Seeing his literally dozens of cousins. Grandfather Tatirus had died a while back, and while kingship didn’t descend always to the first-born, Uncle Vindiorix was king now. It was a matter of who the other nobles thought would be a good ruler, out of all the royal family. It could even be passed on to a brother or a sister of the last king, in place of a son or a daughter. Uncle Vin apparently approved more of Saraid than of Lassair; she was at least a local spirit, bound to the forest around their home, even if she was . . . becoming somewhat more. As such, Maccis and Vorvena were made much of, to their mutual discomfort, whenever they came to the old Roman-style villa that was the clan’s home. Their father always seemed somewhat relieved by their welcome. Maccis didn’t know the details, but there had apparently been some strain in years past.
Much to Maccis’ surprise, he was included in one very important ritual. Fyriacus and Enica were eighteen. Vorvena was seventeen, Eisa was sixteen. He’d expected this for all of them, but not for himself. He held absolutely still as the inker traced the beginnings of his tattoos on his arms, though the pen tickled a bit. “You’re sure about this?” he called to his father. “Will these stretch? I’m still growing.”
“You’ll be fine,” his father told him, watching the proceedings with amusement. “You’re not getting nearly as many as I have, and I didn’t get them all in one sitting, either.”
These were his clan-markings, including the bears that were at the heart of the Matrugena name. Other symbols, indicating that he was an acknowledged son of a royal scion. Maccis asked, quietly, if the area below each of the bears, between mid-arm and wrist, could be filled with a wolf on both sides. “For my mother, my fenris friends, and my favored form,” he said.
“Intricate,” the inker told him. “You’ll need a few visits.”
“That’s fine.”
“That’s also where the dragons of rulership would normally go—”
“I’m never going to be king. Wolves suit me just fine.”
After a few weeks, no matter how proud he was of his new markings, which represented his open and clear acknowledgement by his father, and no matter how much he was enjoying running in the woods, he began to realize two things. First, he was so used to compartmentalizing his time that having nothing specific to do drove him a little crazy. Second, he really missed Zaya. He wished she could have come along, to see his crazy, enormous family. He wanted to be able to tell her, See? Pictish nobility. My cousins are rolling around with the wolfhounds on the floor during dinner. We’re all going hunting tomorrow—on foot, and we’ll camp under the stars. My uncle the king trained as a lawyer so he’d be a good king and actually understand the laws, like my grandfather before him. All my cousins are engineers or lawyers or architects or foresters or whatever. They all work. My father’s the only person in the family with a drop of magic in him. Aren’t they crazy and wonderful, all at once? He thought she’d love the forest, the chill, spirit-haunted northern lakes. Everything so different from Chaldea and Judea.
He was curled up in his bed, in wolf-form, as usual, when a hand to his shoulder woke him in the grey hours before dawn. Awaken, his mother said, quietly, but insistently, and Maccis uncurled, looking up at her with wide eyes. She smelled of earth and green things, and her scent was one of his favorite things on earth.
What’s wrong?
You and the others must leave. Immediately.
Maccis’ mouth dropped open, and his tongue lolled out. What’s happened?
A mad godling got through the protections around Greenland. The landvættir, the spirits bound to protect the island, could not hold it back. Half of them died overnight. Thor and Odin are both there, we are told, but the island below the ice sheet was formed by volcanic activity, millions of years ago. The vents are still there.
He shifted form, and pulled up the sheets. “There’s been an eruption?”
Yes. Several, as far the humans can tell. The ice sheet has cracked from top to bottom, and steam is erupting out. Millions of gallons of water are pouring out of the glaciers, flooding cities on the island. And soon, sea levels will rise. Londonium may flood. Saraid paused, and stroked the long hair, bound in thin braids, back out of his face. Your father and I will take you through the Veil to Judea. We did not want to risk that just to bring you here on a pleasure trip. But now . . . speed is of the essence. When you and your siblings are safe, we will return here, and render aid.
“I want to help.” The words fell out of his mouth and he was startled by them. “I’ve worked in the refugee camps for three years on weekends and on vacations. I can . . . fill sandbags. I can pass out hot soup. Please. Don’t send me home.” He held up his arms, skinny-looking things that they were . . . but the clan-markings on them meant something. “These say that I’m an adult in the eyes of the clan. Adults don’t get sent home because there’s been a problem.”
His mother hesitated.
Please, Mother.
Very well. But you will stay with me at all times.
Of course.
Iulius 28, 1990 AC
Minori splashed water on her face, and looked in the mirror, consideringly. There was appreciably less gray in her hair these days, and her skin looked softer and less lined. She’d noticed it almost immediately on returning from Nippon last year, and Masako had commented on it one morning, saying, Gods. You look ten years younger, Mother. Did you dye your hair?
She’d pressed Amaterasu for information, and the sun-goddess had whispered, A reward for services well-performed. The first three hundred people are here and safe. You are working to ensure that they have housing and job opportunities. More are coming. You are doing well, and thus, I reward you. More will come in time, if you agree to it.
Minori had laughed a little, and told the goddess, “Not all at once, please.” My husband mistook me for our daughter when Lassair removed my years as a disguise. The explanations among my acquaintanceship, especially the Judeans, would be . . . difficult. She paused, and considered it again. Also, perhaps . . . not too young, entirely.
Why not? You fear the attentions of men and women who might find your younger self attractive?
It is somewhat easier not to be tempted now. Which is not to say that I do not still have . . . urges. Everyone does. But I don’t feel as much impetus to act on them
Your husband is dead. Would he expect you to live like a shrine-maiden in the hopes that he might return?
No, but if I am to believe that he could return, and my belief might be a beacon for him . . . how can I possibly divide my attention that way? Not to mention, if he does return, it would be . . . cruel to him, and cruel to the other person. Cruel to him, because he would feel, however irrationally, betrayed. And cruel to them, because there is no doubt at all that I would return to him, given any choice in the matter. All a new person would be, would be a pastime. I have hobbies in plenty. She shrugged. And in the end, I had the person who was the best possible fit for me, in the world. I don’t want anyone else. For companionship, I have many friends.
Very well. But if you are to be ready and fit for battle, your body must be as fit as your mind, once more. Amaterasu’s voice was calm. This is necessary, my daughter.
As you wish. Minori bowed her head.
However, the transition will remain gradual, as you have suggested. This should give you time to adjust, and your companions, as well.
Minori had lived in Little Nippon for twenty years at this point. It was an old, established neighborhood, south of the commercial center of west Jerusalem, and directly south of the university, as well. It wasn’t as large as Little Gothia, and was bounded by Little Hellas to the west. The neighborhood had served as a home to Nipponese engineers involved in the space program for fifty years. Now, refugees were crowding in, and Minori was struck by the fact that so few of her countrymen and countrywomen had suffered physical changes. Our gods have held off some of the malevolence, I think. Or perhaps, when Tenjin died, because he was born human, his energies were
inherently less chaotic?
She’d already discovered that Amaterasu was a far more kindly deity than Baal had been, and less jealous. Kanmi had been blocked from even hearing other spirits; Lassair had needed to touch him, in order to make her voice heard. Amaterasu was not threatened by having her conduit hear the voices of others. Thus, Minori could still hear Lassair and Saraid, and, if she concentrated, they could hear thoughts directly projected at them, but now, it took effort. The equivalent of Minori raising her voice, really. The two spirits were a little disquieted, and worried about her, but as Lassair pointed out, after a few days of anxiously watching Minori, You do not feel cut off from the world, as Emberstone did. You feel . . . connected, still. Still a part of us. Amaterasu does not mind, then, that you love us, and we love you?
“No. Kami are not like that, I think.” It was the difference between polytheism and monotheism, in a nutshell. Minori suspected that if Baal-Hamon had survived and been ‘renewed,’ as he’d intended, he might well have wiped out the other gods in his own pantheon and declared himself the new and invigorated one true god of Carthage. Focused all his people’s faith on him, and declared war on Rome. Of course, speculating about the motives of a god, a mad god, or a dead mad god was a pointless activity. “She’s not cruel, Lassair. She just needs a place to be.”
So far, only one person from the Imperial Court had arrived in Judea: the ruling Emperor’s nine-year-old daughter, who was being kept at the local embassy. Various others had been sent to Rome, to Qin, to Novo Gaul, all in an effort to keep the bloodline alive. The Shogunate was doing its best to maintain order, but people were piling onto boats and setting sail for Australia and Qin and anywhere else that looked, for the moment, to be safe.
For her part, Minori was teaching a full course-load, along with administrative work. She kept up on current seismology as well as she could, and her tension rose with each new study she read. She looked after Shiori for Masako periodically. And she helped make travel arrangements and worked through refugee papers for her countrymen with Fritti’s assistance, often driving through Little Nippon to check in on her new acquaintances. Most of them already spoke some Latin, the language of commerce, trade, and science, but now they were all working to perfect their grasp on it.
In one of her visits to ensure that her people were adapting, she’d arranged to meet with a group at a restaurant near the highway that divided the neighborhoods of Little Nippon and Little Hellas. Minori strode past the outdoor tables in a roped-off area in front of the taverna, largely ignoring the group of harpies at one table, with their wings lifted up over the chair backs, and the group of dryads at the table next to them. The dryads were scantily clad, the males shirtless, and the females wearing knotted strips of fabric over their breasts in a bare concession to local public decency laws. Their green skins glistened under the sun as they basked, drinking water from clear glasses in front of them.
Minori glanced up in time to see one of the harpies staring at her. Long, dark hair. Red eyes. Wings like a black swan, and tiny ruffles of black down along her arms. A scar on one cheek. And yet, the facial structure . . . She’s not Hellene. She’s a Goth of some sort. The hair matches the wings, but the skin tone is far too light. She was born a blond. Minori blinked rapidly, as Amaterasu’s vision swam across her senses, and then she went rigid. There’s no light in her. All the people around her, I can see their spirits. But she’s a blank. A void.. She’s bound, almost as much as I am.
The harpy’s red eyes met her own, and Minori’s mouth fell open as she suddenly matched the slightly defiant tilt of the jaw with a face in her memory. “Reginleif!” she said, frowning slightly.
The harpy’s eyes widened, and she hastily put a few coins down on the table and excused herself from her companions. Then she stood, and Minori prepared to chase after the fleeing woman, drawing on magical energies to take to the air after her.
Except the woman didn’t flee. She strode towards Minori with steady purpose, and lowered her head when she reached her. “Dr. Eshmunazar? I thought I recognized you. May I have a word with you, before you attempt to blast me into a carbon impression on the sidewalk here?” Her voice was the same, but with subtle overtones and harmonics that hinted of enchantment. A siren. She’s become a siren, somehow.
Minori glanced around at all the civilians and ordinary people around them, and nodded, briefly. Amaterasu-within suddenly focused a great deal more attention on the situation, and Minori could feel the goddess come forwards within her, just a little. “Yes,” she told the harpy, and gestured towards the street corner.
Away from the others, Reginleif looked down at the ground. “Are the wings real?” Minori asked, sharply. “Or are they an illusion, as you try to recruit new followers, new adherents, to continue your previous work?” She had every shield she could think of active at the moment, and held a spell framed in her mind, a lance of pure force aimed right at the god-born woman’s heart.
Reginleif flinched. “. . . I . . . the wings are real.” Her voice was muffled. “Subject them to any test you wish. A relic of seventeen years in the Veil. Time might not pass there, but there are . . . repercussions . . . once you return.” She sighed.
Minori stared at her. “And why, precisely, should I not turn you over to the Odinhall?” To Sigrun, she wanted to add, but didn’t.
“If you leave here with that intention, I won’t stop you. But you also will not find me. Nor will they.” Reginleif shrugged, and looked down. “I have my task. I will carry it out, and will remain grateful for Loki’s . . . mercy to me.”
Minori’s eyes narrowed. “And what is that task?”
“To teach the new flying creatures what they now are. Most of them cannot fly without instruction. Some of the sirens cannot speak without causing the ears of those around them to bleed—literally. Or they speak in such dulcet tones than all around them are entranced. As a group, they were maddened until your Sari . . . the Lady of the Wilds . . . rescued them. They remember some of what they have done, Dr. Eshmunazar.” The red eyes were shadowed as Reginleif looked up. “She couldn’t efface all of their memories. Hunting humans. Eating them. They are horrified at what they have become, and most of them see themselves as monstrous. They require a teacher. And such, therefore, is my task. To show them how to be what they are now, while retaining their humanity. I let myself become a monster, Dr. Eshmunazar, after teaching generations of god-born how not to let themselves slip. To always hold themselves in check, and consider every action that has power behind it at least twice. The harpies are . . . my chance to redeem myself, at least a little.” Reginleif looked down again. “Though I am fully aware that my service will take up the remainder of my days.”
It sounded convincing. But Reginleif was a masterful spy and actress, and had made illusions so perfect, they’d almost defeated Sigrun’s truthsense. Minori frowned. “And you desire no revenge on Sigrun?”
“I followed her, once, when she came through Little Hellas. Watched her and her husband. I found no . . . no hatred in my thoughts. Mostly, I felt . . . pity.” Reginleif paused, and Minori’s mouth dropped open again. “She is as caught in a trap of her own making as I ever was, Dr. Eshmunazar. She is watching her husband die slowly, and in order to remain faithful to him, in her own estimation, she must be as mortal as he is. She has power beyond her own reckoning, but she will not embrace it, because to do so, would be, in her mind, to betray him.” Reginleif shrugged. “You might try telling her that, doctor. Perhaps she might listen to you. I doubt I would get much reaction beyond a spear aimed at my heart. And rightfully so.”
Minori blinked, rapidly. The siren’s mind was sharp, and again, her words rang true, somehow. “I ask of you, doctor,” the dark-haired woman continued, her red eyes fixed on Minori’s face, “that you not speak of my presence here to the others. You may monitor me however you please. You may assure yourself by whatever means you deem fit that I am not creating any kind of . . . monsters.” She sighed. “Especially no
t monsters of rage, born in human hearts. Just . . . permit me to go about my work. Quietly. I do not even use my own name in this city. No credit for my work goes to Reginleif Lanvik. Only Lorelei is known to the harpies and the sirens. And so that shall remain, until Loki decides otherwise.”
“Has he returned? Matrugena has been searching the Veil for him. And for you. And Fritti . . . would give much to have that question answered.” Minori's lips tightened a little. Fritti had had only a few fleeting years with the man she'd known as Radulfr. Minori had had decades with Kanmi. Lassair kept trying to match Fritti with this young man or that one, and the god-born woman would humor Lassair, meet the men . . . and then lose their phone numbers.
“I saw Matrugena in the Veil. Him and one of his spirits. I . . . let them think I was a minor spirit and that I knew nothing. I would have rather remained a swan, terrified of being consumed by others there, forever, than have returned here to . . . face what I have done.” Reginleif shrugged, slightly. “Loki has not responded to my voice as yet. I believe he remains . . . beyond.”
And thus, Minori had, with some reluctance, begun keeping track of Reginleif, herself. She didn’t like keeping secrets from her friends, but telling Sigrun would probably result in immediate violence. But in Minori's estimation, Reginleif had served the hardest sentence imaginable; the woman rarely spoke of her time in the Veil, but when she did, it was usually in reference to being devoured, reborn, and devoured again. Amaterasu had counseled, She was prey in the Veil. For all her power here, she was small, there. She did not understand how the Veil works, how will is a factor. And she had just begun to grasp how wrong she had been when she entered, so her will was at a nadir. The goddess had paused. Watch her. I will watch, with you. But if she has a task, we need not intervene until and if she shows signs of betrayal.
The Goddess Denied (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 2) Page 114