulder. “Do you think you can love her, even though she’s different?”

  She blinked. She hadn’t realized that this was in question. “Well, of course,” Latirian told her father, seriously. “She’s one of my sisters.”

  Father smiled, and she thought he looked relieved, and he took the baby back out of her arms to put Vorvena back in her crib. Aunt Saraid padded over to pull the swaddling blanket more tightly around the baby, and just stood there, smiling, a sort of shy, incredulous look on her face, while Father wrapped his arms around her. Latirian wasn’t really sure why Aunt Saraid looked like that. It was just a baby, after all. They cried, they smelled, and then they grew up and stole each other’s’ toys. Then again? This one in particular had been very nice to hold, and hadn’t smelled bad. Maybe Aunt Saraid makes better babies than Mama does.

  I heard that, Mama said, in her mind, but it was teasing and light, not angry.

  Latirian sighed. She was thirteen, which her father referred to as the ‘trying age,’ but she made an effort, on the whole, to be good. To make sure her younger brothers and sisters didn’t get into trouble. She did very well in school, though she’d definitely endured the most commentary from her fellow students. Deiana and Linditus were starting primary school this year, and Latirian, Inghean, and Solinus had all already passed through most of those grades ahead of them. By now, most of the teachers were used to seeing them, Rig, and even Masako, whose parents drove her all the way across town to go to the same school with the rest of them. Keeping all the trouble in one spot, as Father liked to put it. But there were days when she would cheerfully kill for a little time to herself, and had taken to staying after school in the library just to be able to have five more minutes of blessed solitude.

  She moved over, a little shyly, and watched the baby for a while, as Father and Aunt Saraid moved away, into the kitchen, where Father started cooking dinner. After a while, Latirian looked back down into the cradle, and let out a shriek that woke Vorvena and made Fyriacus and Enica start crying in their room. “She’s a puppy!” Latirian yelped, down the hall. “She just turned into a puppy!”

  Shh. Of course she did. She takes after Saraid in more than just appearance. Mother coalesced in the room, patted the anxious puppy, whose eyes were just barely open, gave Latirian a slightly reproving glance, and then disappeared again. Latirian could hear her mother’s voice now coming from the nursery. Come here and help me soothe them, since you woke them up.

  Coming. Latirian sighed again, and slumped away to pick up Enica and rock the crying infant until she calmed back down again. Enica had wisps of blond hair, and, unlike much of the rest of the family, eyes the same violet as the inmost heart of a flame. Father’s eyes had a hint of that, around the pupil, but expanded out to fire blue through the rest of the iris. Enica looked as if she would be . . . interesting . . . when she grew up. But much less so, now.

  Do you want to go visit with your Aunt Sigrun and Uncle Adam? Mother’s voice held forgiveness, and understanding.

  Oh, yes, please.

  This weekend. The eldest of you will be going over.

  Latirian could hardly wait. When Aunt Sigrun was home, she really liked going to the house next door best when it was only herself and maybe only one or two of her siblings. It was so blessedly quiet over there. They got sparring lessons with Father and Uncle Adam three times a week, and magic lessons with Aunt Minori and Uncle Kanmi three times a week, too. But now that Aunt Sigrun was home . . . dies Saturni meant god-born lessons every week from now on. Or god-boring lessons, as Solinus called them. The lessons started right after breakfast, and if you made a mistake, you were out, and had to go sit down. Latirian really hated it if she had to sit down before her younger siblings, so she listened very carefully indeed to the instructions. And after lunch, while Uncle Adam was spending time with his parents upstairs in their little apartment, the children got to watch dramas on the far-viewer—tuned very low, and to an Imperial station, and not a local one.

  Three more interminable days to wait, and then, yes, Mama walked the oldest children next door. I do appreciate, Stormborn, Mama told Aunt Sigrun, as they all ducked through and threw themselves at the furniture. Latirian looked back over her shoulder with disinterest. Mama and Aunt Sigrun were usually the same height, unless Mama felt like kissing Father eye-to-eye. And where Mama was all sun and fire, Aunt Sigrun was . . . moonlight and ice. Like two parts of triplets, with Aunt Saraid as their third sister. But Aunt Sigrun felt older than Mama did, and that made no sense. As old as night. Of course, that doesn’t make sense, either, Latirian scolded herself. Day and night are the same age. Don’t be stupid.

  Homework, first, to get it out of the way. Aunt Sig’s rule. Get the work done, then they could play the rest of the weekend. Quietly, because Uncle Adam was Judean, and that seemed to be . . . really boring to Latirian. He’d break the rules for important things, but most of the time, he couldn’t even watch the far-viewer with them on dies Veneris or dies Saturni. But tonight, after homework, he winked at them all and sat with them to watch the footage from Libration Station and L’banah. “They’ve been building the Mars ship on the Moon for three years now,” their uncle explained. “Down in the tunnels. That way, it doesn’t have to carry nearly as much fuel as it would if it launched from Earth, because it doesn’t have to fight its way out of Earth’s gravity well. Once it gets to Mars there, it’ll separate into two pieces. The first half is the orbital command station. The other half is the descent and retrieval vehicle. So, in about . . . two years . . . we’re going to see the first people from Earth, walking on Mars.” He grinned at them all. “One Judean, one man from Kyoto, one lady from Hellas, and one woman from Caesaria Aquilonis. Burgundoi, I think. Right, Sig?”

  “Yes. I understand that she is s a ley-mage. I think she’s along to assess ley-potential in Mars, among other things.” She paused. “Kanmi actually had to pay up his bet with Trennus on their long-standing bet after the moon landings,” Aunt Sigrun added, lightly. “He had to admit that ley-lines have nothing to do with human belief. Though I think he was just arguing to argue, the past few years, anyway.”

  On dies Saturni, after the god-born lessons, Aunt Sigrun went into her office to work, and they were supposed to be watching the far-viewer quietly. Which meant that Latirian spent most of the next two hours trying to tell her brothers and sisters to shush. Finally, little Deiana got up and trundled into the kitchen, and came back out with the cookie jar.

  Everyone in the living room quieted, like forest creatures, as Deiana opened the jar and showed the contents to them all, solemnly. Latirian nodded. There was but one treat at the bottom of the jar, a Cimbric cookie baked with ginger and cardamom and molasses. Then Latirian turned and pushed Deiana for the office door, telling her, “Keep the lid closed,” under her breath, and told everyone else, in a sharp voice, “Act natural.”

  Noise immediately erupted again, as they all ey
ed each other sidelong, trying not to laugh. A pause from the other room, where Aunt Sigrun had been trying to work with her ley-based calculi and its viewing globe, and then a sharp, “Deiana? What are you doing with that?”

  “May I have a cookie, please?”

  Latirian grinned to herself. She’d been five when she’d figured out the trick, and taught her siblings. Inghean had been sobbing because there was only one cookie left, and Latirian had been about to, resignedly, split it in half for her two younger siblings, when Aunt Sigrun had frowned, on walking by, told Inghean to stop fussing, and reached into the cookie jar . . . .and brought out precisely three cookies. “One for each mouth. Now hush.”

  Latirian had looked back inside the jar, in some confusion, and seen what she’d seen before. One cookie. She’d decided, after all her teachers talking about hypotheses and testing ideas, to put it to the test. They’d been conducting their experiment, ever since.

  It didn’t matter what kind of cookie. And if Aunt Sigrun looked in the jar, and saw there was only one, the game was up. She might get up and bake them some, or she might dig in a cabinet until she found a little paper sack of store-bought cookies. But if you caught her, completely distracted, if there was enough noise and confusion . . . .

  Aunt Sigrun strode back into the room, giving Latirian a stern look. “You’re supposed to be looking after them. Letting them carry my ceramic jar around? Not very responsible.”

  “I’m sorry,” Latirian said, immediately, straightening. “She wanted to do it herself, though.” A sidelong flick of the eyes to Deiana, who suddenly nodded vigorously.

  Aunt Sigrun’s eyes narrowed, and Latirian held her breath. It was close enough to the truth that it shouldn’t make her angry. “All right,” their aunt said. “Everyone hold out your hand. One cookie each. No more. You’re not spoiling your dinners.” And then she reached into the jar, without looking, and pulled out a cookie for each of them.

  One for each mouth.

  Then she looked inside, raised her eyebrows, and took the last one, for herself. “Have to make some more,” she said, in a tone of contentment, and went back to her office.

  “I think Masako’s daddy made the cookie jar magic,” Linditus piped up, once she was gone.

  “No! Magic can’t make something from nothing!” Masako was definite about that.

  “Then how does it work?” Rig asked, practically.

  “I don’t know,” Latirian told him. “That’s why it’s so much fun.”

  Maius 21, 1973 AC

  It was oddly refreshing to go back to her roots as an ælagol, Sigrun had to admit. She hadn’t carried her Praetorian badge and identification in three years, and it was quite pleasant, really, not to have to watch the skies for the shadow of a lindworm. Not to strain to discern which soft thump of snow falling off a branch into the drifts below was actually the sound of a giant’s footfall.

  Adam had driven them in to work this morning. This would be her first time working out of an actual field office, actually; she’d been assigned to Livorus almost from the first moment she’d joined the Guard. “Everyone here is pretty solid,” Adam had told her as he walked her into the building. He was second-in-command of the field office, which, as he told her, put him in the position of handling all the shit that the commander didn’t want to deal with, and paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork, to include budget reviews. “We’ve been begging for an outreach officer for the refugees. Someone who speaks the language, knows the customs. Someone that the refugees will respect. You’re . . . tailored to the role. You know their laws inside and out, and can tell them where they’re breaking Judean law, if not Imperial law.” He grimaced. “It’s a nightmare out there, neshama. And I’m really glad you’re here.”

  Sigrun awarded him a smile. “It’s good to be home.” It was cool out, but pleasantly so. Cold didn’t really bother her, in truth. Niðhoggr’s breath mostly tickled. Prolonged exposure to bitter, sub-zero temperatures and winds could start to make her feel it. In the north she’d worn woolen tunics and soft, fur-lined cloaks partially to fit in, and partially, though she’d never admit it, because she liked how the soft furs felt against her skin. There were some fringe groups in Nimes-on-the-Pacifica who wanted to use petroleum to make plastic-based clothing, as far as she could tell from their manifestoes. They liked to claim that fur and leather were murder. But creating something that cannot be absorbed by the planet, cannot be recycled or reused, and simply sits, once worn out, in the ground, for centuries, is collusion in the murder of the planet, isn’t it? she’d always wanted to ask them. Then again, the temperature in Nimes was, year-round, seventy degrees and sunny, and none of the residents ever had to wear anything heavier than linen. She rather thought they’d change their tune if they were set down somewhere close to the Arctic Circle in the winter months.

  “You’ll like some of the people you’ll be working with.” Adam’s voice brought her back to the present. “One of them is a surprise.” He grinned at her as they walked through the long halls, dodging office staff, who gave her confused glances, not recognizing her. “I was startled when I saw the name on the transfer list, but, well, your people’s saying about the apple not falling far from the tree? It’s true.”

  “Do I get a hint?”

  “Not at all.” Adam’s grin broadened.

  He showed her to her locker—strange to have a metal cubicle in which to store her belongings, as if she carried anything of importance most days—and escorted her to her desk, with an expression that clearly showed he was hoping she’d like her surroundings. She was senior enough by anyone’s standards to merit an office, and not a desk with portable wood-and-cork walls folded around it into a rickety cube, at least. “What do you think?” he asked, gesturing at the plaster walls and industrial beige carpeting.

  Sigrun glanced around. “I have a window.”

  “Yes. I took the office that didn’t have one.” He rolled his eyes at his own discomfort. “Quick access to open sky for you is just a . . . place where I see ghul arms reaching in, unfortunately. Or a spot where a sniper has pretty good access to my back.”

  Sigrun nodded, and promptly moved the battered wood desk up against the right wall. She’d have to squeeze in, but her back would now be to the wall, with a view of both the window and the door. Adam grinned at her. “Woman after my own heart.”

  “Won’t my fellow officers grumble about my having an office?” She smiled, masking her concern. “They’ll say you’re favoring me.” There was . . . quite a bit more gray at Adam’s temples than there’d been three years ago, and she hated seeing it. Hated seeing that she’d worked so damned hard in those years, and for nothing.

  “Yes, well, and then someone will sneak your service record out of the filing cabinet and then they’ll all know that you’re actually senior to me, and the only reason you aren’t replacing the commander here is, well, two-fold. First, no one wants to see a non-Roman god-born in charge in the Praetorians, even when they’re eminently qualified, and second, you don’t like command.”

  Sigrun held up her hands. “I am perfectly fine with leading men in battle.”

  “You don’t like paperwork, handholding, or any of the rest of it, though.”

  Her lips quirked, very slightly. “You do not like the paperwork, but you hold hands very well. You understand people. You work through what they are best at, and get along with even . . . difficult personalities.”

  “Esh, you mean.”

  “Him. Me. Yes.” Sigrun shrugged, and started going through her desk’s drawers, and found one in which to put her gun. “You are a leader, Adam. And I am not. I am a shield-maiden. Sometimes a law-giver.”

  He gave her a look that held an edge of temper, then sighed, and gave her a quick kiss. “I’ll let you meet your new teammates. Lunch?” His smile returned, showing his clear relief at being able to make such a simple request.

  “Of course.” Sigrun waited until the door closed behind him before putting her fac
e in her hands and rubbing at her eyes. She was rather dreading meeting her new teammates, to be honest.

  There were dossiers in one of the drawers. One Judean name, one Nahautl, and one Egyptian. Ayala bat Elior, twenty-seven, born in Megiddo, moved to Jerusalem age eight . . . one year before the pazuzu attack . . . damn it. Not a full Praetorian yet, but a forensics specialist, picked up after two years in the Judean gardia. Probably competent, then.

  With her stomach churning a little less, she read the next folder. Haka Gho. Egyptian, native of Alexandria, self-identified in the file as . . . an Atenist. Adam, are you pleased to jest with me? Sigrun grimaced, and read on. He was a newcomer to the counter-summoning team, and was both a sorcerer and summoner. Trennus’ notes in the file—oh, thank the gods, familiar handwriting—didn’t denigrate the man. They didn’t extol him, either. He apparently specialized in metal-sorcery, the way Ptah-ases once had, a subset of the ‘earth school’ of traditional sorcery. Kanmi would eat this man for lunch and have room for piece of pie. And now I begin to understand why Adam has been so frustrated. Perhaps his summoning is better than his sorcery . . . Hmm. No. His grimoire holds twelve minor Names and two medium Powers. Well . . . Trennus only had Lassair and Sari . . . and about a hundred minor contacts when we met him . . . .