As she moved forwards, Nith managed to right himself and leaped out of the water, heading straight towards another ship, on which he promptly landed, causing its hull to sink noticeably deeper in the water. Minori followed him, thinking, He probably knows precisely where Sigrun is . . . as she tried to encourage the sword to shrink back down again. Douse itself. Go in the sheath without burning the scabbard, or her fingers. And she then set down on the deck, watching as young sailors ran past her, clearly trying to stay out of the line of sight of the enormous dragon.
Minori found her way to where the dragon’s head hovered, and found Sigrun lying there, unconscious, with a terrified young medic trying to tend to her, under the watchful eye of Niðhoggr. “Ah, why don’t you let me handle this?” she said, tactfully, and the medic scurried away, with evident gratitude. Minori had cultivated an interest in medicine since her torture in Tawantinsuyu, but also because her eldest step-son was a doctor. She reached to touch Sigrun, and sent a gravitic pulse through the valkyrie’s body, looking for broken bones and damaged organs . . . and heard a low, terrible growl shake the ship around her.
She raised her eyes and regarded the dragon steadily. “I know. She’s hurt. Let me tend to her, lest those bones of hers heal incorrectly.”
Do not touch her. The words coiled through her head like frost laying itself against a windowpane.
Minori’s head rocked back. There was a freight of power behind that voice, and millennia of experience. It shook her. Sigrun had always insisted that Nith wasn’t a beast, wasn’t an animal. But this was direct evidence. “You . . . you can talk.”
Yes.
“Why . . . she doesn’t think you can talk—” Minori looked down at Sigrun helplessly.
I wished for the first words I spoke in millennia to be for her ears. And I speak to her. She could hear me if she chose to do so. But she fears to understand me. The dragon leaned down and exhaled frost around Sigrun’s slack face, leaving crystals of ice in the valkyrie’s hair. Mine were the claws that ended my accursed mother’s life, but I refused the spoils of that victory, as much as I could. I let her essence pass me by. Intelligence in that voice. Centuries of experience. Subtlety, regret, sorrow . . . and savagery, too. All commingled.
Minori nodded, eyes wide, and feeling out of her depth. “I . . . see. Please. Let me help her. She’s been my friend for a very long time. I . . . hate seeing her hurt like this.”
She is often injured in this fashion. She did not allow me to move into position first. Another low growl, and then the dragon finally inched his protective head away. Do you have the power to heal in those hands?
“Basic first aid.” Minori’s words, which had started to tumble out, slowed, abruptly, as Amaterasu snorted, somewhere in her mind. “Actually . . . I . . . might?” She blinked, and edged forwards until she could put a hand on Sigrun’s forehead. And then sent warmth through the valkyrie’s body. Understood, in an instant, that there had been trauma to skull and ribs, fractured vertebrae, a shattered pelvis. A bad concussion, and yes, internal bleeding . . . and yet, the woman’s body was already healing. Already repairing itself. Amaterasu’s gift just sped the process enough that Sigrun was able to open her eyes, groan, and flinch as Nith licked her face.
Better, Truthsayer, he said as Sigrun lapsed back into unconsciousness. I did not think you could do more than move her body, and perhaps injure her further. The fierce tone had abated a bit, becoming calmer, now that Sigrun was no longer so badly injured.
“Neither . . . neither did I,” Minori murmured, staring down at her hands. It was a generally accepted rule that sorcerers had no ability to heal the human body. Cauterization was possible, as Kanmi had often demonstrated. Removal of bullets through precise, controlled pulls. But re-knitting bone and flesh at the cellular level were beyond sorcery. Something solely in the realm of spirits and the gods. And now, she itched to understand the mechanics of what she’d just wrought. “How fascinating.” She paused, and stared up at the beast, shaking her head. “Why . . . why do you come when she calls?” Even when she doesn’t, sometimes, to hear her tell it.
For that she is mine, and I am hers. We are bound, we two. We are . . . the same. Night. Death. Ice. Darkness. She has always smelled like home to me. When she understands herself, she will understand me. Though I wonder sometimes, if she ever will. The jaws gaped wide for a moment. It might have been a smile. Go. Tell the mortals that their weapons did greatly damage the creature. It was bleeding from many mighty wounds, even before you took off its head. More such impacts would have killed it, though it was more resilient in the water. Its element.
“Are there more of them?” Minori asked, dreading the answer.
Your sword ended the life of the spirit within. It did not flee to the Veil. Thus, this one will not return. But I do not know if there were others like it. The dragon hunkered down over Sigrun, as if she were an egg to be protected until it hatched, and Minori walked away, her fingers curled around the hilt of the sword at her side, looking for an officer with whom to speak.
On returning to Jerusalem, very late at night, so that their flight would be less noticeable, Minori had been half-dozing against Sigrun’s shoulder, slumped forwards. She had a tendency now to awaken with the first slivers of light in the morning sky, and once the sun set, her energy level dropped. It wasn’t debilitating, but it was somewhat noticeable.
“Minori?”
“Hmm?” Min forced herself awake with an effort.
Sigrun hesitated, and then said, as city lights appeared under them, far below, “I would take it as a very great favor if you would not mention the precise details of the battle to Adam.”
“You mean, I should leave out the part where you were hurt?”
Under them Niðhoggr snorted. Minori wasn’t sure if she should tell Sigrun that the beast had spoken to her. It would just hurt Sigrun’s feelings, if someone else could hear her . . . friend? Ally? Brother? None of the words seemed to fit, and Minori hadn’t missed that Niðhoggr had used the quintessentially Gothic phrase of we two. Witan.
Sigrun shook her head, her braid bouncing around her shoulders. “He would never believe I wasn’t hurt. Just leave out the extent of it, if you would.” A tiny shrug. “He worries. He becomes angry, because he isn’t able to be there. He doesn’t take it out on the people around him. He . . . tries to put it into something more productive.” Sigrun sighed. “But it is still anger. And it is hard to see.” She shrugged. “I know my anger is no easier to live with, but I find someplace else to be, when it is at its worse. Adam does not have that option, anymore.” She paused. “So, let’s give him less reason to be angry at the world for the passage of time, at himself, for his body’s failures, at me, for . . . being god-born . . . .”
“He’d never—” Minori began to object, and then guiltily remembered the number of times she’d wanted to yell at someone, simply because she ached with arthritis, and couldn’t do the things she loved to do anymore. “He doesn’t blame you for being god-born, Sigrun.”
“No. But parts of him . . . down deep in his subconscious . . . are probably angry at me for being young.”
Niðhoggr circled in for a neat landing in front of Minori’s house, hitting the ground with a bone-jarring thump that set off a few car-alarms along the street. Min nodded, and slipped down off the dragon’s side, hovering through the air to the ground under her own power. “I’ll avoid mentioning it.” She looked up. “Sigrun?”
“Yes?”
“Nith can talk. I can hear him.”
The dragon turned and hissed at Minori. Truthsayer, there are times when words need not be spoken.
Sigrun was high enough above Minori’s head that her face was lost in the darkness. All Min could see was the valkyrie’s outline. “Ah. Your goddess smiles on you, then, Minori.” Quiet words, barely audible.
“I think you could hear him, too.” Minori blurted out the words. She couldn’t stand to see her friend so . . . low. Sigrun was a fighter. They a
ll were, really. “He said that once you understand yourself, you’ll understand him, too.”
You are trying to help, and I honor your intentions, but she will not hear you. To understand you, to understand herself, would be to betray her husband in his mortality. In her estimation.
That is almost precisely what . . . someone else once told me, of her. Minori stopped herself from even thinking Reginleif’s name. She had no idea if the dragon held any vengeance or animus in his heart for the once-traitorous valkyrie.
Then perhaps you should believe us.
Sigrun slipped off the dragon’s side, and landed, lightly, beside Minori, clearly not hearing the exchange. “Understand myself?” A faint, bitter laugh. “I know precisely who and what I am, Minori. I am god-born. I stand as intercessor, the intermediary between the gods and humanity, much as Trennus as a summoner stands between humans and spirits. I serve both gods and humanity.” She held up a hand, as Minori’s lips parted, stilling the words on her lips. “I am, more specifically, a valkyrie and a battle-maiden of Tyr. I was born to fight lost battles, and I carry over a thousand scars. I serve Rome. I defend its laws and its people. I am the wife of a mortal man, mother of none, sister of a mad prophetess, and grandmother to everyone else’s children. How can I understand, more fully, who I am?” Exasperation in Sigrun’s voice, and frustration, and Minori saw her look up at the dragon for a moment.
Minori opened her mouth, and closed it again. Put like that? She couldn’t think of any response.
“You are singularly fortunate, Minori,” Sigrun said, quietly, and gently. “You had power as a sorcerer, and used it wisely, and ethically, and a god chose to love you, and you accepted that gift. You’re becoming young again. Trennus has power and compassion, and he has been rewarded for it. A family. Youth. The love of two spirits. Kanmi . . .” Sigrun’s voice broke for a moment, “had enough power and wisdom under all that cynicism, that he made a god think twice about his actions. All of you were human, and have become so much more. Perfect examples of how humans . . . aspire. Lift themselves to the stars.” Sigrun looked down. “Adam . . .” her voice broke again, and she had to pause before she continued. “Adam has wisdom and intelligence and compassion and courage. The perfect example of what it means to be human, and to aspire. Humans can transcend themselves, Minori. You are all . . . amazing to me.”
Minori swallowed. She’d rarely heard so much raw pain and anger in Sigrun’s voice. This was, in its way, worse than when Sigrun had been furious with Loki. Worse, because there was resignation there. Acceptance, in and around the anger. And somehow, she wasn’t surprised at all when the first splatter of rain hit her cheek. Adam’s god does not give his power to god-born or god-touched. Adam would never accept the gift from a foreign god, either. Adam will age. And Adam will die. As Kanmi did, but . . . is it worse, to watch your husband die a hero? Or to watch him slowly wither, day by day by day, knowing that . . . in a way . . . he is choosing to leave you? That he would never, ever, accept the means by which he could stay with you?
You are closer to understanding, Truthsayer. Nith’s voice was tired. But you do not yet have all the pieces, I think.
Minori reached out and hugged Sigrun, feeling the valkyrie stiffen faintly at the contact, as always. “I’m sorry, Sigrun.” The top of her head barely cleared her friend’s collarbone, which always left her uncomfortably aware of Sigrun’s breasts. The same thing happened with Lassair and Saraid, both of whom made their avatars Sigrun’s height or taller. “I’m so sorry.”
Aprilis 10, 1991 AC
Sophia Caetia stared at her shoes. They were surprisingly practical hiking boots, purchased years ago, when she’d realized that her usual lightweight sandals did her little or no good on rocky mountain paths. A badly twisted ankle had convinced her of that. And while she could have worn her peplos on her walks through the hills—any number of her maternal ancestors had, after all—she had irritatingly fair skin, and tended to burn. Thus, most days, she went out into the hills, she wore strikingly practical jeans, laced at the sides, and a long tunic. Today, however . . . she couldn’t see herself wearing them. Why do I see myself wearing sandals and a peplos? How idiotic of me. I’ll fall. Twist my ankle. Hobble back to Delphi in the sun, and be burned and sweaty when they . . . find . . . me.
Oh.
The hiking boots hadn’t actually been used in over a year, she remembered now, turning them over in her hands. Not since the area outside the temple grounds had become so dangerous. All the other Pythias and priests had left, most of them murmuring words of mingled awe and horror at her devotion. Sophia had been hard-pressed not to laugh at them for that choice of wording.
Pilgrims still came, periodically . . . in buses, surrounded by armed convoys, toiling up the mountainside to the Temple of Apollo. Some from as far away as Persia or Qin. All asking for ways to fight the mad gods. She had no advice to give them. She knew that every Polynesian god had been slain. Marduk had been slain. Half the Nipponese kami had been devoured, and the other half were fighting a rear-guard action, trying to get their people out as their islands tore themselves apart, the dead rose to attack the living, and monsters crawled up out of the sea.
Her gaze swept up the murals on the walls, and for a horrifying moment, past and present and future were all one thing. It had already happened. It was going to happen. It was happening right now. Her heart pounded at the adrenal surge, and she couldn’t breathe. Her head spun from sudden oxygen deprivation, and tears ran down her face and stained the silk of her peplos. No. Please no. It can’t be today. It can’t be today. I’ve already seen it thousands of times. I don’t want this. I don’t want this. Please, let this pass from me.
But it’s the only thing I can do. If I don’t go, if I . . . stay right here, where I am, safe in my room . . . the future breaks. I don’t know what will happen then. I know what will happen if I do. I’ll go insane. Truly insane. I’ll still have my Name. I’ll still be Trueseer. But I’ll be broken till the day I die, and maybe even after that . . . but it’ll be all right, because . . . at least a few people will survive. The world can be renewed. Reborn. She wiped the tears from her face. Certainty—knowing Sigrun and Judea and those there would survive, and that some tiny spark of her own awareness might pass on, into her sister, as well—was better than the howling abyss of uncertainty.
. . . She stared at her own hand as she painted, frantically. Consumed by memories of things yet to come, she was scarcely in control of her own movements. The man in her bed snored for a moment, and then turned over, as she kept painting, adding a little more detail to the horrifying image on the wall . . . and then, in red, so she knew Sigrun would see it, a message in block Hellene letters: It’s not your fault. You were never going to be in time . . . .
Stumbling and fumbling, she picked up and stared at the old Bakelite phone in her room. It still had a rotary dial. Loki told Fritti that god-born form themselves around a central tragedy in their existence, and then calcify there, unable to change. And he was right. Except my central tragedy comes from/came from/is near the end of my life. I’ve been living in this day since I was eighteen. And I’ll be living in it after today, too, but at least it won’t happen again . . . . Her fingers dialed the number. Four rings, and then Sigrun’s tired-sounding voicemail message. “Ave. This is Sigrun Caetia, agent of the Praetorian Guard or tribuni angusticlavii Caetia, take your pick, because I cannot be bothered to change this message even one more time. Leave your name and number at the tone. If I am not in Judea, it may take up to three days for me to return your message.”
“Waes hael, Sigrun. I’m going to have to ask you for your help. By the time you get this message, they will already have had me for . . . twelve hours or so. Come to Delphi. Please.” Sophia realized her voice was shaking. “I’m scared, Sigrun. I don’t want this.”
. . . sound of hoof beats behind her and she started to run, rocks catching and cutting her feet through the flimsy sandals she wore . . . No, don’t look, don
’t look . . . but it was already happening, it had already happened . . . .
Her hands froze as she pulled on her sandals. And then, shaking, she took them back off again. Threw them across the room. And pulled on her boots, instead. It wouldn’t matter. It didn’t change the images in her mind. But at least her feet wouldn’t bleed. Fuck the future, Sophia thought, in despair. And fuck Apollo, too.
Laughter, at the back of her mind, mad, despairing laughter, and she wasn’t sure if it was hers, or the god she’d damned. She stumbled out of her room, and saw the faces of her attendants. Dead, and they didn’t even know it yet. Her sight slipped and skewed, showing her how this one would be torn apart by harpies inside of a year, this one would be crushed under a wall inside of two weeks as the earth shook and half the temple collapsed. That one would drown as his boat sank on his way to Tyre. That girl, there . . . a plane crash, her body torn to pieces, and then picked over by a lindworm that had made its way south, following the ettin and the grendels.
Sophia blinked, rapidly. Their decaying mouths were opening and closing as they spoke to her, not realizing they were already dead. There were fewer of them now, than there had been. “Pythia, you must not leave the temple’s grounds. The soldiers assigned to guard Delphi can only guarantee safety within the perimeter. You know that.”
The Goddess Denied (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 2) Page 117