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

by Deborah Davitt

  Should you forgive her? The words were neutral.

  Minori thought about it, and realized, Forgiveness is . . . irrelevant. She brings nothing useful with her. No knowledge. No skills. And that has been the focus of everyone you have had me . . . recruit. Useful people.

  Correct.

  Then no. I will not expend effort to bring her with us. If she gets off Honshu on her own, she must determine for herself where she will go, and what she will do. Minori passed into the boarding umbilical, and found her seat in the ornithopter that would take them to Qin.

  On seeing the wind-god Fūjin, for the first time, unmanifested but plainly there to the eyes she now shared with a goddess, Minori was nervous. The god’s dark skin, and the invisible cyclone around him, constantly moving, made him look suspiciously like Zhi, or another efreet. Well, they do all come from the Veil, she thought, and boarded her flight. No one in Customs had even asked to look in the satchel over her shoulder. They’d just handed her a little cardboard tag for her name and address, and bade her tie it to her baggage.

  Visions assaulted her as the ornithopter taxied for takeoff. Awareness, from the goddess, that another mad godling had just impinged on her territory, but far to the north. No . . . not near Hokkaido . . . please, no . . . . The ornithopter lifted off into the air, but she was blind to the splendor of Edo’s skyscrapers and bustling streets as she watched another crackling black, amorphous ball of power cruised in from the Qin coast, heading towards Mount Rishiri . . . . Minori gasped, and dug her fingers into the arms of her seat. “Can you get there in time?” she murmured, under her breath.

  The young woman in the seat beside her gave her a confused look. “Pardon? Can I get where in time?”

  I go! The only kami currently close to Rishiri is Tsukiyomi-no-Mikoto. He is weaker in daylight, however. I hope that I can reach him in time.

  Minori closed her eyes, feeling the pull of inertia in her belly. Could feel the connection between the sun goddess and her brother and once-husband, the moon god. Could see the moon-god rise into the sky, out of the water of the sea, white light radiating around him even in the brilliant day-lit sky. White light lanced out of his hands, coursing across the skies, above the green forests and jagged peak of the island of Rishiri, and the godling . . . absorbed it. Consumed it. It didn’t laugh. It didn’t have enough sapience to know humor. It only understood hunger and hatred. And it lashed out, driving tendrils of blackness into the god’s light, even as Amaterasu sprinted through the skies towards him. She could have popped through the Veil to reach him, but every entrance and exit through the Veil had an energy cost. And while being in the Veil renewed energies . . . she had entered and exited so often of late. She was exhausted. She needed to harbor her strength, and trust in her brother to hold out for as long as he could . . . .

  The ornithopter sailed skywards, propelled by a favorable wind. Minori looked down, seeing white-capped ocean waves beneath them, glistening in the sun as they passed over Edo’s bay, preparing to circle west, so that they would pass through Korean and Qin airspace, before taking a Judean flight from Qin into India, and from the far tip of India, across the Erythraean Sea to avoid Persian airspace.

  She watched behind her eyelids as Tsukuyomi fought. Tidal forces sheared at the mad godling, raw force of the moon’s own gravity . . . but the creature wasn’t manifested. Wasn’t physical. Gravity had an effect, however, on almost everything in the universe. Even light was subject to its pull. Tsukuyomi pulled, condensing gravity’s tug to a pinpoint, lensing it, and tore some of the mad godling’s energy out of its core, wounding it . . . energy began to pour everywhere, in arcs and cascades . . . .

  . . . and even as Amaterasu sprinted north to Hokkaido, the residents of Minori’s father’s estate gathered outside to look up into the sky. Her father, standing in the formal garden along a raked gravel path . . . eyes wide, mouths hanging open as they watched lights blazing in the heavens. Flashes of white, flickers of darkness. Minori wanted to scream at them to run, but she couldn’t say a word.

  And then, from the west, the creature that Hachiman and Amaterasu had been fighting returned, circling in from far across the Pacifica for a fast sneak attack, by-passing Edo. Minori’s head rocked back, feeling Fūjin shift his attention, briefly, north, towards where the mad godling had passed within a hundred miles of Edo. Not again! she heard the god cry, but it was only an echo of what Amaterasu-within actually heard.

  Someone must defend! Someone must defend our people!

  I go! A new voice in the internal chorus. Minori blinked, and realized who it was. Tenjin. The god of poets and writers and students. Supposedly, he had been a poet in the ninth century, and a good one, who had been exiled by political rivals of his clan. The signs and portents associated with his death had been lightning storms that had burned down the houses of those who had exiled him; the ruling Emperor at the time had ordered that the poet’s spirit should be venerated as a kami, to appease the angry ghost. Over time, his connection to vengeance and natural disasters had been forgotten, and all most people remembered him for today was his incredible poetry, much of which had been lost. Minori caught it all in a flash, from Amaterasu. He knew his Name. He was a sennin, a sorcerer and summoner, not just a poet. And he had strength of will, and a family who believed in him. He never truly died. His spirit had just enough power to stay, and their belief sustained him . . . he became a god. Truly?

  Truly, Amaterasu replied.

  A whisper at the back of her mind told her, That means there’s hope for Kanmi. There really is.

  Amaterasu had no time to reply. Her attention was divided between reaching Tsukuyomi, and debating if she should turn and fight the larger, more powerful mad godling that Tenjin had leaped into the sky to face. Torn, she hesitated. Tenjin was weaker than Tsukuyomi. The godling he faced was more powerful. But she was closer to Tsukuyomi right now . . . but Hokkaido had fewer people than Honshu . . . Minori could feel the struggle to decide, and what tipped the balance was the simple fact that she was in a better position to aid Tsukuyomi. She could feel the wind tear at Amaterasu’s face as she coalesced into her manifested form, light shining out of her, the sun and the moon in the sky at once together as they fought the mad godling over Rishiri Island. Hold it in place, brother, and I will tear it apart! Savage anger, that this creature had threatened her people, her beautiful, perfect land.

  Tsukuyomi laughed, but the sound held strain. They are stronger than they were. Every time they feed, they grow. But he held the ravening beast in place with gravity’s own grip, and Amaterasu lifted her hands and whispered in the mind of everyone within a hundred miles, Look away, my children, my beloveds. Look away.

  Minori strained with every ounce of her power, trying to add to the goddess’. It was like adding a spark to a raging bonfire, and she knew it, but she couldn’t not fight. It wasn’t in her not to resist, not to struggle. The goddess became the sun, for a fraction of a second, and the mad god screamed in primal terror as it was drawn into the heart of that enormous blaze, and Tsukuyomi and Amaterasu consumed its power, both of them struggling to keep any of it from reaching the land, reaching the dormant volcano beneath their feet. Difficult, when the entire island had lifted in response to the sudden, appreciable increase in local gravity less than three hundred feet above its peak. Struggling to tamp down the lava. To stop the earth from shaking, and knowing that neither of them were good with such things. Reaching out for Ōyamatsumi, lord of mountains, telling him to come and fix what they had broken. Hanging there in the air, feeling vileness and madness rising up in them. Exhausted, and in Tsukuyomi’s case, wounded.

  Minori stirred in her chair, opening her eyes briefly to realize there were tears running down her face. Her father had not looked away. He had wanted to see the goddess of the sun in all her glory. He had. The radiance had blinded him, and had proven so agonizing, that his heart had stopped . . . but he had, somehow, died with a smile on his face, and his sword in his hand, prepared to f
ight against whatever his gods battled in the sky. A good death for a samurai, she thought, and covered her face.

  “Excuse me, but what is wrong? Is something the matter?” the young woman in the seat beside her whispered, urgently.

  “Our gods fought a mad one near Hokkaido, just now. They defeated it. But there is still one more—oh. Oh no.” Minori stiffened again in her seat as Amaterasu’s attention veered back to the south. To Tenjin. The goddess’ realization that the mad godling had veered north now, away from Edo proper, and now hovered near Asama-yama. The mental image of the white-clad peak seared through Minori. It was one of the most volcanically active peaks in all of Nippon, and had erupted just last year, and for four consecutive years from 1982 through 1986. It had erupted for three continuous months in 1827, in Pompeii-like splendor, and the resulting ash had crippled an already famine-struck region. It was the classic example cited in many seismology textbooks in the area. Why is the mad one there? Minori thought, frantically . . . and realized that the mountain itself was rife with kami. And that there were cities in the valley around it, including one that had had been built to support a shrine dedicated in the twelfth century, called Nunobikki.

  None of that was her own knowledge; it all streamed out of Amaterasu’s thoughts, flooding Minori. Forty-four thousand residents in Komoro, near that shrine. A hundred thousand in nearby Ueda, more recently founded. All food for its hunger, Amaterasu thought, but she was trying to hold down Rishiri. Trying to prevent an eruption.

  . . . watching helplessly as Tenjin rose into the sky, carrying lightning in his hands, a poet’s heart and a scholar’s mind. He was something different from almost every other spirit, proof that the human could become the divine, and yet, remain active in the world. And the mad god paused in its devouring of the little kami of the mountain. Turned, though it had no eyes. And reached out with black arcs of power as lightning sheeted through the sky over the all-too-active volcano. Pull back! Minori tried to shout. Overlain in her awareness was the fact that there were ley-lines in the area, all in a tangle. Asama was almost as much of a place of power as Fuji was. “Pull back!” she cried, out loud, unaware of the way everyone around her on the ornithopter was now staring at her.

  Tenjin and the mad one fought, and Amaterasu left Hokkaido, as Tsukuyomi, the moon, tried to hold the land together, prevent it from jumping and leaping underneath him. She sped southwest, trying to get there in time, but she could see, as Minori could see, that Tenjin’s lightning was ineffective. Minori begged the goddess to jump to the Veil . . . but Amaterasu was still digesting the last godling she’d fought. If I go to the Veil now, I do not know if I will still be fighting with it within me there. There is no time in the Veil; I might well be able to overcome it there . . . but I cannot risk letting any of its essence into the Veil.

  Lightning, ineffective, Tenjin was pierced by a dozen arcs of the devourer’s power. His life was being siphoned away, and it was only going to feed the damnable thing. Minori could feel his moment of resolution. Determination. You will not feed on me, creature. I will die first. She felt him reach down into the ground—“No!” Minori screamed, her eyes snapping open. “No, Tenjin, no! You mustn’t!”—and Amaterasu, echoing her understanding, cried out, No, no, stop, this is not the way!

  Tenjin heard. He hesitated before attempting to ignite the volcano himself. He saw no hope of survival, and wished to take his enemy with him into death, but Minori and Amaterasu both knew that the volcano would not do any damage to the godling at all. There was nothing more he could do, but try to survive until the sun goddess arrived . . . and the black tendrils were burrowed into his very heart now. His last, dim thought, which Amaterasu could barely hear, was, For our people.

  Mount Asama erupted. Its snow-capped peak, like that of Coropuna decades ago, tore away under floods of hot mud, lahar. Pyroclastic flows poured down the mountainside, and a blast wave of superheated gas and ash and chunks of magma shot skywards.

  Minori slapped both hands to her face and doubled over, keening. She could see what was happening. What was going to happen. The ley-lines lit up as Tenjin dispersed, and the mad godling was untouched by the volcanic blast . . . but somewhat damaged by the very energies of the god that it attempted to feed upon. It lapped eagerly at the energy all around it, in spite of the fact that its own core was destabilizing under the onslaught.

  Earthquakes rocked the region, the earth tearing at itself, and those earthquakes triggered other faults, including ones out at sea. She could see massive waves rising, and Ryūjin, the dragon of the sea, rose to try to stop them, but could not abate them entirely. There were too many, both in the Sea of Nippon and the Pacifica. Rough waves had been common in the past three weeks, thanks to the eruption of Fuji and other volcanoes in the region. And the first waves, spawned by Asama, were minor at first, throwing themselves upon the shores of Korea and Qin. Hurling themselves, uselessly, at distant shores, like Hawai’i. And then the affiliated quakes, in a chain, went off out at sea, and these waves hurled themselves at Nippon. Volcanoes, earthquakes, and now, tsunami. Hitachi and Asahi would be inundated. The entire western coast of Honshu would be, really. Ash rained down from the heavens on Edo for the second time in three weeks, and Fuji, already primed and active, began to belch smoke once more.

  And all the while, the injured mad godling moved down through the valleys south of the mountain, and began to feed once more. Minor kami fled to the Veil, or were devoured as they stood, trying to protect the humans with whom they’d spent centuries of life. The humans fell dead, and began to rise once more, as ghul. Stop it! Minori begged the goddess, silently.

  Hachiman comes. I am calling all of my brethren. We will either kill it, or chase it off once more. But it has tasted blood today. Amaterasu’s voice was deeply weary. Rest. You can do our people no good, cannot protect them, if you make yourself ill through your distress. She paused. Also, I am very sorry about your father. He passed precisely as he wished. You may find this a comfort.

  The voice faded away, and Minori opened her eyes, surrounded by people who were now convinced that she was suffering a nervous breakdown . . . until the pilot got on the intercom and noted that there were reports coming in that there had been an enormous eruption at Mount Asama. And that all passengers wishing to return, could do so once they had touched down in Qin.

  September 28, 1989 AC

  The phone in Trennus’ study rang, but he didn’t hear it. At the moment, there were fourteen children in his house. He’d gently told Lassair several years ago that they probably had enough children, and she’d told him she’d slow down, which wasn’t entirely what he’d had in mind. What she’d meant by it, was that she’d extended the duration of her pregnancies, at least once—she said she liked the hormonal shifts of pregnancy, and that for her, slowing the fetus’ development down to a two-year process really wasn’t that much of an issue. He’d suggested, about five years ago, that perhaps they should stop having children at all, at least until all of the current ones were out of the house, and added, I’d kind of enjoy having you and Saraid to myself again. Sometime before the turn of the century. Lassair had looked struck, but had hedged.

  And, on good days, Trennus had to admit that he liked the chaos. He’d been part of a large family growing up. He was used to being one of a pack. So most days actually were pretty good. He simply couldn’t have imagined his life being like this, during the long and lonely years of his studies.

  He made a point of talking to everyone in the house, every day. Every child got a little time, even if it was just a word or two before bed. A chance for them to tell him anything at all that happened to be on their minds. At the moment, however, he’d dug out a pair of claymores he hadn’t used in years—Sigrun was usually far too busy anymore to spar—and had tossed one of them to Maccis, who, rather startled, had shifted back to human form to catch it. “What’s this for?” his son asked.

  “Time for you to learn something new. Adam says, skills-wise, if you
were a few years older, he’d be teaching you neck-breaks in bitahevn. He’s just not willing to teach kill moves to someone so young.” Trennus had reservations, as well, but the world was tearing itself apart these days. He wasn’t sure if Maccis was even going to be able to finish school. Saraid was pinned down in Hellas these days, dodging mad godlings and trying to knit together the minds of whatever harpies and dryads and naiads she could find, before sending them out of the country. Most of the cities of Hellas were currently armed forts, as they tried to stave off monster attacks, and there were increasing rumors of something being out in the Mediterranean. Something big enough to sink ships. “Come on. Swords are still important for certain types of combat.” Usually against monsters.

  “Uncle Adam says all he’s ever needed is a gun, his hands, and the wisdom to know when to use them.”

  “Uncle Adam doesn’t know everything. It’ll be fun, if nothing else.”

  He was rewarded when his eldest son by Saraid smiled. Trennus did his best not to play favorites—all of the children were special. But some of them held, in spite of his best efforts, bigger portions of his heart than others. Latirian, first-born, solitary by nature, and still on a rotation at a military field hospital here in Judea, had a big chunk. Inghean and Solinus, the brilliant biochemist and the courageous centurion? Definitely large portions. Tasalus, as beautiful as Lassair, in his way, and who seemed intent on dealing with the ugliest portions of humanity, as if in retaliation against nature for having made him too perfect . . . was studying law enforcement at the University of Judea. With an eye towards counter-intelligence. The wry look his son had given him, when Trennus had raised his eyebrows over the choice. Look, Da, I might as well get some use out of this face. I bet I’ll be a really good interrogator someday, or maybe even an agent. All I need to do is understand where someone’s coming from, express a little sympathy, and the next thing I know, I’m getting their life’s story. Trennus also quietly doted on his grandchildren, though it still shocked him to realize that he had them. Latirian and Himi’s child, Rig and Inghean’s, and now Solinus and Masako’s. Every one, different, and growing into different personalities. A kaleidoscope, really.