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

by Deborah Davitt

  That was the larger system of his belief. More specifically? He found it easy to believe in his mother and father. Aunt Lassair and Aunt Sigrun, too. He knew they’d always try to do the right thing; they might fail, they might fall down, but they’d get back up again. He believed in people like Aunt Minori, and Uncle Adam, as well. People who made the world a better place, just by being in it. The only shame was that there were so damned few of them, on balance. “Excuse me,” he said, rapidly striding over to the knot of refugees. “Have you been helped? Have you completed your sign-in forms? I can get you in the calculi system, and the sooner someone does that, the sooner we can get you to the cafeteria for a hot meal. There’s a recreation area . . . just a far-viewer and some old calculi, I’m afraid, but there’s a pretty good selection of books.” He started moving them towards a set of wood-walled, partitioned-off offices, where he turned on a calculus at one of the desks, and started getting them into the database. Names. Ages. Thumb prints, which would be kept in the metal file cabinets with other records. Previous occupations. And then he needed to give them something with which to occupy their minds, so he found them a few Hellene refugees who’d been there longer, to talk to. Friendly faces helped the displaced.

  The rest of the refugees he assisted that day included a handful of Egyptians. The Janus Canal had been ripped apart in the earthquakes after Baal’s death, and the entire region had been inundated as the Red Sea and the Mediterranean had rushed towards each other. Renewed flooding as the Arctic ice sheet continued to melt had trapped these Egyptians on this side of the Canal. They seemed to be taking things more in stride. Then again, they were polytheists, and most of their pantheon had been slaughtered by Akhenaten thousands of years ago.

  The remainder had streamed in from Tyre and Palmyra, overland, trying to escape the fighting to the north and east. One of these Carthaginians reported seeing Astarte lift into the heavens to fight back a mad god. “It fled. But I know it will be back. Still . . . it was wondrous to see the queen of the heavens with my own eyes.” Her voice trembled, but with awe, not fear.

  It was tiring work, even if it mostly involved nothing more than listening and sympathizing. He felt drained after just eight hours, and had no idea how his mother could listen to a million or more fenris howling her name on the wind, and still find the energy to listen to the harpies, the dryads, the centaurs, and everyone else.

  Because they give back, my son. The words drifted through his mind. They truly do.

  Zaya had been oddly vague, yet emphatic about her plans for this weekend. “I have a surprise for you.” When Maccis asked if he should expect to be taking her to dinner or for a walk under the trees in a local orchard, she’d blushed and told him, “Bring dinner with you.”

  “Ah, so it’s a picnic. Good. I like being out under the sky with you.”

  Of course, when she was vague like that, he had no idea what she expected of him. It was a little daunting. But he had gotten the word picnic in his head, and that was easy enough. He was earning a very basic wage from the landsknechten now, so he could afford a loaf of bread, a bottle of light honey-wine, a container of garlic and oil to dip the bread in, and thin-sliced smoked ham at the corner market, before heading home. There were always grapes at home, but after putting a few bunches of those in the satchel, Maccis hesitated. A few months ago, Solinus had offered him a piece of joking advice. He wasn’t quite sure how serious his oldest brother had been, but Sol had told him, “If you and Zaya ever decide to get particularly serious about your courting? I strongly recommend bringing her an apple from Aunt Sig’s tree.” Solinus’ grin had stretched almost from ear to ear.

  All the Matrugena children were welcome to pick from the rapidly-growing tree, and eat of the fruit, though Aunt Sig was death on people climbing it without permission. “They’re the best apples I’ve ever tasted,” Maccis had agreed, hesitantly. “And I usually feel pretty energetic after eating one.” They were perfect for after sparring practice, or a long day slogging through the desert with the landsknechten. “But I didn’t think any normal humans had taste-tested them.” He frowned. “You don’t suppose Uncle Adam’s ever had one?”

  “I doubt it. I don’t think Aunt Sig’s ever had one, either. If she had, I think she’d look a lot less sad.” Solinus’ grin had vanished, and then reappeared. “Energetic . . . well, that’s one word for it. Masako’s had a few. She loves ‘em. Trust me, Maccis. Apples. One for her and one for you, and you can thank me for the idea later.” A grin almost as wicked Lassair’s own crossed Solinus’ face, and Maccis’ eyes had narrowed.

  Vague assurances from Solinus to go with vague directions from Zaya. Maccis weighed it all in his head, and the basic male voice at the back of his head chimed in with It’s not getting her drunk, and if it makes her feel as happy, relaxed, and alive as it makes you feel, it can’t possibly be a bad thing . . . so, apples it is.

  He headed out into the backyard, opened the gate in the stone wall that separated the yards, and sniffed appreciatively as he padded across the lawn. There were cherry blossoms all over the larger tree, a delicate aroma that he could piece out of the whole tapestry of scents around him, along with fresh-cut grass, and the heady aroma of Aunt Sigrun’s apples. The tree bore fruit year-round, and didn’t lose its leaves in autumn. Maccis reached up and pulled down the first golden sphere, warm from sunshine, cupping it gently in one hand.

  “Aha. A thief. A miscreant.” Aunt Sig’s voice was lightly mocking, and Maccis jumped a little. “No, no, go ahead, I’m just teasing.” She was sitting in a wicker chair on the back porch, looking as if he’d roused her from a half-doze, though the sun was just now setting.

  “Are you all right?”

  She shrugged. “Occasionally, I think I might be ill. I’ve never been ill before, but being tired all the time is usually part of it, isn’t it?”

  Maccis blinked. She didn’t smell sick. Tired and sad, but that was normal these days. “I think so?” He’d never actually been sick, himself, either. “Can you see a . . . well, not a doctor . . . .”

  Sigrun shrugged again. “They’re usually quite baffled by me.” She stood up, looking around. “And if I do not turn to the best of modern science, who else is there to ask, but Eir, or perhaps Freya?” A tinge of inexplicable irony in her tone.

  “Well, Eir’s a goddess of healing, isn’t she?” Maccis reached up for a second apple, and pulled it down. “You could ask her . . . .”

  “She is busy healing the wounded in Germania.” Aunt Sig’s voice became brisk. “All I need is a little more willpower, I suppose.”

  Maccis thought for a moment, and then tossed an apple at her. “These always make me feel better,” he told her, cheerfully. “You should eat one.”

  Sigrun had caught the fruit, reflexively, it seemed, and now regarded it with almost comical caution. As if he’d thrown a snake at her, and not a fruit. “I think not. There’s always a price attached to Freya’s largesse.”

  Maccis shrugged. “I don’t know about that. But I never feel tired after eating one.” He reached up, and hooked down one more. “Think about it, Aunt Sig. Please?”

  The garden gate squeaked closed behind him, leaving Sigrun with a sun-warm apple in her hand, looking after him thoughtfully. Lassair, she knew, was about love, freely given. Favors given without expectation of return. It worked for her. But Sigrun had learned to look for the price-tag. If it seemed too good to be true, it usually was. Ex nihilo nihil fit. From nothing, nothing comes.

  And yet, even though the back of her mind muttered that she could be being made to feel tired, in order to manipulate her to partake of Freya’s bounty, she didn’t think that the goddess of love, beauty, and seiðr could manipulate one of Trennus’ children. They were subject to the Gallic gods, and to Lassair or Saraid. It would be bad manners, not to mention petty. And when it boiled down to it, Sigrun knew most of these young people. She’d helped raise them. Maccis’ slight flush and jittery agitation, the fact that he hadn’t
known what to do with his hands, had all spoken of eager anticipation. That he’d taken two apples? He planned to share them with someone, and Sigrun didn’t need three guesses to figure out whom that might be. No deception in him. Young Maccis wasn’t capable of deception, at least not yet.

  And yet, when she was tired, it was hard to block out othersight, and she’d been growing more lax about that in general. There were more important things to worry about than the irritating colors that bled into her normal perceptions, like synesthesia. And all she’d seen in him with othersight was mild anxiety, anticipation, a resonance that suggested incipient passion . . . and concern. Concern for her. He was empathetic, for an adolescent.

  Sigrun looked up at the sky, and sighed. “You win,” she told Freya, and shrugged. “You win.” She produced a small knife from her belt, and cut a careful slice from the apple. Creamy white flesh, dripping with juice, under the golden skin. Heavenly aroma. Her mouth watered, and for a moment, she hesitated, on the cusp of throwing the damned thing across the garden. But now that it was cut, that would be wasteful.

  Her shoulders, usually pulled back, sagged. Her head drooped. And Sigrun took a cautious bite.

  No trumpets sounded. No lightning crashed down from the sky. It tasted as good as it smelled, and on having that first bite, she immediately craved another, a craving she ignored. The scent swirled around her like smoke, teasing and pressing in on her consciousness. Reminding her of . . . things past. Flashes of memory. A clear image of her mother, smiling at her father. Riding on a boat with them, floating down the Aeturnus River, the golden light of sunset turning the rippling waters into molten mercury. Sigrun pushed the memory away, and stolidly ate another bite. There were undercurrents to the taste. Cinnamon. Clove. Wine. Honey. Snatches of music, melodies she hadn’t heard in years. Another bite, and a starfield flickered behind her eyes.

  She finished the apple. She couldn’t deny that she felt, indefinably, better. A bit more energy, a little more . . . she tested the feeling, cautiously. Hopeful, perhaps. Hope is a trap, the darker parts of her mind counseled, grimly. Prophecy is the snare you’ve already put one fool foot into. You don’t need to slide your head into another trap.

  Sigrun carefully buried the apple core in the compost heap, and went inside. She took a quick glance around a house that was built primarily of memories. Dozens of pictures on the walls. Keepsakes. Framed, printed pictures of Tenochtitlan, Machu Picchu, Rome, Londonium, Delphi, Lutetia, Alexandria, Carthage, Novgorod, the Caspian Sea. And personal images. Sigrun and Adam, getting married, Kanmi and Trennus there, both young and in their Praetorian uniforms, Livorus giving her away, and Tyr’s solemn face, behind them all. The blank white of the interface room behind them; the cameras had been able to capture the people, but nothing else.

  Naming ceremonies for Latirian, and then the twins, Inghean and Solinus and dozens of other children. Pictures from the belated reception Kanmi and Minori had thrown after returning from Nippon. Images of all of them, at Erida’s estate on the Caspian sea. Minori, Kanmi, and Adam aging. Lassair, Trennus, Sigrun, and Saraid, ageless. Pictures of them working with the jotun and the fenris here in Jerusalem. Adam growing grayer. Fritti and Rig joining the pictures. A framed formal portrait from Livorus and Mariana’s wedding, both people past fifty, and solemn-faced. And then . . . Kanmi suddenly not in the pictures at all. Min and Adam still aging. The children were now the easiest way to mark time. Which ones were what heights told a tale like the rings of a tree. Adam’s hair, going white. Minori’s, suddenly and shockingly darkening once more. Until here, in the last one taken . . . Minori looked about thirty again.

  The only evidence that time had passed from that first image, besides all the young men and women in their uniforms or formal clothes clustered around the lictors, was the absence of Livorus and Kanmi, and Adam’s lined, worn visage.

  The old, weary anger rose in Sigrun, all over again, but it was tempered by the fact that she couldn’t blame Min for choosing life, and the hope of perhaps seeing Kanmi again. It would be irrational to blame her for making a perfectly natural choice. And it was easy to be angry at Adam, too. But in the end, it wasn’t his fault, either.

  The apple offered me memories, along with that fleeting sensation of hope. Golden hours with my parents. I do not know if they were real, or a child’s fantasy. I need no reminder to cherish the past. Soon enough, that’s all that I will have. Sigrun headed to the kitchen. She wanted to pre-cook frozen meals for Adam for while she was gone. A silent way of showing him she cared.

  As she headed through the dining area, however, Adam was already at the table, working on one of his code projects. “Sig,” he said, looking up.

  “Yes?”

  “I was thinking . . . maybe having the cane down where I can get to it if I need it, isn’t such a bad idea.”

  She’d have thought getting him to say those words would require the kind of force that made continents divide. “I’ll go get it.” Sigrun leaned down and put a kiss on his forehead before heading back up the stairs, distracted from her line of thought.

  Zaya was a little anxious, as Maccis arrived at her house. She had to admit it. “Here,” she said, in the grand lobby. “Put this on.” She pointed at the cloak that appeared to be hovering in mid-air in front of her. It was, in fact, being suspended by two patient house-spirits, who flapped the edges at Maccis now. She couldn’t see them; Maccis, of course, could. He squinted at them and the cloak, and then at her.

  “It’s not really that chilly, Zaya.” He’d lived his entire life in Judea, so he didn’t have a Pict’s usual ability to ignore cold, but he was also young, male, and had the metabolism of a racehorse. He leaned down to steal a kiss, and the scent of his skin, coupled with a whiff of apples, teased her nose. “That’s more perfume than you usually wear.”

  “It’s not too much, is it?” She tried to be conscious of his sense of smell.

  “No. I like it.” He snuffled at her deliberately, grinning a little. “So why are you all bundled up?”

  “It’s a surprise. Come on.”

  With a look of resignation, Maccis turned to let the spirits do their job and drape the cloak around his shoulders. It was . . . much too short for him. His growth spurt was finally slowing down. He wouldn’t be as tall as his father, but he was still a solid ten inches taller than Zaya, if bonier. His cheekbones currently projected a little too much. “So . . . taking one of the bus lines north, towards the orchards?” he asked, hopefully.

  “Not exactly,” Zaya returned, with what she hoped was the right amount of mystery, and got a skeptical glance in return. She’d thought of this trip a day after her father had left on his trip to the Arctic with Hecate and a Raccian water-spirit, a russalka, by the Name of Mladena. The russalka had been unable to flee to the Veil, being bound to her stream, originally, and then fettered to a metal comb by a summoner some two hundred years ago. The summoner had considered her dangerous and possibly malevolent, and had been concerned that she was out to drown men in her stream; the comb had been given to Erida in payment for an incantation she’d done for a group of Raccian refugees, making their new house quite a bit sturdier. Her father had immediately leaped on the notion of a water-spirit who was in their debt, and had explained the matter of the Arctic ocean’s volcanoes to the russalka. Mladena was dubious about being able to protect him from the water’s embrace with just her own power, which was why they were taking Hecate with them. An efreet, a russalka, and the goddess most associated with dark magic in the Roman empire. Trying to save the world. Zaya hadn’t been in on the negotiations, but suspected that her father’s usual tendency to make bargains that sounded like If you comply, I will not consume you, might have been tempered by her mother’s more diplomatic nature.

  But with her father gone, and likely for a week or more, there was no one in the house besides Prometheus who could hear her thinking, and Prometheus was politely disinterested in the thoughts of his host-family. That had let her plan. She di
dn’t like feeling as if she were sneaking around, but, damn it, there were things that were not her parents’ business. And her mother was in southern Judea at the moment, shoring up some of the defenses there. Perfect timing.

  Twenty minutes later, as their bus finished heading directly into the sunset, and pulled up beside a familiar building, which was gilded by the last rays of the sun, Maccis looked over at her suspiciously. “This is the High Energy Physics building at the University. I figured if we weren’t going to the orchards, you’d want to go to the baths.” There were Roman-style baths in Little Roma, of course. Men’s side, women’s side, gymnasiums, parks, courtyards for wrestling and games, and a hundred small stores, shops, and restaurants around them. They’d gone once a month or so, which was about twenty-nine times too few, by Roman standards, but Zaya knew that Maccis was uncomfortable with the fact that he couldn’t afford to take her there often. She had plenty of money, though her mother was, technically, an exile, but she didn’t want to wound Maccis’ pride. Though she rather wished he’d let her treat him to special evenings more often.