The Goddess Denied

by Deborah Davitt

Flamesower loosed the arrow, but it passed right through her form. No more substance than a shadow. It should have worked. His power in this place was almost as potent as when he stood atop a resonating ley-line in the mortal realm. I know what you are, mortal, the creature taunted. Do all those you’ve made into allies know what you really are . . . unNamer? She smiled, showing her fangs. Perhaps I should tell them what you are.

  If you ever did/do so, they would already know, Flamesower replied, amusement rippling through him. Blackmail is such a mortal thing to attempt, creature. Leave. Still, there was a worm of fear in his mind, in spite of his bold words. All the alliances he had built here were based on trust. Reciprocity. Those whose Names he knew, would not take kindly to the thought that he could snuff them with that knowledge.

  Make me, mortal, the creature crooned, and stepped closer, putting a hand to his chest. Oh, please, yes, make me.

  Flamesower gritted his teeth and reached out for power. Reached for Lassair’s power in him, but to his surprise, it was Saraid who appeared, in stag form, the white of her hide gleaming in the dark forest, and scooped the kumiho up in her antlers, and charged off with the spirit screaming in agony from where the horns had impaled her. Flamesower ran after them, and watched, in awe, as his oldest spirit-friend flexed her neck and hurled the kumiho out of the forest. Back into the wild Veil, where the creature faded out of existence, or at least, out of sight. He saw blood trickling down the deer’s neck, and ran to her. You’re hurt, wild-heart. That was the only disadvantage of this realm he’d built. There was causality here. There was time. That was one of the reasons he’d attracted so many spirits. They could experience causality, consequences, and time here, without all the risks of the dangerous and deadly mortal realm. A children’s pool might be an apt metaphor. For people on both sides of the curtain of reality.

  That being said, here, if someone clawed you, you bled. The incredible power of the Veil still suffused the area, but healing wasn’t instant. It took time. No one could die . . . but they could be consumed almost utterly. That was why this realm needed constant tending. That, and the fact that some spirits were . . . mildly affronted by its presence. It had always/already been here, but his presence made it far, far more real, and reminded them of it. They wanted it always/already gone, or at least, always/already forgotten.

  Her claws were sharp, but the wounds are not deep. Saraid shifted form, and Flamesower was astonished. He’d never seen her wear this shape before. Like a centaur, but not. The body of a doe, joined at a supple waist to the upper body of a human female. Her eyes were leaf-green and dappled between light and dark, and her hair the same white as her doeskin. You are weary. The arrow should have ended her presence here.

  He bowed his head. I know. Here, everything is a matter of will, and . . . my will faltered.

  Was it because she was fair? No judgment. Just concern.

  No. Flamesower laughed, and looked up at Saraid. Light fell down in shafts around her face, and touched her white hair. I have Lassair. How can any man want more?

  Lassair is a wondrous creature. Infinite in forms. Beautiful in spirit. Generous in her power. Saraid acknowledged it all, simply. But very demanding, in her way. You are her conduit, dear one. You know this.

  Flamesower looked away. In becoming Lassair’s bound servant, his soul wholly in her keeping, he was bound to the Veil. Like the amulets he still wore to bind him to Lassair and Saraid, though Lassair’s was worn out of sentiment now. He was her amulet. He was her bridge between the mortal realm and the Veil, and allowed her to regenerate her powers without venturing there, herself. The children connect her, too, he said, after a moment. But they bind her to the mortal realm. I connect her . . . here. Better me, than them.

  But you never rest, dear one, she told him, gently, and put her hands on his shoulders. You do not share the burden with anyone.

  He wanted to object. He wanted to say that Lassair wasn’t a burden. That she shared the weight with him. And certainly, she shared the work of the children with him. The family, the mortal life, it was . . . fine. He wouldn’t wish any of the children away. But Lassair was almost entirely focused on the mortal realm at the moment. And that was . . . fine, too. The realm he was building here was in part constructed for her. It was his job.

  These are my woods, Saraid told him. You have made them in the image of my forest, and though you did not intend to do so, you have empowered me, through it. I received energies from the gods in Tawantinsuyu, as well. Her tone was as gentle as a brook lapping at stones. Let me protect my woods, beloved. Let me guard you, while you sleep.

  His eyes, which he should not have felt, burned, he realized. It’s my responsibility, he muttered, and realized that the forest was moving around them. Undulating. Reforming itself, not in response to his will, but in response to Saraid’s.

  And are we not one, dearest? Have you not been bound to me longer than you have to Lassair? Deep in the forest’s heart, now, and her form shimmered again. The body of the hind dissolved, resolving into human legs, though with dainty hooves where the feet should have been, and a touch more arch to her legs and stance. Bind me, and be bound, beloved.

  He reached out, dizzily, along the soul-bond with Lassair. Felt her amusement, her approbation. It is a very good idea, Flamesower, she told him. And I know that you love her, and she loves you. I am very much in favor of love, no matter where it is found. Bind each other, and I will be as bound to you as you are to each other. None are diminished. Not here.

  He leaned down, and caught Saraid’s lips under his. They relaxed. Flowed into one another, like honey and wine and clear mountain streams. And afterwards, he lay in the leaves on the forest floor. Pillowed his head on her soft lap. And slept.

  When his eyes opened, he was in bed, in their apartment in Rome. Trennus couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up actually feeling renewed. Lassair could burn a mortal out, he realized, suddenly, even as he raised to an elbow, looking around for her . . . only to see the door of their room open . . . and Latirian, Inghean, Solinus, Deiana, and Linditus all swarmed in, laughing, and piled on top of him in the bed. Trennus laughed and pretended to be smothered. “What’s the occasion?” he asked, pulling Latirian back a few inches so he could breathe. His nine-year-old daughter was surprisingly heavy. Of course, she’d flopped down gracelessly with her stomach over his face, while the others had all tackled torso and legs through the blankets.

  Ruby eyes stared down into his. “Mama always says to leave you alone in the morning, because you’re still tired.” Her voice was solemn. “She said you weren’t tired this morning, and that we should come get you for breakfast.”

  He hadn’t realized how close to being burned out he’d been till that moment. Trennus wrapped his arms around Inghean and Solinus, who’d perched on his chest, for their safety, and sat up, in spite their hundred combined pounds of weight. Inghean and Solinus both squealed. Deiana and Linditus, who’d tackled his knees, shrieked as the two older children, clasped securely in his arms, nevertheless appeared to loom at them like an impending avalanche of arms and legs. “No, Daddy, no!” Deiana yelped, and skittered off the bed, and Linditus tumbled in her wake.

  Trennus leaned over the foot, hauling children and blankets with him. “You all right?” he asked the toddlers, mildly.

  The giggles reassured him, and they both ran for the door.

  In the kitchen, ten minutes later, Trennus wrapped his arms around Lassair from behind. “You’re cooking?” he said, a little dubiously. “That’s usually my job. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  I have watched you prepare oatmeal for many years now, Lassair informed him, crisply . . . and then peered down into the pot, looking disgruntled. However, mine does not appear to be as uniform in consistency as yours does.

  “Ah . . . yes. I thought I smelled something burning.” Trennus deftly took the pot off the stove and ran water into it, before taking down another from the shelf. “Let’s start from scratc
h.” He looked down at Lassair, amazed, as always, by her presence in his life. Thank you, Lassair.

  For what? Letting you and Saraid find joy and peace and rest together? For allowing her to share the burden of . . . what you are building for me? For us? Lassair looked puzzled. That hardly requires gratitude from you to me. I should be thanking her for helping. A pause. Do you think she’ll want to incarnate and live with us as a mortal might?

  Trennus’ hands slipped as he stirred honey into the pot. “. . . I’ll ask her. But I can’t see her being so . . . domesticated. She’s a creature of the wilds. I wouldn’t ask her to change her nature.” Saraid?

  I . . . do not know what I would do inside of four walls, Saraid admitted, in the depths of his mind. If the two of you wished it, however, I might . . . visit. She sounded oddly nervous. Your offspring have at least seen me many times before. Also . . . I have never incarnated as a human before. Even as an animal . . . it has been rare for me to take a physical form. It requires much energy.

  You’ll be lovely, Lassair assured her, directly and cheerfully.

  “If the neighbors here, in Britannia, and in Judea didn’t think we were insane enough already,” Trennus muttered under his breath, and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, “they’re going to really start talking if they think I have a harem.” It wasn’t even remotely the right term, and he knew it. But how could he possibly explain that he was bound to two spirits, and he loved them both, and they all served each other to try to keep part of the Veil safe? And to keep the mortal world safe, too?

  It was a little much to consider before breakfast. Trennus chopped dried apricots, tossed them in the oatmeal, and called the children to the table to eat.

  They got the children off to the special academy that they went to, the one reserved here, in Rome, for the god-born and for the children of patricians who showed signs of sorcerous aptitude. Bodi, Kanmi’s son, had gone there, and it got high marks from Eshmunazar. Sigrun, when they were in Rome or Judea, usually dropped by two to three times a week to work with all of the children on self-control, and to reinforce the responsibilities of the god-born. Spirit-touched. Whatever. The children doted on her, surprisingly enough. Latirian had started calling her Aunt Sigrun, unprompted, before her third birthday, and had dubbed Adam uncle around the same time. Many an afternoon, just before Trennus went off to his own shift at Livorus’ villa, he had walked through a living room in which one of his children was parked, happily, in Sigrun’s lap, as she read to them. Or, like the one time in the atrium in Judea, she’d had them lined up, and working with them and Lassair, had them each producing flame from their hands, in a gout directed at the brick wall for safety.

  And then she’d told them to aim at her. “Aren’t you scared of the fire?” Latirian had asked.

  “Of course I am. It hurts me. It doesn’t hurt you. But I heal. Now, your next task will be to not hurt me. Keep the fires from being hot. But you’re also going to work on accuracy. You’re responsible for your weapons. If you miss and hit the wrong person, you could kill them. That’s why if you don’t hit me, you don’t get a prize. You do hit me . . . and it had better not hurt me.” Sigrun waggled a finger at them. “On your marks. Get set. Go!” And she’d whirled up into the air, graceful as a dancer, and made a game out of the training. No one was punished if they missed, but everyone got rewarded when they hit. And Trennus had watched their accuracy and control improve even in that short setting. None of them had wanted to hurt their aunt.

  Soon, all of them were off to the academy—Lassair split herself off, and one of her selves drove the children to the school, all but the youngest, Tasalus, who was still under a year in age. In the ensuing quiet in the house, Trennus gave the bed a look, and seriously debated more actual sleep, though Lassair pushed his arm and laughed at him, teasing, Is it just the novelty of Saraid being in human form?

  No, no, it’s the novelty of a couple of hours of actual deep, restful sleep. Gods, that felt good.

  Sleep then. A wicked little grin from her.

  I almost think you two worked this out between you beforehand. Trennus hadn’t flushed in years, but at her widening smile, he could feel his cheeks start to tighten and burn a little.

  Of course we did. It’s more polite that way.

  He’d actually just drifted off, long enough to register a surprised but pleased expression in Saraid’s leaf-dappled eyes, cool hands touching his face . . . and then the phone rang, snapping him back awake. Trennus fumbled for the phone with numb hands. He wasn’t scheduled to go on duty at Livorus’ house until after dinner, so this was a surprise. “Dia dhuit?” he managed.

  “Tren?” Adam’s voice was low, and a little strained. “I need you and Asha and . . . anyone else you have there . . . at our place.”

  Trennus woke the rest of the way up. That tone of voice meant something was wrong. He was now on the clock. “We’ll be right there,” he said, instantly.

  Twenty minutes later, Lassair had Tasalus over her shoulder in the ben Maor living room, and Kanmi and Minori were just coming in through the front door. Kanmi hadn’t shaved yet, and Minori still looked rumpled and tired. “I have a class to teach in two hours,” Minori warned. “What’s so urgent?”

  Adam had met them all at the door, and Trennus could see, just from the way he held himself, that his friend was getting ready for war, in some regards. Every muscle was taut, the brown eyes were . . . worried . . . and Trennus could see that, even in their apartment, Adam had slipped a gun to the small of his back. “Where’s Sigrun?” Trennus asked, looking around, even as Lassair asked, urgently, Stormborn? What troubles you?

  Sigrun stepped out from the hallway that led back to the bedroom and the office. Her hair was braided back so tightly it looked as if it hurt. It was a Tiwesdæg, and thus, it wasn’t a surprise to see her in her swan-cloak. However, a .45 was holstered at her waist, and she leaned on her spear. And her eyes . . . glacially cold and empty. Trennus blinked. “Sigrun,” he said. “Who died?” It was the only explanation he had for her expression. Sigrun was distant, reserved, shy. She didn’t let people in easily, and if someone had wronged her, they were cast out, beyond the pale. But she’d always been, around them all, as human as she could be.

  This wasn’t a human expression. This was night, and cold, and the bitter wind of vengeance.

  “Our future did,” Sigrun answered, her accent in Latin harsher than he’d heard it in fifteen years, and the whole story came out.

  Trennus could feel Lassair stiffen beside him in outrage as Sigrun told the tale. Simple, cold, bare words. The curse, Lassair had already known about, and the fact that it impinged on Sigrun’s fertility had been like a slap in Lassair’s face. Lassair was all about love and life. Fertility. Fecundity. Growing things and passion. It had offended the spirit to her very core not to have been able to restore these things to Sigrun, and it had hurt Lassair, every time Sigrun had come over to train the children, to sense the longing Sigrun had in her heart, for some . . . tangible proof of her love for Adam. The family that they wanted to build together. A reminder, for the valkyrie, once Adam passed away, that love died, but love also endured.

  But it was the personal level of the betrayal made it far worse. One of Sigrun’s own gods had apparently done this. Someone in the Odinhall concealed her request to meet with Freya. Kept on concealing it. Trennus’ mind worked, fast. “Why’d they conceal it? Gods, how is it that they slipped and let the petition get through?”

  Sigrun’s face was blank. “A certain amount of examination of the petition archives shows that Reginleif . . . my old mentor . . . makes regular visits to the scriptorium in which the requests are stored. There is evidence that the petition was altered with magic. It is my belief that she wished to manipulate me into rebellion, by making me believe that the gods were deaf to my request, or still angry with me for the events of Tawantinsuyu. I suspect that my first petition was destroyed, but that she wasn’t able to do the same to the second one. So she h
as meddled with the date on that request, not once, but many times. So that if . . . when . . . I did indeed rebel, the gods would only see . . . impatience. Impudence.” She rubbed at her face. “It’s conjecture. But Reginleif is perhaps the most powerful manipulator of illusion among mortals alive today. She is god-born of Loki. There are other trickster gods, like Coyote. Loki is . . . not Coyote. Not Mercury. He is not Prometheus, bound or unbound. He is Loki.” Sigrun’s face might have been carved from ice. “Every legend we have, says that he will begin Ragnarok. Bring about the end of the world.”

  Kanmi grimaced. “Yes, but the world has ended before,” he noted, quietly. “Sigrun, no offense, but back in the day, every localized crop failure or flood was the end of the damned world.”

  Sigrun raised her eyes, and Trennus saw tears there. “Back in the day,” Sigrun said, very quietly, “Loki was worshipped by fifty thousand, a hundred thousand, maybe two hundred thousand of my people. The Varangarians of Raccia still pay homage to the old gods, as well as to the Slavic gods. The people of Gotaland and a dozen other countries in northern Europa pay homage, though not the Sami or the Fenns. Germania. Nova Germania. Two hundred and twenty-five million worshippers, Kanmi.”