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

by Deborah Davitt

  “Why’s he called Malice-Striker, anyway?”

  “It was a kenning first used to describe a sword, poetically. I suppose Hel thought of him as her weapon, so she named him that. ‘You! Sword! Go kill something for me.’” Sigrun’s lips twisted. “Now, I think he might come to think of himself as the striker of the malicious. He seems to enjoy the role, anyway. Not bad for the person who’s probably taken over Hel’s role.”

  “Person?”

  “He’s definitely a person. Just as much as a fenris. Maybe more so. He’s older, after all.”

  “But he still has never spoken to you, right? That’s sort of what makes fenris human.”

  “Maybe he can’t. Someone who’s mute or has had their tongue cut out, is still human.”

  A shrug. “True enough.” A pause. “You’re sure he can’t change forms?”

  “Adam, if you keep asking that, I will wind up having to ask him to demonstrate either the ability, or the inability. Either way, it’s sure to be embarrassing. He does have a sense of humor, you know.” A faint smile, as the waiter came back to the table, and Adam got up to go to the lavatory before they left. The waiter looked Carthaginian, Lydian, or maybe Judean. Olive skin, dark hair, a lightning-quick, white smile.

  “Miss, would you mind giving me your telephone number?”

  Across the street, the woman’s eyebrows rose, and she did her best not to snicker at the blank look on Sigrun Caetia’s face.

  “Why? Is there a problem?” A faint frown. “I do not wish to be on any calling lists for raffles.”

  The waiter flushed. “No . . . I’m sorry. I’m going about this all wrong. I just saw how wonderful you are with your father. It’s the kind of family loyalty you don’t really see anymore, and I . . . thought I’d like to get to know you better. Maybe we could go out for a drink sometime?”

  Veil sight showed the flicker of red rage, deep in the heart of that contorted soul, and how quickly it was pushed down. Human sight showed the mask of cold that Sigrun’s face became. “My father has been dead for twenty-four years. Longer than you have been alive, I think, young man.” Stern, cold steel, and nothing more. “My husband and I would appreciate the check as quickly as possible, please.”

  Across the road, the other woman could see the look on the waiter’s face, as the young man clearly writhed internally, and behind Sigrun, the look of mingled irritation, offense, and amusement on Adam ben Maor’s; he’d stopped to watch and listen from behind a planter on his way indoors. And when he came back to pay their bill with a silver coin and a couple of bronze ones (the bill for the reckoning had been dropped off with lightning quickness), the woman across the street could read his lips as he told his wife, “You could have been gentler with the waiter, and just torn his fasces off him and handed it back to him. He’s probably curled up somewhere in a little ball right now with an icepack on his wounded ego.”

  Sigrun flushed. “You overheard?”

  A grin stole over his countenance. “I did. And, for the record, I loved every minute of it. Come on, you have to get to work, and I think I might go into the office and break codes for JI today.”

  “You’re just saying that so that I will feel even more like going home, curling up in bed, and never getting up again.”

  They left. Across the street, the woman turned back towards her meal, but just stared at the remains of her food, swallowing hard. She’d caught sight of Caetia that morning, from a rooftop in Little Hellas, and had left off working with her flight trainees to follow her, for a while, hardly daring to believe that it was, in fact, the younger valkyrie. And certainly not daring to let her face be seen. Sigrun would recognize her. No matter what the Veil had done to change her—and so much had been done to her there, that she hardly even knew herself, most days.

  Hurtling through space, but not time, thrown so deep into the Veil, that she might as well have been somewhere in the Kuiper belt, relative to Earth itself. Millions of square miles of space, but no time, her mind screaming for time, and everything happening to her at once. Being born and dying and being born again. Creatures happening by, and falling on her. Fighting them, sometimes winning, sometimes being eaten alive, the pain horrifying as they devoured her essence just for the taste of it. Curiosity about her body . . . she was one of only a handful of creatures who had ever entered the Veil in her physical form and stayed. They ringed her, darting in to taste of her mortality, and she’d tried to use her illusions . . . only here, illusions could become real, and take on a life of their own . . . . She’d died so often. No way to count how often, not there, where time had no meaning. Thousands of times. Possibly hundreds of thousands. In the end, there had only been pain.

  She’d done it to herself, in the end. She’d been fleeing, and had needed an illusion complete enough to hide herself from the spirits that dwelled here. In between steps that had seemed to take her between the electrons orbiting an atom, she’d pulled power into herself from the raw Veil around her, and shaped an illusion around her body. Made herself look and feel and smell in every way like one of them. Had thought herself clever, and had made herself look like a black swan. Except . . . as the spirits sped by the little pond she’d exhausted herself to craft . . . she realized that she couldn’t change back. She didn’t know her Name. She couldn’t even remember her face. And from that moment on, she’d just been a swan, not a particularly bright bird, floating around her little haven, trying to stay away from more predatory spirits that came to drink from the reed-filled place. Wolves and lions and monkey-bears and serpents the size of the trees around her. She’d seen a brilliant creature walk up to the edge of the pond, two-legged, bare-chested, and carrying a bow; flame danced around his body, and a wolf the size of a horse coursed the ground beside him, tracking some scent. Her trail ends here, Worldwalker. I do not understand it. Nothing can die in the Veil.

  She’d studied them warily, and had ducked her head back under the water for a little more algae . . . except it wasn’t algae, of course. It was raw Veil energy. No flavor. No texture. She . . . remembered them, vaguely. Knew they were even more dangerous than the regular spirits. If these two killed her, she’d stay dead. And they had good reason to hate her . . . didn’t they? They were . . . yes, they were predators. That was it. But she was bound to her pond, and couldn’t fly away. This tiny piece of reality was the only sanity she knew. If she flew away, she’d lose herself. What little of her remained. Woman-self knew this, lurking deep within. Swan-self only knew that if she flew away, she would be lost and devoured. Again and again.

  Excuse me, but have you seen a woman who looks like this? Or perhaps like this?

  She’d pretended not to understand the query, but the images they presented assailed her. She didn’t know who the images were, but the one creature looked bitter, sad, and angry, and yet was a leviathan. And the other had been . . . nothing, really. A tortured scrap of empty flesh. She’d shaken her head at the pair, mutely, until they’d gone away again, conversing between themselves that this was a realm, someone with enough strength of will to shape it must have been here, and this swan-spirit must have come to occupy it through some kind of bargain . . . .

  And then he’d found her, following in their tracks, slipping out from behind the trees and walking out into her pond, hip-deep. She’d known what he was. The leviathan himself, whom they sought. One of the huge spirits that coursed the Veil, and that tumbled other, lesser spirits in their wake. Weakened, injured . . . but still far mightier than she. She’d called out in alarm, and some of the other spirits in the area took flight, but he caught her by her long neck and dragged her to shore, even as her wings beat feebly at him. Oh, no, daughter of my line. You do not get to hide, while the world burns. Come back to yourself. Now.

  Commanded so, she’d had no choice but to do so. Lying gasping on the bank of her pond, she’d wretchedly struggled and torn away the layers of illusion-reality that had accreted around her, like a pearl. She’d managed to regain a human body, arms
, and legs, but when she looked into the pond for her reflection, nothing but the swan had looked back at her, black feathers, red beak, and incurious red eyes. I . . . cannot . . . . They had been the first words she’d shaped since coming to this place. Losing her spear. Losing herself.

  Your mortal name was Reginleif. Your Name, however, is and remains Shadowweaver. Awaken, and know yourself.

  That had been enough. She’d remembered everything, and had cried out in agony as great as any time she’d been devoured here. She looked down into the water, and remembered who she was . . . and that she’d come to hate that person, this Reginleif, bitterly. She couldn’t be that person again. But she had to be, because she was who she was, and she’d done what she’d done.

  You have changed and been changed. Reflect on this.

  She’d reshaped herself, carefully. Patiently. It had taken several eternities, perceptually speaking. Even with the god’s help. Her facial bones remained the same as they’d been in life, but her hair turned the same black as her wings. The wings stayed . . . she’d never need to wear her swan cloak again, she’d reflected, with brittle amusement. And when he’d asked her about the scars, the ones that had deformed her body, and embittered her heart almost as much as her rage about her beloved’s death, she’d closed her swan-red eyes. I deserve to wear them all.

  Let me be the judge of what is deserved.

  He’d erased them all, but, later, she had reshaped one on her right cheek, angling just up past her eye. It was her reminder. Who she’d been. Who she was. What she’d done. And the impossibility of forgiveness. But it would be easy enough to cover in illusion in the real world.

  And then he’d taken her to a . . . puckered spot in the Veil, where light was pouring in from elsewhere. What is this place?

  Gods died on the other side of this tear, in the mortal realm. Three of them, all older than I. You must return now. I am . . . not yet ready. But you are, my daughter.

  But . . . what am I supposed to do there? She’d been as horrified at the idea of returning to life as she’d once been at being hurled into the Veil. To go back, where there were consequences? Where she would have to face the results of her actions?

  Yes. And you will work to repair the damage you have wrought. Go. You are needed in Hellas, and in Judea. Go!

  She’d gone, and appeared on the other side, with a spear in her hands, as if she were still a valkyrie, in truth. Moments later, she’d realized that her Veil form was her real form now. The reality of it had been both sickening and . . . a joyous relief, at the same time. She had talons at the ends of her fingers. Her hair was black as her wings, her eyes were red . . . but as she’d peered into the rusty yellow glass that faced over what had once been rolling sand dune, seeking her reflection . . . she’d seen the scar on her right cheek. And knew that she was who she’d always been. The reminder lanced deeply into the pure joy of physicality. Dimmed the brightness of the sunlight. And she’d inhaled, and found the thread of duty within her.

  She’d been born knowing how to fly; having to use wings to do it now was something of a come-down, but the effort it took was strangely exhilarating. She’d crossed the Mediterranean, and begun visiting hospitals, looking for the harpies, in particular. And she’d discovered that her voice had changed, at least a bit, as she spoke to the new-fledged, god-touched creatures. Oh, it sounded the same in her speaking register, but she could hear edges and inflections that hadn’t been there before. She’d tested it in a bathroom in one hospital, and realized that she could sing now, as she’d never been able to before in her life. Double-voicing notes, one in her regular register, one in a profoundly deeper timbre . . . and she could hit a high note that shattered the mirrors above the sinks. I am a siren, she realized, dumb-founded. So she’d taken the name Lorelei, for the maiden of the Rhein said to lure sailors to their deaths, and gotten on with the business of teaching the harpies how to fly. How to be . . . no longer quite human. She had quite a lot of experience with that, and there were so few god-born of the Hellene gods left, that they could hardly cavil at her presence.

  And then the mad godlings had appeared in Hellas, and started driving her students insane. She’d taken one look at the seething mass of raw power, gathered her people, and fled. She knew she couldn’t fight the damnable thing. And her people weren’t ready to fight yet. Most of them had been quite ordinary people before the transformation. They had been magistrates and accountants and lawyers and nurses. They’d been teachers and chemists and architects and avionics technicians. Historians and librarians and engineers. A handful of carpenters and farmers, and a couple of genuine artists—sculptors working on renovations to the Parthenon. Not a shop-clerk, hair stylist, bath attendant, or acupuncture specialist in the bunch.

  She thought it might come down to will, as Loki had shown her had affected the jotun and the fenris. People with enough strength of purpose to shape their own lives, survived, and even thrived in the transformations. People who drifted through life aimlessly, with no more ambition than seeing what was on the far-viewer at night, died or went mad.

  Reginleif—Lorelei—finished her meal. Counted out her few coins, carefully, and left them on the table, slipping through the restaurant and out the front door. The cloak that covered her wings was an illusion, and didn’t take up nearly enough space to account for them completely, so she had to be careful not to take anything off anyone’s tables as she passed. Outside once more, she took a deep breath. She’d considered seeking out Sigrun and her husband, but had wanted a good look at them, first. Now, she thought it would probably be for the best if she left them alone. What good, she thought, distantly, would it do to seek her out and inform her that I am alive? Should I beg for her forgiveness? No. It’s not for her to forgive me. I am . . . making my restitution, and will doubtless do so for the rest of a very long life. Intruding myself upon the two of them will only serve to make them feel worse, and will not make me feel better. I just wish . . . I wish I could pass on to Sigrun, what the Veil taught me. That this mortal world is to be cherished. That every day in it, is a gift without equal. And though I may mourn for my Joris for the rest of my life, I will mourn more for the destruction I wrought in my anger and my despair. She shook off her maundering. Time to return to my labors. I have taken too much time away from duty.

  Around nine postmeridian, Sigrun placed a call to Delphi. She was feeling much more awake and alert; a good condition to be in, when dealing with Sophia. “Waes hael,” Sophia answered the phone, as if knowing who’d be on the other end of the line.

  Of course she does. Sigrun sighed. “Sister,” she said, without preamble. “The situation in Hellas is deteriorating. Why don’t you come and live with us here in Judea? We have all these empty rooms. A whole suite that my in-laws used to live in. I can redecorate it to your tastes, but I won’t let you paint your murals up there. You can bring any guests you want, so long as they don’t wind up with keys to the house. What do you say?”

  There was a distinct pause. Finally, Sophia answered, her voice troubled, “Sigrun . . . sister . . . Thank you. I know how much you and Adam treasure your privacy. It means much that you would ask. But I have an appointment here that I must attend to—”

  “Come and live here until it’s time for your damned appointment, whatever it is. There is no sense in staying there in the meantime.”

  A conversation from 1963, just outside the door of their father’s hospital room, had been replaying in Sigrun’s mind since the first time she’d seen film footage of satyrs and centaurs, taken by helicopter, in the mountains of Hellas. It’s all right. I forgive you in advance. Sophia had paused. The centaurs. You’re not going to be in time. And I won’t leave, because it’s the only thing I see for myself. Sigrun had seen in her mind, all over again, the single tear that had coursed down Sophia’s cheek. You won’t get there in time, Sigrun. But it’s all right. Because you were never going to win.

  Sophia’s voice in the here and now cut through the memories.
“Ah, but Delphi itself will be perfectly safe for at least another three years. I’m sure of that. Besides, if I’m there, you won’t let me return for my appointment. Besides which, this shrine has never been left completely unattended in the past two thousand years. I’ll be the last Pythia here, and there will still be pilgrims, coming here, until the very last day I am able to speak to them.”

  Sigrun pounded the side of her fist against the table, and wished, desperately, for an ounce, a dram, of what Lassair had. What Adam had. The ability to persuade someone to their point of view. She didn’t have that gift, that spark, the . . . charisma. She had force of will, but all it was in her, was the ability to fight. “Please, Sophia. Come here. Leave Apollo of Delphi’s power center. Without his miasma permeating you . . . perhaps you’ll see other options.”

  “Sigrun, sister . . . you don’t understand. It’s not about winning. You were never going to win.” Sophia’s voice was drowsy now. “It’s about making the game last as long as we can, and saving as many people as possible, in the end. Good-bye, Sigrun. The next time we meet . . . I might not be able to tell you. But I do love you, my stubborn, stubborn sister. Good-bye.”

  Iunius 7, 1988 AC

  “What does this one do?” Erida held up a rich blue gem set in an antique bronze setting.