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

by Deborah Davitt

  It is not your fault that the world is in turmoil! Prometheus snapped back, and then sighed. As far as I can tell, your friend the Archmage absorbed a substantial piece of Baal-Hamon’s energy. Saraid attested that she took a piece of Dagon, and so did Niðhoggr. Even Loki’s son absorbed some of the unleashed essence of Baal-Hamon, as did Lassair. We are fortunate that all of you were there, because if all of the three gods’ powers had been taken by the men who became the mad gods, I do not think we would even have a fighting chance. And you know this is true, Stormborn. You saw the reports of your technomancers, who were puzzled that such ancient gods had not released worse earthquakes.

  “Are we done?” Sigrun asked again, staring at the floor. “Do you have what you need to deal with Jormangand?”

  Prometheus’s sense flickered. Loki remains the best chance. However, the odds are better if a goddess, who seems to be as much of Loki’s heir as his own son, and is backed by Niðhoggr, made overtures to the world-serpent . . . than if a handmaiden of Tyr made the case for alliance.

  It actually took Sigrun a moment to register what Prometheus meant.

  And then she bolted from the room, as fast as thought, and found a sink to throw up in, violently and wretchedly, tears pouring down her face. Every sobbing inhalation put her in danger of choking on her own vomit, and the bile burned in the back of her throat, into her nose.

  In the drawing room, Prometheus sat down, and picked up his cup of tea. And now you understand why Zeus hated me so, he said, simply.

  Trennus stared at the door through which Sigrun had left. “I’ve . . . never heard anything like that before,” he admitted, after a moment. “Sophia has given me chills with her prophecy before. But that . . . that was brutality.” He turned and stared at the titan for a moment. Anger boiled at the back of his mind, tightly controlled. There was a bond of affection between him and Sigrun that went back nearly forty years, and had been reinforced in the Veil after Loki’s death. He hated seeing her like this. Hated seeing the self-loathing in her, which was so evident in her Veil form, where the rune-marks wept blood on an old woman’s body.

  I was as gentle with her as the truth would permit. She has many reasons for having not allowed herself to know the truth before now, but deception is in basic conflict with her essence. It contorted her, distorted her. And she will not be free of it until her husband dies. He is her link to mortality. Of course, I also calculate a ninety percent chance that she will attempt to destroy herself after his death. Prometheus sounded weary. I have rarely encountered so much self-loathing in one person before, but I think it largely stems from the self-deception. As I said, it conflicts with her basic self. With the deception removed, she can uncontort herself. In time.

  Trennus’ jaw set. These were two of his best friends under discussion here, and while Prometheus’ tone was anything but cavalier, it hurt. “You calculate?”

  It is the best word for what I do when I look at the lines of probability and see how much weight each has. It is refreshing, that the modern world understands this. Zeus was always very upset that I could not give him a definite answer. “Yes, Thetis will probably bear a son more powerful than his sire, yes, that includes you. Didn’t we have this conversation about five hundred years ago about Metis? Yes, I realize that her offspring turned out to be nominally female, but Athena could probably take you in a fair fight. She’s smarter than you are, after all,” did not go over well. Neither did suggesting that perhaps he should not spread his . . . ahem . . . seed around with such vigor, given the lines of probable consequence.

  Hecate cackled silently, a crone’s laugh. Trennus still glared at Prometheus, however. The titan sighed. I did not say any of it lightly, Worldwalker. She needs to use all of her powers, for a higher probability of a successful outcome to this war. The odds are still not in our favor, even if she does, however.

  Zhi shook his head. I always knew that that storm that brewed when she and I fought the other efreeti in Media was not natural. I will have to have words with her about that.

  “It . . . even explains the cookie jar, doesn’t it?” Zaya murmured. “Something from nothing. Breaking a fundamental rule of physics Bounty. Fertility . . . though constrained.” She looked up. “I just don’t understand why she’s so upset.” A smile crept onto the girl’s face, and then vanished again as she realized she was the focus of attention at the moment. “I mean . . . I wouldn’t be mad if I woke up tomorrow and had powers.” She hunched her shoulders. “I’d fit in with the rest of my family better then. And with Maccis. And . . . everything.”

  Trennus remembered, belatedly, that there had been an addendum to Erida’s invitation, something about Maccis and Zaya, and mentally groaned. He didn’t have time for everything. Saraid, my love, if you wouldn’t mind coming here? I think Sig’s going to need some comforting, and apparently, Maccis is in trouble . . . . “People always think waking up with power one morning would be a wonderful experience,” Trennus told her, as kindly as he could. He liked the girl, and was hoping for her as a daughter-in-law. “Sigrun’s older than I am, and she knows exactly what having power means. There’s a reason none of us want more than what we have. Well, other than Zhi, here.” Because more power means we would have more work to do. He looked at Zhi. “And I would beg you not to speak to Sigrun about old issues, at this point,” Trennus said, quietly. “I know her better than any of you do.” He stood, and headed for the door. Sigrun had never broken down like this in public before, and it was bothering him, terribly. “If you thought that she was bad about admitting that she might have other powers? Just try hitting her when she’s down.”

  Saraid appeared beside him in the hall, and he took her hand, lightly. Thank you, beloved.

  My sister grieves. Saraid’s voice was tight. The heavens grieve with her. There was, indeed, rain drumming on the roof. She feels as if her life is at an end. I have tried for so long to show her . . . She put her head against Trennus’ shoulder. I have tried to show her that being what we are, is not . . . a bad thing. To be at peace. She is my sister, and I love her. She loves me. She accepts Lassair. She accepts us both without question or hesitation. And yet she cannot accept being . . . what we are. Honest grief in Saraid’s voice, as if Sigrun’s rejection of herself, was also somehow a rejection of the quiet forest-spirit, but also grief for Sigrun, as well.

  Sigrun had slipped down to sit on the cold tile floor, memories washing through her, all interlaced with dull hate. She could hear rain on the roof, and pulled herself in, compacting herself into a diamond inside. Nothing in. Nothing out.

  Her voice, telling Sophia, You could choose not to see. And you could certainly, failing all else, choose to keep your mouth shut.

  Sophia’s tired response: And cut half or two-thirds of myself away, and throw it in the midden, the way you do? I'm trying to help you, Sigrun. I really wish you'd see that. And, another moment, another time, the dreamy voice had whispered, I see twin goddesses. One fire and one ice. One life and one death. One beginnings, and the other endings. They’re beautiful, and they’re terrible, Sigrun. But they’re only two of three. The first is the maiden, who runs through the woods, the second is the mother, who nurtures the fields, and the third is the crone who buries the dead . . . .

  She knew. She knew and wouldn’t just come out and tell me. Always with the hints and the games. So that makes me the crone, the one who is endings and death, terrible and final.

  Freya, another bitter point in Sigrun’s memory: . . . not because I command it, but because it is in your nature to do so . . . you cannot escape your own nature . . . .

  Sigrun rubbed at her face. Night. Death. Ice. Storms. All things associated with evil. But I can’t escape my nature.

  Sophia again, that damnable moment at the wedding, before Loki cursed her: You make the choices that, in this universe, you were always going to make, Sigrun. Because you couldn’t be you, and not make those choices.

  Sigrun, shouting at Sophia after Inti’s death, The
re is only one future I want. I want a mortal life. With Adam. Nothing more.

  Sophia, frightened almost to tears, in reply: Sigrun, please. I knew you would be angry. And you have no idea how sorry I am. But you’re never going to get what you want.

  She stared at the wall, cold tears sliding down her face. Somehow, it didn’t surprise her when they hit the floor and shattered. Little beads of ice.

  She could go to Tyr and beg him to take all of these burdens from her, these unwanted, despised powers. And yet, the gods had not yet taken them from her already. They therefore, logically, expected her to use them. Not to do so now that she could no longer deny them would mark her as a coward, a niðing person. Briefly, she considered using them, just once, to adjust her own mind. To wipe all memory of this day from herself. No. If I succeeded, Prometheus would just foist this accursed knowledge on me again and again until I gave in. And if I didn’t succeed, I would very likely lobotomize myself. That . . does not sound as bad an option as it should. But then, who would be left to take care of Adam and Sophia?

  A tap at the door. Sigrun ignored it.

  It opened anyway, and Trennus slid in, trying to make his big frame look smaller, and Saraid peered in from the hall, her eyes worried. “Go away,” Sigrun said, shortly.

  “Not till I’m sure you’re not going to try to kill yourself out of shame or some damned thing.” Tren crouched down beside her, touching her shoulder, and Sigrun flinched, which made Trennus jerk back in turn. “Oh, gods, you’re actually thinking about it, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve been defiled in practically every way possible, and managed to make myself not see it.” Sigrun’s voice was a whisper. “And you knew, didn’t you?”

  Trennus winced. “We knew that the energy had to be going somewhere. Kanmi did the most with the research—”

  “Of course he did.” Sigrun’s tone was a bitter lash.

  “And there were unexplained things. The rain in Judea—”

  “Microclimate change prompted by a sea-current shift, the meteorologists and diviners said.”

  “Eh. What do they know, anyway?”

  “And you never told me?”

  Trennus hesitantly put his hand on her shoulder again, and again Sigrun recoiled. But then she saw the hurt in her old friend’s face. She’d gotten better at tolerating the touch of others, over the years. Lassair she put up with, Saraid she could accept, and Trennus had held her in the Veil while they regained their strength to return to the mortal world after Loki’s exile. It had formed a bond of which Sigrun had never spoken, never acknowledged, but was nevertheless there. “Gods, Sig, there’s never been a good time or a good way. Kanmi used to joke about the weather thing, before we had a solid pattern, and that would ruffle your feathers but fierce, wouldn’t it? You’d start getting angry before he finished the sentence, but some of that was that Esh punched for reactions anyway. And . . . every other time it’s come up, we’ve been in the middle of a life-or-death situation, or you’d just carried your sister’s bleeding body home, and it just didn’t seem like the time to ask you, ‘So, are you feeling more divine than usual?’” He gestured, exasperated.

  What is of more concern to me, Saraid said, quietly, slipping into the bathroom, and sitting beside Sigrun . . . and Sigrun shifted away from her now, too, not letting either of them touch her, are the words I have heard you use, through Worldwalker’s mind. Filth. Defiled. You . . . feel violated by this? Saraid’s voice was quietly horrified. Stormborn, my sister, the power is . . . what you make of it. I have made much good of mine. The fenris sing my name, and yours—

  Sigrun lurched up again, and began vomiting once more into the sink. Nothing left to come up. Just dry heaves. She was aware of them shifting behind and beside her, uneasily. Saraid’s hands, very gently, taking her by the shoulders, and pulling her back. Stroking her hair, and every time she did, Sigrun’s muscles tightened even further. Everything she was, was a lie.

  “Sig . . . I swear to you, it wasn’t a conspiracy of silence,” Trennus said, after a minute or two.

  “I hear your words,” Sigrun replied, putting her head on the sink. All right, Caetia. Enough wallowing in self-pity, she told herself, and woodenly stood. Washed the sink with tap water, and rinsed her mouth clean. “I should go. Prometheus will doubtless wish to speak with my sister now.”

  “Sig—”

  Sister. Please. Sit. Let us tend to you.

  Sigrun sat, as directed. Held completely still as Trennus and Saraid put arms around her shoulders, both holding her tightly. Stared into space, making a mental list of the things she needed to accomplish. Get Prometheus to Sophia. Intervene with legion command to get Rig re-assigned temporarily. Get Trennus to the ley-line.

  “Sig?” About two minutes of silence had passed, and her body had yet to relax, in spite of warmth and companionship. “What are you going to do?”

  “Fight.” The word was terse. “It’s what I do. And when there’s nothing left to fight for, I’ll keep on fighting because I won’t know how to do anything else.” She turned her head infinitesimally, and her lower lip quivered for a moment. “Please. Trennus. If you’ve ever been my friend . . . don’t tell Adam.” How much better and easier would my life have been, if I’d had the great good sense to fall in love with you, Trennus? Oh, there would have been compromises with Saraid and Lassair, but . . . you could have accepted this in me. You’re accepting it right now, in fact. The thoughts burned there, bitterly, and she shoved them deep down, and buried them. And still, her rational mind went on, coldly and clinically, behind her eyes. Need to see Minori about apprenticing myself to her. Freya be damned. I’ll learn about fikken seiðr from the best human sorcerer alive.

  Trennus shook his head. “Doesn’t he have a right to know?”

  Does he not already suspect? Saraid asked, just as quietly.

  “Suspect? I have no idea. You tell me.” Sigrun’s voice was harsh, and then broke. “He’ll hate me.”

  “Sig, he’s never going to hate you—“

  “For no longer being who and what he married? For forcing him to choose between me and his faith?”

  “Where is that written?” Tren scoffed, but his voice was uneasy.

  “I am the Lord thy god. Thou shalt have no other gods before me.” Sigrun’s voice was flat. “Even loving me, if I am, technically, an entity,” she almost spat the word, “would make him an apostate. His people take that seriously.”

  “Sigrun, he went to the Odinhall for you. Tyr married the two of you.” Trennus stroked strands of her hair out of her face, naked distress in his eyes.

  “That was then. Since we moved to Judea, he hasn’t so much as gone to the solstice bonfires. Oh, he approves of them, for Goths, but he won’t go, and I’ve never asked. I’ve never permitted there to be conflict.” Her voice was wooden. “I won’t make him choose, Tren.” She wanted to cry all over again, but how could she, when the tears would just turn to ice, a sure sign of her . . . less than human state? “He’d hate me for making him choose. Oh, not consciously, but even now, he sees me young, when he’s old, and he’s angry. And even if I knew how, he’d never let me use these accursed powers to renew his body. He thinks that to everything there’s a season, and his time is coming to an end. If I renew him, if I . . . could even bind him to me . . . that would take him away from his god. He’d never allow that. So, what are my choices? I can tell him, and force him to choose between loving me, and loving his god. Or I can choose to go on as we always have, and at least get to be in his life a little while longer.” She shrugged and looked down. It was probably the selfish choice. She should probably have the courage to free him. But she couldn’t.

  Stormborn, you must tell him. Saraid was definite.

  “I will make with you this bargain: If we win this war? If we avert the end of the world that my sister has foretold for over fifty years? I will tell him then.” Sigrun pushed herself up. Straightened her tunic, and rubbed at her eyes. “I believe you two have a conversa
tion with Erida pending that is somewhat important to your family. When you are done discussing matters, I will take Prometheus to see Sophia. Please inform Erida that I would like Zaya to accompany us. Sophia appears calmer when Zaya is present, and at the moment, I will not be gentle company for my sister.”

  She paused, one hand on the doorknob, not facing them. “I thank you both,” Sigrun said, her voice quiet, “for your care of me. I will try not to require any more hand-holding.”

  Stormborn! Saraid was on her feet in a flash, and Sigrun stiffened all over again as the spirit’s arms wrapped around her from behind. Please do not do this. Not to us. Not to yourself.

  Sigrun turned slightly at the anguish in Saraid’s voice, and just wept for a moment, aware as Trennus stood, and once more stroked her hair, lightly. Sigrun wanted, desperately, to accept their comfort. And for a moment, she let herself be weak enough to do so. I don’t want this. I don’t want this. Let this pass from me, she thought, as disconsolate as a child. But of course, it wouldn’t, just by wishing. A hundred crazy plans had come to her. Having Trennus carry her into the Veil and excising the powers there, like a tumor. But in the end, using them was, apparently, required of her. And her gods would have her obedience in this, as in all things.