Sigrun hesitated. Hecate’s head came up. There is another option, Prometheus. The valkyrie’s sister was a Pythia of Delphi. Gifted like none other in this world with prophecy. Even Cassandra herself did not see so much, or so pitilessly.
Was? She no longer has this gift?
“She has it,” Sigrun said, numbly. “But her mind is shattered. I have . . . tried to heal it. But I think it possible that Apollo keeps the fractured shards of her mind from knitting. As more of his twisted punishment of her.”
That . . . does sound Olympian. Prometheus sighed. I could see, millennia ago, that my continued survival depended on backing them, and not my own brethren. My own kin were not, in the main, kindly creatures, either, and saw humanity as things to be used. The Olympians were . . . a trifle better. He paused, and explained, for the mortals’ benefit, They were the offspring of Cronus and Rhea, in truth. Created from their conjoined essences, splintered off into new beings. But they were made here, and were more attuned to the mortal realm, than the titans had been. They were children. Servants. And then, as they grew in power, Cronus began to see them as a threat, and as an opportunity to grow in power, himself. He devoured them down until they were little more than Names, until Zeus, with the aid of other titans, such as myself, bound his siblings and killed Cronus.
You could have stood apart, as I did. Hecate’s tone was cool. Hecate had been neither Olympian nor titan. She had always stood apart, Sigrun had come to understand.
That was not a path that led to anything but Zeus destroying me, as he slew and absorbed the essence of his own father, Cronus, and locked the rest of my kind away in the Veil, forever. And for what crime? I did not, as Cronus did, meddle with the nature of this reality’s causality. I did not create descendants, just to enslave or devour them, as Uranus, Cronus, and Zeus did. I only told him what I saw. Prometheus’ voice was calm, but regretful. You believe, opener of doors, that if I touched the mind of this Pythia, that I could glean my data from her? He shook his head. No. She is god-born of Apollo. The instant she perceived me, he would, as well. And then Olympus would know I live.
Hecate raised one pale finger. As I understand it, Stormborn has the ability to alter memories. This, in the course of bringing the fenris and some jotun to sanity, has become commonplace to her. There was a hint of detachment in Hecate’s voice. Also, a note of . . . expectation. The hood turned towards Sigrun, and suddenly, the valkyrie’s skin crawled. You could cause your sister to forget Prometheus. Or at least, prevent the recognition from ever taking place.
“No,” Sigrun whispered. She didn’t even know why she said it, at first. It was purely reflexive.
And why not? Hecate pushed. This would give Prometheus much information. It would make use of your sister’s gifts, which she is prevented from giving to others, much to our cost. Perhaps Prometheus might see something beyond her previous prophecies, which all ended in the death of the world. Will you still refuse, in the face of that possibility?
Cold silence filled the room as Sigrun wrestled with it. Zhi’s smoke-like form shrugged, slightly. Trueseer’s abilities would help us, but they are locked away, and guarded by foolish, weak Apollo. Take his prize from him, and deny him his childish, insane delight in denying us hope. Spit in his face, Stormborn. Spite him, for what he has done to your kin.
“I . . . I am her guardian now,” Sigrun replied, with difficulty. “She has no more ability to care for herself than an infant, and is a danger to herself. They cannot even let her have scissors. The last time I was there, she told me she wanted to cut out what was between her legs, and put it in a box for safe-keeping.” Sigrun covered her face with her hands, so no one could see the tears welling in her eyes. “She has been, for lack of any better phrase, mind-raped by Apollo since she was ten years old. Subjected to all his terror at seeing his own impending death. And you want me to enter her mind, not to heal, but to prevent her from comprehending? To let her be used?” Her stomach twisted, and she now started at the intricate patterns of the rug on the floor, wondering distantly if it were a flying model. “As she has been used all her life?”
The room was very still, and Sigrun could feel Tren’s big, warm hand suddenly on her shoulder, and she turned slightly towards her old friend, like a plant towards the sun.
I would not use your sister, Prometheus said, gently. I would share a small part of her awareness. Perhaps my vision might cause hers to crystallize, as well, like a seed added to a chemical mixture. I cannot promise any such thing, but it seems not a terrible thing to try.
Sigrun swallowed. “And what if her vision blinds you?” she asked, quietly. “She has only ever seen one future. She’s managed to say, a few times, that something was different about the . . .” Sigrun paused, regained her self-control, and went on, “about the day of the centaur attack. She says the one who refused to participate was never there, in all her visions.” She looked up, meeting Prometheus’ eyes. “You, at least see, probabilities. All she has ever seen are certainties, or, at least, that’s how she’s perceived them. Her vision may skew yours.”
It is possible. But I have something she never did.
“And that is?”
Perspective.
Sigrun nodded, slowly. “Take what you will from my mind, first,” she said, her voice a bare thread of sound. “Whatever you require. If that is not enough, then I will . . . permit the endeavor. And I will beg her, when we are done, to forgive me.” Though she may never remember it.
Prometheus’ touch was surprisingly gentle on Sigrun’s mind, and all he did, physically, was press a hand to her forehead, lightly. He was as subtle as Freya about it, but Sigrun had to loosen her mind, which she perennially held clenched like a fist. Othersight washed in, overwhelmingly. Daily life had become a balancing act between how much of a distraction the colors were, and how much of a distraction blocking the vision really was. Please. You must relax.
She tried. It was difficult. Prometheus frowned for a few moments. Freya’s ability to heal the serpent is not in question. Her ability to convince him to allow her to heal him is. Probability of success increases substantially with you, valkyrie, Loki’s son, and Niðhoggr present. It is still less than a fifty percent chance, if I had to put numbers to it. But that is only with the data you permit yourself to understand. Still loudly enough for all those present to hear, Prometheus said, quietly, There are lies in you, daughter of Tyr. They twist you. They distort you.
Sigrun’s eyes snapped open. “You accuse me of falsehood? Deception?” Her anger, which would have been cold rage if directed at a fellow human, was muted. She respected the titan.
None intentionally spoken, Stormborn. You allow old fears to impede you. And, though I know you will hate to hear these words . . . only the death of what you love most, will free you.
“Riddles and puzzles. I tire of them. Speak plainly.” She’d heard too much of this nonsense, her entire life.
Very well. Little truths, first. The apples were a gift. Freely given. They offer what the person picking them, and eating of them, most needs or desires. Their greatest effect is on mortals, and is usually a gift of love or passion or health. On the spirit-born and god-born, less effect, mainly health and vitality and energy. And on gods, well, they are something else entirely. Knowledge, in the main. Veil energy, a conduit that needs no binding. A precious thing.
“The apple had little effect on me.”
Yes, but what do you desire?
Sigrun considered the question. “Nothing.”
Exactly the problem. Come, there must be something.
“Respite. An end to duty.” Her voice was dull.
Death?
“It comes for us all.”
How . . . ironic. Prometheus gave her a steady look. The knowledge Freya gave you was to prepare you for a possibility she foresaw. She did not give you seiðr. You know this, in your heart. You only choose to forget what you already knew.
Sigrun turned her face aside. No! Do not resist. You
know truth when you hear it. She erred, in hiding the information in your mind. She should have, I think, waited for the possibility to come to pass, and then dealt with it, if needed. Prometheus’ tone was oddly compassionate. Do not continue to punish her, and yourself. There is no need.
Sigrun closed her mind, but the words continued, with gentle relentlessness, in spite of the expressions on the faces of those around them. You have seen for years now, that the mad gods consume the energy of spirits and gods. You have seen Illa’zhi consume other efreeti. You know he consumed a mad godling when it was yet small. He paused. You were there when Tlaloc died. So were Lassair and Saraid. Lassair benefitted from an energy gain at that time, and soon showed the ability to manifest an avatar . . . she who had been little but a ball of energy before. The others have whispered of it around you, and you have chosen not to hear them. Emberstone—the Archmage of your sister’s visions—performed calculations. Some of Tlaloc’s energy did not disperse into the earth, nor was consumed by Lassair, and Saraid absorbed only a trace. Where could it have gone, but into you?
“No,” Sigrun whispered, aware of everyone in the room staring at her. Zaya’s eyes were confused, and flickers of yellow anxiety moved over her body in othersight; her body was usually a vibrant, dark crimson when viewed through Sigrun’s other eyes, and usually seemed wreathed in a faint penumbra of smoke. Erida’s personal appearance, which tended to look like amethyst veined with gold, shifted, taking on a calculating tinge of green, and Zhi’s sense altered, too, as his shoulders set, like a cat stalking prey. And Trennus just looked at her, his lips downturned, and sorrow washing over him in a cool violet deluge.
You would have tried to protect the others if you had been conscious and aware. You might not have chosen to devour, to absorb, for your own enrichment, but to prevent them from being destroyed or warped? Yes, I think so. And so, since then, added to the power of lightning and wind that was your birthright already? Water, gift of life from He Who Makes Things Sprout. Storms and rain, Stormborn. He was a god of grain and plenty. You give of bounty, as well, but in small ways. Unconsciously. He paused. Tlaloc’s death primed you for the other events. Made you a better conductor for energy, if I understand your use of the terms correctly.
Sigrun hunched over, feeling sick. “Please stop.”
You have all asked for me to see truly for you. This is what I see now, Stormborn. The titan’s eyes were calm. Zeus himself tried to deny my vision. Do not make the same mistake.
Trennus’ hand was, once more, on her shoulder as Prometheus went on. Next was Supay. You slew a death god with your own hands. This was the task Reginleif was meant to accomplish. She was to devour the essence of a god like Supay, and to allow Hel to feed from her, like a hunting hound sent out to fetch a slain bird for its master. You know this. You have heard the words spoken about her, but never applied their meaning to yourself. You were there, and absorbed Supay’s energies. She was not, and for that, her husband’s life was forfeit.
Sigrun twisted in her seat, and gave the nearest window a look. She had rarely backed down from a fight in her life. She’d retreated when the odds were bad, and finding better ground would save lives. But now, fleeing was all she wanted to do. “It’s not true,” Sigrun whispered, her stomach clenching into a cold knot. “Just because she was meant to take it, doesn’t mean I did.”
Ah, but you did. You have evidence of it. When you next went to the Odinhall to speak with Freya about the curse of bareness on you, Niðhoggr was there to test you, at Hel’s order. Instead of tormenting you like a cat with a mouse, he chased you, played with you, and found . . . affinity. He smelled death on you, Stormborn. He smelled a likeness to his mother, Hel, and a power similar to his own, but with a kinder heart and warmer soul. Hel suspected you were suborning her offspring from her, when in fact, he was already disaffected by her treatment of him. She made of him her sword. Malice-Striker, indeed. You made of him a friend, an ally, an equal. Who would not choose friendship, over servitude?
Sophia’s old words suddenly coiled through Sigrun’s mind, a recollection of a phone call from twenty-two years ago: Death might not be your ally, but her shadow will be. Sigrun curled in on herself, hating the titan’s words. “I had been there before to beg Freya to take the accursed othersight from me,” she said, almost spitting out the words. “That was the only legacy I was aware of from Supay’s death. If, as you say, gods and spirits can leech power from each other, why could she not bleed this filth from me?”
“Sig!” Trennus’ voice was appalled, and he was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. Her throat was tight, and she was doing her best not to let any tears fall. The fact that there was a rumble of thunder in the distance only distressed her more.
I cannot speak to her motives, Stormborn. There is a high-percentile probability that she could have killed you in so doing. Prometheus’ voice was gentle.
“Better to die than to be whatever mongrel thing I am now.” Sigrun tasted bitterness on her own tongue. She couldn’t deny the truth in Prometheus’ words, the way they meshed, tumbler by tumbler, with the lock of her own recollections.
“Gods, Sig, don’t say that—” Trennus’ tone remained horrified, and his hands closed on her shoulders again, tightly. As if he were trying to hold her in this world. Anchoring her.
Or perhaps your gods trusted you to use those powers with respect and care. They appear to have tested you thoroughly. Freya apparently foresaw a possibility that other powers might come to you in time, and implanted extensive training in you. Against your will, I know. It was not well done of her, as I said before, but from what I can see of the memories still locked under glass in your mind . . . she did not think she would later have the time to be so thorough. And it might not even come to pass, that you would need the knowledge. And of course, you resisted it.
Sigrun wrapped her arms around herself, as if cold, and stared at the floor, not meeting anyone’s eyes in the room. Humiliation, public, bitter, and excoriating. Horrifying realization after horrifying realization. After having clung for so long to what little humanity she had, to realize it had been chipped and eroded away for decades was sickening. Oh, gods, what about Adam . . . .? She pushed the thought away. “Are we done here?” she asked, her voice tight.
Not quite. You feel Niðhoggr’s breath like a lover’s caress, while Loki’s own son dances back from a shower of frost from the dragon’s mouth. And that, does, actually, bring us to Loki himself. He was attempting to build an army for this war. Humans twisted and perverted his means and methods, and weakened, he chose to leave this realm for the Veil. I see a high-order probability that he will be needed to tame Jormangand. But that is beside my present point. Hel died, at Niðhoggr’s claws and at the hands of Steelsoul. Fascinating weapon Inti gave him. I really would like to see it . . . not aimed at me, of course. Prometheus chuckled. The other event at the time that is pertinent, is that Loki willingly divested himself of two major portions of his power—powers developed over two thousand years of use. Millennia of worship. One, he gave to Saraid. Everyone there knew it. You felt something cold pass into and through you, but you were, as when you faced Tlaloc, grievously wounded at the time. That is when seiðr fully came to you, Stormborn. Not imposed on you by Freya’s dictate. Given to you for safekeeping by a god whose passage still remade the world. Because he could trust in you that you would never misuse it. There were little inklings of it before—reshaping and healing the fenris’ and jotuns’ minds. But the bulk of the power since then . . . was Loki’s. It is now yours. And yet, you will not use it. Prometheus’ tone was baffled. You even took some of Hel’s own power that day. Added it to the power of death you already had from Supay. It reinforced what you already carried.
It took every tiny scrap of pride Sigrun had left not to curl into a ball. “Even if it’s true,” she said, her voice a rasp as she fought to control her stomach, “none of it would be mine to use.” Thunder rumbled in the distance, and she desperately
pulled as far into herself as she could. Leave no ripples. Do what is necessary, but pass through life like water through water. No traces. Just do your job and then disappear. “Borrowed feathers, like a peacock’s tail on a crow. And as I told Freya before, you don’t turn a sword into a gun without destroying the intrinsic value of the sword. It becomes useless. Wasted. A hunk of metal with no more worth than its weight in steel, fit only to be fed to the fire so a more competent smith can try again.”
She huddled in on herself, sick and cold, seeing the others’ shock in the room, and hated herself for being able to sense it. Prometheus spread his hands. There is yet one thing more.
“You’re going to tell me that because I killed Baal-Samem, that’s why I am tired all the damned time. Because now I am meant to be nocturnal.” Sigrun sing-songed the last word, her tone a lash. “Other gods died that day. Dagon. Baal-Hamon.” She caught the look of awe on Zaya’s face out of the corner of her eyes, and cursed internally. The girl had heard the stories before, but like her mother, lived for the few scattered remnants of lore on the ancient godslayers. And yet, they seem to have done less damage than we have. It’s our fault the world is dying.
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