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

by Deborah Davitt

  Sigrun swallowed. She’d thought she’d escaped this conversation. But no matter how long-lived she was, the gods lived longer, and had more patience. “My sister, my lady, has mentioned that the difference between a servant and a slave is very simple. A servant can say no to the master.”

  And you would deny me?

  Sigrun swallowed, hard. “I owe you my service, and you have it.”

  But still, you refuse to use what I have taught you. Freya’s voice was sorrowful.

  “It is not mine.” Sigrun’s knees felt weak. “It is not of me. Not part of me.” She closed her eyes. “My lady, I have asked this before, and I would beg you again, to take your teachings from me. Simply seal away the othersight—”

  You would have it all taken away? Even if it were possible, do you really think you would have survived your encounter with Hel, if you had not been shaped and prepared for it by your fight with Supay? Do you really think you would have survived the fight with Supay, if you had not first encountered Tlaloc?

  “Whatever does not kill you, makes you stronger.” The words felt like ashes in her mouth.

  Perhaps. But have you not used this gift to help others? Did you not attempt to heal your sister’s mind?

  And look where that got me, Sigrun thought. Sophia is no better off. Kanmi is no better off. And I am infected with Sophia’s despair, and I dare not let it transmit from me to the others, like some kind of communicable disease. “I attempted to do so, my lady. I was not surprised when I failed.” Her voice was empty. “I am what I am. I am a sword, a spear in the hands of the gods. As I told you before . . . you do not turn a sword into a gun, without expecting it to shatter in your hands. I will fight and I will die, but I would not be destroyed, my lady.”

  Why this insistence, that god-born are what they are, and nothing more? You will not remember, but I will have your thoughts, Sigrun Stormborn.

  To Sigrun’s shock, one of Odin’s ravens suddenly ghosted in through a nearby wall, as if material reality were entirely arbitrary. It landed on her shoulder, as Sophia had always said a raven would stand there, at the end of the world. Muninn, Freya murmured. Give me her memories.

  Sigrun’s eyes widened, as Muninn leaned in, in front of her eyes, and pecked at her forehead. She could feel the beak and cold energies sliding into her brain, and fought it. Raised her hand to knock away the bird, and nearly lost two fingers as Memory snapped at her errant hand. And then, like a minnow before a tide, she was swept away. Incoherent thoughts, scattering like leaves before the wind. God-born are . . . god-born. A summoner, like Trennus, can become spirit-touched. A sorcerer, like Kanmi or Minori, can become god-touched. Any human can. God-born are not human. We are not mortal. We are born what we born to be, and nothing more.

  . . . Broken glass . . . . She saw her own reflection, no more than six years old, shattering as the mirror broke and the pieces fell to the floor . . . . The memory flickered. Threatened to vanish, as it had in Sophia’s rooms, long ago . . . .

  No. I will see this. Open your mind.

  . . . she’d found her dead mother’s clothing, locked away in a chest, and pulled them out. Scattered them all over her father’s room. Sigrun pulled on a fancy silk dress, peacock blue and shimmering . . . .

  Flicker of a different memory. Inti’s voice . . . . Borrowed raiment does not make you any more than a child crying out “Look at me! Look at me!” A costume demeans the one wearing it. Makes them into a hollow shell. A lie with no substance to it. Like this child of the northern gods . . . I prefer truth . . . .

  Freya’s voice cut in, gentle and compassionate, but commanding, as well. But this wasn’t a costume. This wasn’t a pretense. This was the pure flight of a child’s fancy. An act of loving remembrance. Seeing your dead mother in yourself, for the first time, ever. Or since.

  . . . She laughed, knowing she was getting away with something, but prune-faced Medea was out in the front yard, talking with the neighbors. Sigrun had time, and she danced in front of the mirror in her father’s room, another relic of her dead mother. A perfect oval, twice her height, balanced on swinging hinges. She undid her braid and floated up to grab her mother’s old brush off the dresser and swept it through her hair, letting it ripple down over her shoulders, and flew back over to hover in front of the mirror, well-pleased by what she saw there. If I fly up a little higher . . . yes! That way, the dress doesn’t drag on the ground. This is what I’ll look like when I grow up!

  She peeked over her shoulder and out the window. She didn’t see Medea still out there, talking to the neighbors. Uh-oh. She flew over to peek out the window more carefully, and that was when Medea found her. Dressed in her dead mother’s clothing, and the very image of the dead woman. Sigrun’s eyes had widened, and she’d babbled apologies, but Medea had been merciless. You worthless little wretch. You don’t need to look in a mirror. It’s a good thing you’ll never be beautiful. After all, you’re nothing but a weapon for these brutish northern gods, do you hear me? You’re going to be covered in scars. Better that you learn that early. All you are is a crow capering around in peacock feathers . . . .

  Simultaneous recognition of multiple past moments, superimposed over each other with painful clarity. Fennmark, in the bitter cold, staring up at Hel’s mask. The goddess raised a taloned hand, and cold light radiated out from between her fingers. Insolent child of Tyr. Capering around in your borrowed glory, like a raven in a peacock’s feathers. Do you dare to challenge me?

  . . . the mirror shattered, even as Sigrun stared at herself in it, pieces clattering to the floor. Medea had ripped the brush out of Sigrun’s hands and thrown it at the mirror. Now, almost spitting down into Sigrun’s face, the formal slave’s collar at her throat with its small silver tag indicating Ivarr’s ownership of her services glittering in the light coming in the window. You think an accident of birth makes you better than everyone else? It doesn’t! It makes you a slave, the same as me! Get that through your head! You’re nothing but a slave, and you’re going to learn your place . . . .

  . . . Hel’s eyes were very cold behind her mask as she stared at Sigrun. Would you seek to steal my pet now, valkyrie? You overstep your place . . . .

  . . . Sophia’s voice now. “You’re a servant, and I’m a slave, Sigrun. That’s the difference between us. But it’s all right. In another life? I’ll be free.”

  . . . Weeping on the floor. Picking up the pieces of broken mirror, one at a time, each slicing her fingers open. The cuts healed, but the blood stayed on the floor, soaking into the wood. Seeing her face in fragments and pieces, jagged and broken, a hundred tiny images, and every one of them promised pain. And when her father got home, Medea told him that Sigrun had been playing with her mother’s things, and that Sigrun had broken the mirror, in her carelessness. Her father’s disappointment, particularly since Sigrun refused to tell the truth and confess her crime. His spanking hurt worse than every caning Medea ever dished out, because he believed Medea, and not her. And Sigrun knew, looking into Medea’s eyes, that the woman had won. Her father would always believe her pedagogue. It would do no good to tell him about the canings. It would do no good to say anything at all. Oh, she’d finally told him. Twenty-three years later, as she protected Sophia from Medea’s wrath. In all the years between that moment, and Ivarr’s death, he’d never raised the subject again. Had stayed married to Medea until the end. And thus Sigrun had known, though he often had questions in his eyes, that her father had preferred Medea’s lies to her truth. Comfortable, familiar lies. Or at least, a comfortable, familiar life . . . .

  For the young valkyrie, there was nothing for it, but to try to avoid the behaviors that triggered Medea’s rage. No mirrors. Nothing that hinted at vanity. No pride. But when Medea was wrong, and Sigrun’s sense of justice flared, she held fast. She was a valkyrie. The bruises would heal. She learned not to turn her head and not to flinch. Valuable lessons for later. But the harshest lesson of all, was the inner understanding of human jealousy. Medea had no
t had a hard life, for a slave; she was included in the family, given respect; Ivarr had even paid her a wage, though he had certainly not been required to do so. In no way had she been treated as a slave, except that the law required her to wear a collar, and did not permit her to leave Ivarr’s service until he manumitted her or sold her contract. But Medea had envied a child. She’d envied Sigrun her freedom, which Medea’s parents had taken from her when they sold her to pay off her father’s debts. She’d envied the girl the loving relationship with her father, and had introduced distance between them, though probably not consciously. She’d envied the god-born child her bright future and her powers.

  Later lessons. Listening to Kanmi talk about his brothers’ detestation for him, the fact that they derided his sorcery as unmanly. Listening to Minori talk about her sorcery being considered too masculine a gift. Listening as Trennus came back from a summer in Britannia, his various brothers still joking about how he should bugger sheep instead of spirits, because no matter how beautiful they were, it was still just masturbation. No one escaped jealousy and envy. Not even a mortal like Adam. Hadn’t Mikayel poked and prodded at Adam continuously, because Adam had happened to be born better, smarter, stronger than he had been, and had applied himself to using his gifts? Wasn’t Sophia being driven mad by Apollo of Delphi because the god was jealous that her gifts extended beyond his, and because she would outlive him?

  And intertwined with all of that, the awareness that the world was buckling around her as people grabbed for power that they envied—the power of the gods, the power of wealth, the power of prestige—was another awareness. The terrible understanding that a marriage founded on love, must be maintained in equality, or it will die. Sigrun had married Adam, and there had already been inequity between them. He helped her cling to what little humanity a god-born could claim, and she was grateful for that. And she clung all the harder, because she feared that the marriage would break apart if she became . . . anything else. I am as human as I can be. I choose mortality. This, and nothing more, or everything will fall apart, and I’ll be destroyed. Crow in peacock feathers . . . .

  Sigrun came back to herself, feeling as if she’d somehow, incredibly, nodded off in Freya’s own chambers, and her eyes widened with horror at her own discourtesy. And at the same moment, she realized that Freya must have tossed the apple core at her; she’d caught it reflexively, and now looked at it, shocked, and carefully put it down on the edge of a table before wiping her hand furtively on her jeans, wondering why her head ached, slightly, and shook it to try to clear it. She felt hazy, and suspected that she’d just been treated to some post-hypnotic lesson of Freya’s. You do not wish even a bite? Freya asked her, mildly.

  Sigrun blinked. She felt as if she’d been asked that question before, just . . . some other way. “Ah, no. Thank you.” The apples supposedly gave the gods eternal health and youth. Sigrun suspected that they were actually some kind of a physical analogue or conduit for raw Veil energy. Eating one seemed . . . unhealthy.

  Take the apple with you. Plant it in your backyard, beside your cherry tree. I believe proximity to your friends Saraid and Lassair will allow it to grow swiftly. Freya seemed amused by something. Sigrun gingerly picked the core up again, between her fingertips. Now, be off with you. You have a friend in need.

  As Sigrun walked out of the goddess’ work room, a dark shadow winged down off an embrasure and landed on her shoulder. She froze in place, and turned her head, minutely, to the left. A bird’s beak hovered inches from her left eye, and then the raven turned and examined her with one beady, uncaring, avian orb. Not one eye of topaz and one of milk. This is . . . this isn’t Sophia’s vision. This is Muninn. Memory. “Begone, storm-crow,” she told Odin’s raven, her voice shaking slightly. “Leave me in peace.”

  Muninn flapped away, leaving behind a caw that sounded slightly mocking. As if to say that memory would never let her have peace.

  Martius 20-21, 1987 AC

  Kanmi was as usual, all too aware of his handlers watching him in Alexandria. The balmy sea breezes did nothing to calm his nerves; he was using every plate glass window to scan the crowd around him for faces he knew from the CPL camp . . . not to mention any Praetorians, gardia members or even, gods help him, random helpful citizens who might recognize his face from wanted posters and try to apprehend him . . . and also anyone that Minori might have brought with her. He was counting on Min to have gotten the message right, but he didn’t know what the others were planning. His call last night to Min to confirm where he was supposed to meet Himi—their usual café, actually, when Min was in her youthful disguise with Lassair warding her—had certainly sounded like something was afoot. Min had sounded . . . tremulous. As if she were willing to forgive him every past transgression, if he were really dying. And had vowed to meet him there, with Himi. Kanmi had gritted his aching teeth, and told her, Hear me very well. Just my son, not you, hoping that her understanding would be not Himi, for the sake of the gods, just you. So I can take you ‘prisoner’ in a fine fit of rage and take you back to camp with me, completely lacking a son to sacrifice.

  Thus, when he sat at his usual table, and heard the door chime ring, he looked up, and saw two familiar figures walk in, looking around as if in total confusion at their surroundings, Kanmi’s heart filled with rage, confusion, and yearning, all at once. There was Min. No disguise. Just her, herself, in what he could only describe as her work clothes—a set of baggy coveralls, the sort she’d used for years out at field stations, examining various ley-facilities. As many pockets in the arms and legs as any sorcerer could ever need. The necklace he’d made for her, years ago, for setting up pre-defined variables was at her throat. Almost quaint now, compared to a modern calculus, but just seeing it . . . meant something.

  But beside her was, clearly, Himilico. His son. No gray in his wavy black hair, but the tawny golden skin, the liquid dark eyes he’d inherited from his mother, Bastet, the facial features . . . the cane in his hand as he limped, grimly, towards his father . . . the expression that said I hate what you’ve become, Father . . . told Kanmi everything.

  The fury almost choked him as he glared at Minori. I told you not to bring him, however, became, out loud, “I told you not to come here!”

  She slid into the booth opposite him, sniping back, “As if I would leave him to come here alone! He can barely walk!”

  Kanmi blinked, rapidly, as convergent realities collided in his head. Minori had repeatedly told him that Himi only carried a cane now for days when the weather turned bad . . . and yet, here he was, limping over. Bracing a hand against the table, and sitting down heavily and awkwardly, one leg out more stiffly than the other. Moving damned well for someone who’d been paralyzed below the navel seven years ago, but it hurt to see him like this. Especially with that look in his eyes, the measuring, weighing ones . . . and then just for an instant, Himi’s dark eyes turned pale gray. Kanmi froze, his heart suddenly pounding. Illusion. Illusion on par with Reginleif’s, or maybe even Loki’s. But whoever this is, is a better actor even than Reginleif. “You didn’t tell me he was still so badly hurt!”

  “You never asked!”

  Heads were turning around the café, and Kanmi could feel the proprietor’s eyes on them. Probably wondering why I’m meeting with the older model, when the fetching younger model is so much more . . . amiable. If more expensive. If only he knew . . . .

  How very interesting. For once, I can feel your wife. The fire-spirit does not shield her today. On the other hand, I cannot sense whoever is behind this semblance of your son. He is hidden from me. Even a first-born son or daughter of a very powerful god or goddess, should be somewhat visible to me. You do have interesting allies, Emberstone. I congratulate you.

  Minori reached up and played with her necklace, and Kanmi could sense whispers of her power forming in the air around them. It was subtly done, and she folded her hands in front of her lips, covering them, as she said, rapidly, “This is Rig—”

  �
�Figured that out. You’re an uncanny actor, boy. That’s definitely Himi’s anger in your eyes—”

  “I was angry at my own father for ‘abandoning’ us for a long time when I was a child, Uncle Kanmi. I remember what it feels like.” Mild amusement in the voice, but the expression remained set and furious.

  “Min, I was planning on pretending to be angry with you, and taking you ‘prisoner,’ but now, you did what I asked, so . . . what’s the play? Take Himi here with me?”

  “Plans are in motion, Kanmi-kun. You need to take both of us with you. Where’s the location?”

  “The most they’re willing to commit to, is somewhere north of the Eastern Erg, so we’re talking the middle of the Sahara. The usual requirements—”

  “Usually, these sorts of plans have involved bodies of water. Salt-water, by preference. But the Sahara?” Minori’s mind clicked along at its usual rapid pace.

  “Try to look angrier,” Kanmi advised, and she tossed back her head, her eyes narrowing. “My best guess is the Chott el Jerid. It’s a salt pan in summer. A salt lake in the winter and early spring, like now. It’s still a big damned area—the wider half of it is still over forty miles long, and that leaves a lot of shoreline.” He slammed a fist down on the tabletop with enough vehemence that crockery at the next table over jumped and clattered.