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

by Deborah Davitt

  Zaya watched as the adults all looked at one another. She couldn’t fathom what he was talking about. “Gods evolve,” her mother said, quietly. “So does human civilization. We are in a unique position to trade information, titan. Please. Before we explain everything that has passed since you went to your . . . rest . . . can you not tell us about the godslayer? Your brother-in-arms?”

  Prometheus sighed. I had hung in my chains for . . . a century, I think. It was . . . hard to keep track of the time. Counting days lost in agony was impossible. I counted seasons, instead. I could see the lines of probability in the world . . . warping. Collapsing. Dozens of them being cut off, and I wasn’t sure why. And then I heard footsteps, and I saw him come up the rough trail that wild goats had worn past my feet, year by year, as they foraged.

  Zaya leaned out of her cubbyhole between the shelves, fascinated. “What did he look like?” her mother asked. She was transcribing notes in a kind of shorthand used by the Magi for when spirits, who could not speak out loud, were being interviewed, and recording devices might not work.

  Tall. Almost as tall as I am. Blond hair. The irises of his eyes gleamed like banked embers . . . darker than yours, my lady. He nodded to Zaya’s mother. He wore the garb of a shepherd, rough wool, and sandals. But while I could see his vessel, I could not see him. He looked at the others. Those of you who may see as spirits do, understand what I mean. He picked up a glass jar that held a candle on a shelf; it was unlit at the moment. You all see this, with your physical eyes, as I do. You see glass and beeswax and a little pigment to give it color. That is all that I saw of him. A spark of fire from one of his fingers, and the candle was lit. He had no inner fire, which is what I see in almost every human. The spirit inside the flesh and the blood. He was nothing. He had no spirit that I could discern. It was not like when I look at you, sir . . . he gestured towards Master ben Maor. When I see someone bound to another god, there is still . . . life there. When I looked on this creature, there was nothing. There was no eidelon.

  The room had gone still. “That explains how they were able to attack the ancient gods almost with impunity,” Minori said, quietly. “Every attack was a sneak attack.”

  Prometheus looked down. I knew what he was, of course. The gods of Babylon and Sumeria had been destroyed by these creatures. Akhenaten, too. Rumors had spread from the little sprits of those lands. I knew that I was about to die, and, to be honest, after a hundred years of torment, I was ready for it. I told him to make it quick. He shifted a little. Instead, he turned to fire, and softened the chains with his flesh, and released me. Of course, those chains bound more than my flesh. They were spirit-forged, as well. They held me to this world. My anchor. I . . . do not know how he cut those ties. But I was free.

  “Did he say why he had done this?” Erida asked, quickly, scrawling more notes.

  He said that this was his task. That Fate had led him here. And that I had a task, too. To try to stop the madness of the other gods, and that if—when, actually, is what he said—I failed, he would be forced to kill them all. I told him that when the eagle came to dine upon me, it would notice that the chains were empty, and that Zeus would know of my escape, and capture me, probably within days. He just nodded. He wrapped the chains around his wrists, and reforged them. He said he would take my place. I am . . . not sure how bound he ever was by them, but I promised I would someday repay him. The titan’s voice was very quiet, and every eye in the room was fixed on him. I did. I sent Zeus’ favorite son to go release ‘Prometheus.’ The one who suffered durance in my place would be released, Zeus would not punish either party, so greatly did he favor Heracles, and there would be no more . . . voluntary daily torture. Prometheus’s voice had become so grim, Zaya could barely stand to hear it. I do not know what kind of will kept him there, for the ten years it took me to find Heracles, as the god-born man insisted on wandering, continuously, hither and thither. I had endured that torture daily for a hundred years, but only because I had no choice. The other . . . he had a choice. He had a choice every day. He paused. Or perhaps he had no choice at all. He did speak much of Fate.

  Mistress Caetia turned her face aside, and Zaya flinched back from the expression there. Her face might as well have been carved from ice, and there was hate in her eyes.

  I went to Troy. I tried to stop that endless, futile war. My brother joined me, and we worked together to try to convince the mortals to see reason. To no avail. And I was caught, and Zeus was not so forgiving this time. No mere endless torture, but death. All of the gods present stood aside, and he raised his hand, and that is the last I remember until I awoke, two days ago.

  “I can clarify a little for you,” Erida said, quietly. “We have an ancient source that says that once you died, the godslayer called himself by your name, and attacked the gods. Several lesser spirits died that day, and the rest ran, some injured. Aphrodite in particular took her second wound of the war.”

  Some of them are wounded to this day, Hecate offered, unexpectedly. Their mortal avatars never show the scars, but their essences have never quite recovered, I think. Their worship began to decline. And then they met the Etruscan gods, and we were all bound to one another, forever. She pulled her hood further down over her face, not that anything was visible besides her lips and chin at the moment, and huddled further in on herself.

  “After that,” Erida said, after an intrigued pause, and another note, “he took your body away from Troy. Built you a tomb, and laid you to rest. History does not record what became of him. But he was the last godslayer of the ancient era. They have never re-appeared. No one knows why, but I would guess that the trick of summoning them has been lost.” She pointed at the tablet. “I would say that that is either a record of his deeds or his . . . last bequest to you.”

  Which I cannot read. A shrug. I do not know. I only know coming here had the highest-order probability of finding answers, and averting the lines of destructive probability I see in the world around me. Prometheus stretched. These mad gods . . . they are not the only threat in this era, are they?

  “No,” Master ben Maor said, leaning forwards in his chair. “There are at least three major wars at the moment, though Rome and Persia have agreed to a cease-fire while they both concentrate on killing ghul.”

  Ghul?

  Spirits bound into dead human flesh. Hecate flicked her fingers.

  . . . what a repulsive thought. Apparently, not every innovation has been a good one.

  Master Matrugena cleared his throat. “There’s quite a bit of instability at the moment, yes. But the mad gods are the worst problem. For now.”

  Then I will help fight them. Hecate’s blood may have awakened me, but I do not think my return is purely random chance.

  Zaya caught Hecate turning her head to look at Prometheus. And the goddess said nothing at all.

  Her father scoffed now, but with relative courtesy, You are weak, ancient one. I agree with your purpose, and would welcome an ally, but you have been outside of all worlds for over two thousand years. Regain your strength. Then fight.

  “And in the meantime, we can learn much from you,” Erida said. “And we can tell you much that you do not yet know.”

  I would know from whence these mad gods come, the titan said, simply.

  An exchange of glances, all around. Mistress Caetia cleared her throat. “Ah . . . yes. A long story. Before we begin it . . . my lady? Is there anything that could be done for your comfort?”

  Hecate’s head tilted up under her robe. The wounds the mad godling inflicted were not to my avatar, but to my essence. A third of my power was devoured, and another third, I cut away to hurl the mad god out of existence. Her voice was weary. There is nothing that can be done for me at this moment. Resting in the Veil might help, but my followers are dying. Soon, I may just be a name on the wind.

  You were fortunate, fire-that-devours, not to have been so badly damaged, yourself, Lassair told Illa’zhi, her voice faintly reproving.

  The
one I fought was weakened by the very method of its own devouring, her father replied, shortly. It spread itself out among ten thousand humans. It was foolish, and it paid the price for its lack of foresight. I devoured it, and not it, me.

  And yet, I sense pain in you, still. Lassair’s tone was not amused.

  I did not say that the victory was without price. Her father’s voice was close to a snarl. Madness is difficult to digest. He turned a little towards Hecate. I honor your struggle. If there is anything that may be done to heal you, I would consider giving it to you. But not my first-born. A touch of austere humor there.

  Zaya’s mouth had fallen open in horror. She’d known her father had vanished into the Veil again and had been . . . uncertain in his temperament, since . . . but she hadn’t known precisely why, except that her mother had told her he’d won a somewhat pyrrhic victory in Chaldea. A single thought did, trickle through her consciousness, however, with a tinge of awed pride: He fought something that almost destroyed a goddess, and won?

  Zhi turned and looked back at her, and a smile suddenly bared his flame-like teeth. Thank you, Fireflower. Your faith in me is a balm.

  Much to Zaya’s amazement, she wasn’t immediately chased out of the room. Her mother beckoned her out of her hiding hole, and made her sit on the couch beside her, to take notes. “Athim is my heir among the Magi,” she told the others in the room. “But Zaya, I have decided, will take over care of the Archives, in the event of my death. Athim is not temperamentally suited for research and custodianship of such vital papers and research. He is too . . .” She sighed. “He wishes to redeem himself of the sins of his father, I think. Mostly through combat.”

  Zaya chafed a little, silently. She liked the idea of working in the Archives. She’d grown to enjoy the work, and learning all the dead languages no longer seemed quite so stupid, as she could now glance at a cuneiform tablet and at least decipher if it was an order for a measure of grain, or something more important. She was quiet, and preferred not to be around people all the time, so working with documents and ancient texts was probably a good career for her. And being the next Keeper of the Archives would be an amazing privilege. But her mother hadn’t asked if that’s what she wanted to do. And on the other hand, she’d just been given a very adult position, and was being allowed to listen to adult talk. She was being let in on secrets.

  Before the conversation proceeded, however, Adam ben Maor gave her mother, her father, and Zaya herself a stern look. “I’m not going to insult you by asking you to sign non-disclosure agreements. But what we say can’t go into the Magi Archives. Not until I’ve been dead for a good twenty years.” He sighed. “We’re all about to break several levels of security here. So if this information gets out? We’re all pretty much dead.”

  With that kind of introduction, it was very difficult to pout, so Zaya scribbled notes and periodically had the pen slip from nerveless fingers as the people she’d known as prosaic individuals . . . revealed themselves. Maccis’ father, a counter-summoner working in law enforcement? His neighbors, the retired Praetorian and the valkyrie, the ones who taught martial arts and had a bottomless cookie jar? Her mother’s colleague, the college professor? They were figures out of legend.

  The stories unfolded. How they had, in self-defense, wound up killing Tlaloc. How Inti had arranged for his own death at Adam ben Maor’s hands, to prevent himself from being sacrificed to a mortal. How Sigrun Caetia had killed Supay. How they had worked together to defeat Hel and Reginleif’s plans, and how Loki, who had been attempting to build an army for good reasons, and had even tried to do it the right way—with volunteers—had had his purpose perverted . . . and took himself out of the world, lest he destroy more of it. And finally, Baal-Hamon. Minori covered her face and wept through the story, and Lassair and Zaya’s mother both put their hands on her shoulders, though Erida’s eyes were wide.

  Hecate’s hood slipped back, revealing a face that was young in appearance. A slip of a girl, scarcely older, seemingly, than Zaya herself. You. You are responsible for all of this. You are . . . godslayers.

  “I deny that we are responsible,” Minori said, her head jerking up, even as the others looked away. “At every turn, other people, other gods, have created the situations. And we, in turn, have tried to resolve them. But in the end, we are only human. There is only so much we can do. My husband gave his life to stop worse from happening. What more can you possibly ask?”

  Nothing more than that, Prometheus said.

  Zaya walked out of the room a few hours later, her legs feeling like jelly beneath her. Her entire world had been halted in its rotation, and spun around the other way. Seeing Prometheus’ reaction to Maccis and Vorvena’s shapeshifting talents a few days later, the way the ancient titan stopped in his tracks to stare, told Zaya something that she didn’t think Maccis knew: that if he’d been born twenty-five hundred years ago, he’d have been a demigod, at the very least. Maybe even a god, himself.

  The shifts in perspective for her were dizzying. To know this of a boy who, at school, was usually called a freak, to his face, a fenris runt, an albino mutant, and any of a half a dozen other things by other boys trying to provoke him, trying to see what would make him react, was almost unbearable. Maccis generally shrugged it off with amazing forbearance. And Zaya wanted to scream at them all, don’t you understand that he’s a god? But of course, she didn’t. That would have required her to untie her tongue in public. And besides which, if she said anything, people would think she was in love or some damned thing. And the teasing would get worse for both of them, and Maccis might be embarrassed and never talk to her again. And that would be worse than anything.

  And over lunch at school, which she usually ate with him and his older sisters, she told them all about her mother’s intention to train her as the Keeper of the Archives. Vorvena sat up, hastily. “Really?” the older girl said, her eyes wide.

  “That’s a really big honor, isn’t it?” Eisa asked, flicking her red hair back out of her face.

  “I guess so,” Zaya temporized. “I . . . I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

  “You’ll be great at it!” Eisa told her, cheerfully. “I don’t know anybody our age that’s smarter than you are. You already know how to read more languages than I do, and I want to be a translator for an embassy someday.” She grinned and bit into a slice of orange. Zaya had been surprised that every one of the Matrugena children packed their own lunches. Hers were always prepared by the family chef. Today, for instance, she had a container of a thick, sweet yogurt drink, a small thermos filled with red lentil soup, and a couple of lafat khamira—braided sweetbread rolls. Maccis had pita bread stuffed so full of tuna, she thought he’d have to unhinge his jaw to eat it, grapes, and a thermos of apple juice.

  Maccis looked at her. “So, what’s the problem? Wouldn’t you be the first non-sorcerer to be keeper of the archives in . . . well, ever?” He shrugged, and took another enormous bite of his pita. “Sounds like it would be an honor, wouldn’t it?” That last was mumbled, one hand in front of his mouth apologetically.

  “Maccis! Manners! You’re not actually an animal, you know!” That, from his full sister, Vorvena.

  Zaya picked at her sweet roll. “It’s an honor,” she agreed. “It’s . . . well, it’s even something I think . . . might be pretty interesting. But . . . won’t all the Magi hate me? Look down on me?” She shrugged, and looked down. It had finally dawned on her, sometime in the last twenty-four hours, that no one had ever asked her mother if Erida wanted to be a Magus, or a noblewoman. No one had asked Athim the same thing. None of her siblings had been given a choice about being spirit-touched. Half the people who graduated with a basic certificate from school and left at sixteen to be apprenticed as plumbers, carpenters, or electricians didn’t have a choice about their trade; it was whatever apprenticeship their parents could afford and arrange for them. Whining about not having been consulted seemed . . . foolish, suddenly. Especially not after she realized that
her mother had been apprenticing her for this since she was nine. “I just wish she’d talked to me about it first. That’s all.” Her tone was a little forlorn.

  Maccis swallowed, with some difficulty, and told her, “Well, I don’t think the Magi are going to look down on you,” he said, in a tone of eminent practicality. “You already speak more languages than most sorcerers do. If you do your job right, how are they going to be able to complain?”

  Caesarius 32, 1989 AC

  Minori awoke in the middle of the night, her heart pounding in her ears. She could have sworn she’d just heard Kanmi’s voice telling her, sharply, Min, wake up! Min! You have to get up!

  In seven years of his damnable undercover work, she’d never had a dream like that. Now, she averaged one vivid recollection of his voice or his hands a month. Sometimes they were stupidly out of context, like seeing him at her father’s home in Hokkaido, when she was young. They were both young there, or sometimes he was old and she was young. Sometimes he was a samurai, of all things, wearing a kimono comfortably and eating perfectly with chopsticks, something he’d never quite mastered in life, no matter how often he’d tried. He could do it with magic, but not with his fingers, much to his exasperation. And that was often what woke her. Some detail out of place. But just as often, it was the sound of his voice, saying her name, and nothing more, that made her snap awake, reaching out one hand, Only to find nothing there. It’s my subconscious, she knew. Trennus has been searching the Veil for him. For any echoes of him. If he’s become a spirit . . . he knew his Name, and had enormous power . . . he’s nowhere we can find him. At least . . . not yet. Part of her clung to hope. Most of her knew that that was . . . just another form of denial.