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

by Deborah Davitt

  Maccis shifted back to wolf, comfortable and familiar. Wolves are still predators, he told her, and licked her face with a long tongue. But they’re more like humans, than the great cats are. They’ll still attack to defend themselves, or out of pure, desperate hunger. But there’s a little more . . . recognition in a wolf. He shifted back to human form, and slid his arms a little more tightly around her. “Besides. Cats have spines on their cocks.”

  “. . . you’re joking.”

  “No. On my honor. I figure there’s a reason why sometimes the female turns and swats the male, in and around the every-five-minutes for the five or six days that they need to mate while she’s in heat . . . .” Maccis yawned again.

  “Why do you know this?” Zaya half-yelped.

  “We have Carthaginian leonnes from North Africa in the refugee camps. Guess what sub-species of not-quite-centaurs also goes into heat like lions and fenris do?”

  “Oh, gods.”

  “Oh, yes. At least birth control works on them, just like it does on fenris. No one’s figured out the biochemistry of the harpies or the dryads yet.” He rubbed her shoulder, then paused. Sat up, and looked at the clock on her desk, and swore. She’d never heard some of those words before. Apparently, the landsknechten were enriching his vocabulary. “Ah . . . Zee?”

  “Hmm?”

  “It’s past three antemeridian.”

  “. . . oh my gods.” Zaya sat bolt upright, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her. “My mother said she’d be gone, but the servants . . . gods. They’ve probably called the gardia by now . . . .”

  There were very few buses at this hour, all of them with scarcely a handful of passengers, most of them drunk or smelling strongly of unwashed skin. Zaya crowded a little closer to Maccis, who suddenly seemed to bulk a good deal more than he normally did, whenever anyone brushed too close to her, and breathed a sigh of relief as they approached her neighborhood. She touched the leaf charm at her throat, turning herself invisible. “I’m going to sneak in through the servant’s entrance,” she told him, and gave him an invisible kiss. “You think maybe I can just wander downstairs in the morning and people will just think that they panicked for nothing?”

  “Zee . . . the servants know you left with me. Let’s not lie. It’ll just make things worse. Go in through the front door, and I’ll go with you. Chin up. It’s not like we haven’t been courting for most of a year, right?” He reached out, and fumbled for an invisible hand. “Besides. Don’t you think their first call was probably to my house, and my mother or father probably told them that we were still out, and still safe?” Maccis winced. “And your mother gave you that charm.”

  Zaya froze again, her tongue suddenly feeling like lead as all the implications clicked home. My mother wouldn’t have given it to me if she didn’t think . . . “Your mother . . . she would . . . ?”

  “She can hear me when she’s in Europa. She always knows where I am.” Maccis shrugged. “She wouldn’t peek, and she didn’t offer tips. Thank the gods. Solinus says Aunt Lassair once in a while used to give him, um . . . practical critiques.”

  “Oh. . . gods.” Zaya let the invisibility dissipate, and they did, indeed, walk in through the front door, where an underfootman, still awake in spite of the late hour, was filling the oil lamps. They got a scandalized look, and a mutter about having to wake the butler, and then Zaya scampered for her room before anyone else in the house could be roused just to be horrified at her behavior.

  She did have to examine her motivations, a little, in the privacy of her room and realized that part of why she’d wanted to give herself, completely, to Maccis, was very simple. The world was falling apart around them. In less than a year, he’d be off and fighting in the same war that was consuming the lives of almost everyone else they knew. It didn’t seem such a bad thing, to reach for happiness now, when it could all be taken away, in a heartbeat. And while she had been raised to consider Marduk to be her god, at least nominally . . . Marduk was dead. There was a sense, Zaya felt, that this was a new age, with new rules, and few debts to the strictures of the past. Why not seize happiness when it lay before her? I . . . doubt Mother will consider this to be sound reasoning, she thought, ruefully, and tucked herself into bed, not expecting to sleep at all. And I really do not know what Father will do or say . . . .

  In defiance of every expectation, Zaya was quickly fast asleep. And her room was perfumed by apples well into the next morning.

  Martius 18, 1992 AC

  Travelling, even so far north as the pole, didn’t take long. The goddess who’d had her wings shorn, the efreet, and the water-spirit didn’t need to travel overland, and in fact, they didn’t quite dare to do so. There were still twelve mad godlings in the world; three had been destroyed since 1985, and the other dozen had, so far, devoured over half the Nipponese pantheon, all of the Polynesian gods, most of the smaller gods of southeast Asia, and the small gods of Caesaria Aquilonis. Illa’zhi knew that Coyote and the Evening Star were practically all that remained from the northern gods of the western hemisphere. He’d managed to devour one of the creatures, but in the silence of his own mind, he had to admit that had been mostly luck; he’d caught it when it was still relatively small, and after it had weakened itself by expending large amounts of energy. He had no real wish to face another, not when his allies were relatively weak, themselves. He didn’t discount Hecate. The goddess of portals and witchcraft had killed another of the mad godlings, on her own, but at a terrible cost. Two-thirds of her essence, burned away, leaving her probably less powerful than he was, himself. She was associating with Prometheus at the moment, who had somehow absorbed some of her essence to return to life, but Prometheus was under Illa’zhi’s protection at the moment. And Mladena . . . the russalka was a minor spirit. The efreet did not like their chances, were they to encounter a mad godling out in the open.

  So they had traveled through the Veil, and had emerged in the chill air, Illa’zhi and Hecate hovering over the vast expanse of ice that capped the northern realm, while Mladena herself landed directly on the ice plate. Illa’zhi’s senses prickled. The ice itself was all pure water, of course, with only traces of salt impurities. That was bad enough, and inimical to his nature. But somewhere, twenty to thirty feet below him . . . he could feel salt water. A vast expanse of what felt like cold blood to his senses, buffering everything in it. He could barely pick out the life-energies of seals and whales passing by, and the winds here were frigid and forceful. He toyed, briefly, with the notion of redirecting them from him, as if he could show nature what he thought of her most hellish domain, and discarded the notion. He could do it, but it would stand out like a beacon fire on a dark night. He wouldn’t back down from a fight, but he wasn’t here to court one. At least, not yet.

  Which way? Hecate asked, drawing her cloak and hood more tightly around her frame, as if her flesh were mortal, and could actually feel the cold.

  I sense warmth in the water from that direction, Mladena said, pointing towards a tall ridge of ice that angled up, pressed by fathomless tidal forces, cycles of heating and cooling, over millennia. It moves towards us.

  I hope you are correct, sorrow-on-the-waters, Hecate said, quietly.

  This is not my stream. The sea is far larger, and wilder. But heat in water is easy to detect, as when they built a factory along my stream, and dumped hot fluids into it. I destroyed their machinery for that affront. The russalka bared teeth that looked like needle-fine icicles.

  They passed onwards, drifting on the wind. Zhi opted to take his most innate form, the dervish of smoke and fire, but in a much smaller, more compact spiral than he normally chose, as they traveled in manifested forms. All of them were wary and on edge, but after a time, Zhi was able to confirm that he sensed heat in the rocks, far below. However, they could all sense the ice thinning below them, now only six feet of distance between them and the buffering, dulling sea, and there were even a few cracks here and there in the surface. Zhi was careful to fly well
over those; it might not affect the russalka as much, because of her nature, but he did not wish to risk being blinded and deafened, even temporarily, by the ocean’s touch. He found it hard to believe that there were spirits who had dwelled in that brine for centuries, and become inured to it, but it was true.

  Here, Zhi said, directing a tendril of energy downwards. This is where it is strongest.

  Mladena. Open the way.

  The russalka inclined her head, and the ice began to melt under her human-seeming feet, and what began as a puddle on the ice, soon became a tunnel . . . which Illa’zhi examined with all of his senses, minutely, before compressing himself into his smoke-human form to allow him to descend, cautiously, in the water-spirit’s wake. I sense . . . hunger, he said, as his senses vibrated again. Something comes this way. From the south and east.

  Anything from below?

  Anger. Rage. Pain.

  They’d reached the black waters below, and Zhi came to a complete halt, hovering in mid-air. The russalka held out one hand to him, snapping her fingers impatiently, and extended the other to Hecate. A slender, pale hand emerged from under the goddess’ robe, and took the russalka’s pale green one, lightly. Zhi bared his teeth in agitation, and took the offered hand, internally cringing at the faint dampness on her skin. No tricks, he warned.

  Are you afraid, mighty efreet? The russalka’s words were a taunt.

  Illa’zhi permitted the words to slide off of him. Duly cautious.

  A protective sphere rose around them all, as the russalka concentrated, and Hecate’s power bolstered hers, and they began to descent into the lightless depths beneath the ice. Not that any of them required light to see; Veil-attuned senses reached out, and perceived in ways that no human could fully comprehend. Energy, yes. Molten rock. Zhi could feel the power roiling below them now. The kind of eruption that had buried Pompeii, two millennia ago, had involved this level of energy, but had resulted in pyroclastic flows and mudslides in the open air. Here, the massive pressure of the water contained, pressed down on the eruption like a hand, so the energy of the earth spread out, sullenly, along the seabed. Lower and lower, the dulling, dampening seawater entombing them. Nothing but blackness, and little glimmers from phosphorescent fish and jellyfish. And then . . . below them . . . a sullen red glow at last.

  Heat rising through the water left shimmers in bands, just as heat rising from a desert or a poured-stone road in summer creates mirages that seem to hover above the earth. A powerful, upwelling current rose past them, buoying them. The water below was boiling in contact with the rock, and trying to rise, as heat always does . . . but the massive pressure of the water and ice above, again, conspired to keep it trapped. The water-spirit stopped their descent, shuddering violently. Too much heat. I can take you no further.

  This is close enough, Hecate agreed. Efreet, let us see if this is a door that you and I might close.

  I am not skilled with earth, but there is enough fire here for me to shape. Zhi injected more confidence into that thought than he felt, staring down at the turgidly-moving loops and coils of sullen, fiery mud. Black with red streaks, where lava peeked through the outer covering, only to have its crust cool once more, and crack anew, somewhere else.

  He reached out, with Hecate, and found the source of the eruption. A deep vent in the earth, where . . . yes. A ley-line was ruptured here, he thought. He’d rarely felt horror before, but felt it now. No spirit, no god, ever meddled with the ley-lines of this universe. To do so might be to alter the fundamental architecture of it. Humans diverted power from them, used the resonance of them, but they had never been able to move or cut the lines, which were, after all, cosmic strings. The death of gods had overloaded them, and the mad godlings had damaged lines before, but this . . . this was a severed line, which had bled out its power into the earth, and ignited the eruption. I do not know how to repair the ley-line. But I can attempt to devour the fire, contain it within me, and seal over the area with cold rock.

  Good. Do so. I will study the ley-line. I do not know if there is anyone, in any realm, who might mend it, however. Hecate’s tone was sober. Such a thing could tear the fabric of this reality.

  Illa’zhi reached out, and began to draw all of the local fire into himself, feeling gloriously alive as he did so. The russalka winced and tried to pull away from him, but he gripped her hand more tightly; if she dispersed her spell, the rush of cold saltwater might stun him before he could demanifest and flee to the Veil. He might be trapped down here, sightless, mindless, thoughtless, forever, if that happened. He threw back his head, a human reflex, as more and more energy came into him, and growled in pleasure at the sensation of heat . . . .

  . . . and then the sense of anger and pain reverberated through him again, and the now-solid lava beneath their feet buckled and shattered, heaving upwards in plates that were dull red on their undersides. A massive head, as big as a five-story building, surged up, and eyes the size of doors, and ember-red, glared down at them. Every scale on the creature’s body was obsidian black, but limned with an ember-glow. Jormangand, Illa’zhi said, softly, and in a tone of actual reverence. Forgive me, great one. I do not seek to harm you, or to intrude upon your territory.

  The water around them was now bubbling furiously. The heat did not harm Illa’zhi, but Mladena writhed and screamed, silently, in agony. Hecate seemed frozen for the moment . . . and then the massive jaws gaped wide, and Illa’zhi could see down into a gullet that was lined with fires so intense, he almost yearned to leap forward and join with them. To blend himself, his essence, with that devouring power. No! he thought, fighting off the longing. Struggling to recall who he was. What he was. Shadeslore’s constant light touch, the soul-bond between him. Fireflower’s slow bloom, her smile as she had run to him when she was younger, Father, you’re home! The other children, each an anchor-point in this reality. A reason to stay here. I am myself, I am who I am, and I am no other! Hecate, take Mladena and flee! I will cover your escape. He wasn’t sure how. There was heat here, but the salt water . . . .

  Don’t be a fool, Hecate told him, waspishly, and she opened a door in reality, and pulled them through it to the surface, where they hovered for a moment, taking a last survey of the environment. To the Veil, she told them, but before they could all muster the energy to transition, the ice buckled and shattered below them, and the world-serpent rose up out of the white shards, shedding water, steam roiling up and out from him in a white pillar. Jormangand’s length towered above them. One mile. Two.

  Zhi hissed and assumed his natural form, a cyclone of fire and smoke two miles tall, but knew himself helplessly outmatched. Go! he told the others. Now!

  He prepared to lash out at the wyrm, detecting weakened places in the stone-like armored scales. Places where they had been scored away, leaving nothing but soft lava-like flesh open and exposed. Something made him hesitate, however. Probably the decades with which he’d been associating with Erida. You have been attacked, great one, he told the creature, readying himself to drain whatever he could of the beast’s lava-like core. The only way he’d survive confronting the creature would be to draw as much of its essence into himself as he could. It was not by us. I will fight if I must, die if I must, but this is not a battle that I would choose!

  Jormangand's roar shook the ice around them, sending cracks in every direction, and Zhi could sense Hecate and Mladena opening the way to the Veil. He could sense hunger in the air around him, and took his attention from the world-serpent for one precious second . . . just long enough to see a mad godling descending from the sky. The creature absorbed all light; the darkling sphere that made up its core was a seething mass of raw consumption. The reaching, grasping tendrils covered a third of the sky . . . and then Zhi saw Jormangand's massive body lunge forwards, shattering the ice like the prow of a ship, and knew he’d ignored the god-beast, to his destruction.

  He expected annihilation. Instead, the world-serpent reared up still further, and attacked the sphere of de
struction in the sky. Clamped fiery jaws down on it . . . and the black sparks of energy still sprouted, everywhere. Ran along the serpent’s length, tearing the stone scales free, revealing the soft lava-flesh below. Feeding. Suckling, even as the god-beast tore it down from the sky, and slammed his head against the ice, shattering it again as he plunged down into the depths with the godling’s core, manifested or not, still clenched in his teeth.

  Black tendrils, reaching up from below, grasping for him, and Zhi pulled away at them, snapping them off and consuming their essence . . . and then the world-serpent rose up once more, the mad godling trying to flee. Ruptured. Leaking power, but still tearing essence from Jormangand, leeching it from him, like a black hole siphoning gas from a star. Zhi could see fracture lines in the godling, however, and without warning or fanfare, the creature shattered.

  A hundred smaller black sparks exploded out from that central point, radiating in every direction. Jormangand snapped at one or two, consuming them, but they fled like a swarm of gnats, heading for the horizon . . . and Zhi felt himself pulled, irresistibly, into the Veil, just as the enormous eyes of the world-serpent fell on him once more. A wave of respect flowed out of him, in that last second, seeing the bleeding wounds that coursed fire down the god-beast’s sides . . . and then he was in the Veil, regarding Hecate as she was in this place. A creature made of shadow, overlain by moonlight, shimmers of her other, torn-away visages shifting over the black void where her face should have been. You really must learn how to run, efreet.