There was a pause. Kanmi grimaced again. “That’s . . . a lot of collective will. A lot of collective belief.” He paused. “Is he necessarily evil, though, Sig? And bear in mind, I don’t actually like the term.”
Sigrun’s face was taut, and it took her a long time to reply. “No,” she finally said. “You remember that article I wrote on seiðr and nið? Loki is more or less the embodiment of both. What it meant to not be a Goth, in the old days. Subtle, guileful, someone who . . . goes against the social norms.” She paused, and slowly added, “There is a certain amount of evidence that suggests that he might have . . . done something with Frittigil Chatti. Or one of his god-born may have, anyway. But she told me once that her tutor, who . . . may have been Loki himself . . . had told her that none of the gods truly wish for Ragnarok.” Sigrun looked up. “Doesn’t matter at the moment.”
Adam cleared his throat. “We’re taking a leave of absence. Even if all we can do is . . . find Loki and have Sigrun demand an accounting of him, it’s . . . still doing something.” He exhaled. “The Odinhall is sending us some help. But we . . .” He looked at Sigrun. “We want you all with us. I know it’s a lot to ask. It’s not for duty. It’s not for Rome. It’s personal, and it doesn’t involve your own gods—”
It has to do with love, Lassair said, instantly, cradling Tasalus on her shoulder, as the baby drooled there. Of course I will help. Trennus, will you—
“Try to stop me,” Trennus said, sharply. Seeing what this was doing to Sigrun was bad enough. She was pulling away, into herself, in a way he’d never seen her do before. What it was doing to Adam was subtler, but in its way, worse. There was a wound in Adam’s eyes. It showed when he looked at Sigrun, and clearly had no idea what to do or to say to her. No idea what he could do for her, to make this better. Go kill an enemy, that’s easy. You can’t make this better . . . except if we somehow, hold a god accountable for his actions, and don’t get killed doing it. Trennus swallowed. “We’ve done crazier things.” He glanced at Kanmi and Minori.
The other two exchanged a long, thoughtful look. Minori turned back to the others. “Any idea of where to start? All those rumors of monsters in Gotaland and the other northern kingdoms could be related.”
Kanmi nodded. “I don’t care how good someone is at illusion,” he said, simply. “There’s always going to be something that’s not quite right.”
“That’s true of mortals,” Sigrun said, quietly, remotely. “That is not true of gods.”
Kanmi raised his head, his dark eyes glittering a little. “I’m always up for a challenge.”
“Don’t go in cocky,” Adam warned.
“I’m not, ben Maor.” Kanmi shrugged. “We’ve dealt with raw power before. Clumsily used. Here we have power . . . with subtlety. Finesse. And let’s face it . . .” his expression darkened, “probably layers of deception. What we believe currently . . . might not actually be true.” He looked over at Sigrun, and, to Trennus’ surprise, Kanmi’s face and voice gentled. “Don’t get so locked in on one answer that you can’t see any other possibilities.”
Sigrun raised her head, and there was a cold flare of temper there as she met Kanmi’s eyes. “And what other possibilities are there, besides that Loki wished to shame and humble Tyr, through me? That he was pleased to jest and toy with my life, as if I were a piece on a game board? And yet . . .” she sighed, “if he is in hiding, he plans to do far more than meddle with one small person’s life. He would not hide away for just me. There is something else afoot.” She looked down. “And the fact that all of this might involve Fritti . . . ” Her voice was sick, suddenly. “I . . . did not stay in touch with her, as I should have. I thought she was safe now that she had been trained, and was an adult. I did not think . . . . ”
“She’s twenty-eight,” Adam said, sharply. “You’re not her mother. Nor am I her father.”
“And yet, if something has happened to her . . . I sensed the lie and I did nothing, because it was our wedding day!” Sigrun put her face in her hands, and left Adam to explain the rest.
Outside the apartment, minutes later, Trennus looked at Kanmi and Minori, shaking his head. “I’m surprised you two are coming along.”
Minori appeared almost offended. “They’re our friends, too,” she said, and then looked down and away, biting her lip. “I may not have been around for the other . . . entities. Other events. But . . . we all . . . owe something. To each other.” She looked up, her lips a thin line. “Some things are the deeper, for not being spoken of, aren’t they?”
Kanmi rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “There’s that,” he said, dryly. “And then there’s the fact that if we don’t go, and you all get yourselves killed, we’ll get stuck with all the work.”
He nodded, soberly, and Tren looked at him steadily. “Bastard,” Trennus told him, without rancor.
“From a long line of them, yes.” Kanmi replied, without hesitation.
They couldn’t just leave, all at once, and without explanations. Minori had to arrange for substitutes for her classes with the faculty in her department, and explained her absence to the department as an emergency to do with the Praetorians, leaving it vague. That’s going to bite her in the ass, Adam thought, when he heard about it. Kanmi, Trennus, Sigrun, and he had a long conversation with Livorus, who looked angry and appalled . . . and desperately concerned, as well. All sublimated, of course, but Adam had learned how to read that closed-off mask years ago. “Of course you must go. Just last week, I was telling you to attend to your futures.” He stood and limped around to the front of his desk, staring at his lictors. “But this is . . . deliberately seeking out an entity for confrontation. This is not something one does lightly.”
“The Odinhall is sending some reinforcements. Once we’ve found Loki, we can call for . . . further assistance.” Sigrun sounded quietly remote, as she had since coming home from the Odinhall. It was killing Adam to see her like this. She might as well have been a golem. An automaton. He didn’t know what to do or say to break through the layer of ice over her, and didn’t know what he’d unleash if he did.
Livorus nodded. After a moment’s consideration, he walked slowly to the fireplace in his study, and took his legionnaire’s sword down from the mantel, handing it to Adam. “I can’t go with you,” he said, soberly. “Take this with you, if you would be so kind. I do not ask that you do anything dramatic with it. But . . . I would like to be there. To stand beside you, all of you, as you’ve so often stood with me. Let this be my proxy.”
Adam accepted the sword, feeling the coolness of the worn scabbard’s leather against his palms. “Thank you,” he said, moved. “Should I bring it back, dominus?”
“If you find a use for it there . . . leave it on the field of battle.” Livorus nodded, grimly, and then looked past Adam, to Sigrun. “My dear, I am so very sorry.” He limped over, and took her hand.
Sigrun bowed her head, and Adam had a sense that she was concealing tears. And then she leaned in and spoke quietly in Livorus’ ear, just for a moment. Livorus looked up at her, and his eyebrows arched. “You think so, my dear?”
“I know so, old friend.” Sigrun’s lips worked for a moment, almost quivering into a smile. “I’ve been your lictor for twenty-one years. I know you. Please consider my advice.”
“I always consider your advice, my dear. It’s often well-founded.”
Adam waited until they were in the car to ask. “What was that about with Livorus, at the end?”
Sigrun buckled her seatbelt, and stared straight ahead for a moment. “I told him that since he was no longer in public office, he therefore no longer needed to be conscious of Poppaea’s highly political family. His children are grown. He should settle a nice pension on her, so she’ll never know want, divorce her, and marry Mariana.” She paused. “He only has a few years left, Adam. He should spend them happy.”
Adam reached out, and rested a hand atop hers. Her fingers felt like ice under his. “You . . . you don’t feel de
ath in him yet, do you?” he asked, suddenly.
Sigrun shook her head. “Not yet. But it’s just a matter of time.” Weariness in her voice, and an edge of tears.
The next issue they had to resolve was what to do with the children. Trennus and Lassair had six children under the age of ten. Minori and Kanmi had Masako, and while Bodi was old enough to look after her, neither Kanmi nor Minori really wanted their university-age son looking after a seven-year-old for an unknown amount of time. “He’ll forget to do the laundry, try to do Kanmi’s laundry spell, turn her school uniform into rags, and send her off without her lunch,” Minori predicted.
“He’s not that bad,” Kanmi protested.
“Do you think he’ll remember to pick her up from school, when he could be setting up spell frameworks on his calculus?”
“. . . you’re probably right,” Kanmi admitted. “He can get wrapped up in his own little world.”
I can split myself off, Lassair offered. One of my selves can remain here.
“The problem with that is that you’ve got limited range,” Trennus pointed out, gently. “You’re strongest where I am, and if we wind up going halfway around the planet—as we’re going to, as we look for Fritti . . . .”
I could take the children to the Caledonian Forest, Saraid volunteered, manifesting partially as a half-deer, half-woman. Sigrun blinked at the sight; the unexpectedness of it pushed some of her frustration and agitation aside, though it returned rapidly. Or even into the Veil. Trennus has been building a realm there for years. The children should be quite safe there.
“No!” Minori objected, instantly. “Masako isn’t god-born, spirit-touched, or anything else like that. She’d go mad in the Veil.”
I assure you, she would be perfectly safe in my care. Saraid’s tone was calm.
“I won’t risk it, not when there are other options.”
“Besides,” Adam pointed out, rationally, “if you’re occupied protecting them in the Veil, Trennus wouldn’t have you available for assistance. To scout for us, or let us see in the dark.”
“I wish she’d remembered to let me see properly in the dark on Coropuna,” Kanmi muttered. “Running in moonlight wasn’t very much fun.”
I have apologized for this before, Emberstone.
“We could . . . re-hire Bodi’s old pedagogue . . .” Minori faltered.
“She’s ninety, Min,” Kanmi reminded her. “Seven children under the age of ten would put her in her grave.”
Sigrun sat with her head down, elbows propped on her knees, and seethed quietly. It would do no good to give it voice. Everything took time. But the arguing was getting on her nerves, good-natured though it was. She raised her head, giving the nearest window a considering glance, and caught Adam watching her. And sighed, schooling herself to patience. Inward and outward.
And at that point, there was a knock on the front door. “I’ll get it,” Adam said, in a tone of relief. “It’s probably the bear-warriors the Odinhall said they’d send.”
Sigrun stood, expecting to greet Brandr and Erikir, who should have ducked through the doorway, towering over Adam by more than a foot each. Neither, however, appeared, and Adam actually stood in the doorway for a long moment, blocking her sight of whoever it was, and speaking in a low, earnest voice. Sigrun frowned as she took a few steps towards the door, and stopped in her tracks when Adam, expression tight, stepped out of the way, revealing Sophia.
Her sister looked up at her anxiously from fifteen feet away. Sigrun measured the number of steps it would take to reach her. How she’d have to hip-check Adam into the wall to make sure he didn’t try to stop her. Pictured wrapping her fingers around Sophia’s throat and shaking her.
It was the eyes that stopped her. Sophia’s green eyes were clear, for once, of the haze of drugs that usually clouded them, and she looked pale. A little unwell. The aura around her, when Sigrun squinted a little and let othersight trickle in, was its usual pale green, but Sophia’s aura was different than most people’s. God-born and sorcerers and summoners tended to be bright, but Sophia’s aura was fractured into shells that moved at different oscillating speeds. It reminded Sigrun a little of an image Adam had shown her of a star about to go nova. Though right now, the shells were . . . vibrating. Detoxification? Sigrun wondered, before shaking othersight away. She actively tried not to use it, but it came in handy when scanning a crowd for threats.
Silence for a moment, and Sophia began, rapidly, “Sigrun, I told you I’d be here when you were ready to go to Fennmark. I told you that you’d need someone to look after the children.”
Sigrun just stared at her, and felt the others pull back a little. Sophia reached up and tugged at her own hair for a moment, before settling her hands. “I know you’re angry with me . . . but just listen. Please. Just this once.“
The valkyrie felt her hands clench and unclench. Three steps. It was all she’d need. “You told me to duck,” she said, her voice dull. “You could have told me, ‘Oh, Sigrun, I know it is your wedding day and all, but the waiter’s about to try to poison you, and is a god in disguise. Here, step out of the way.’” She took one step forwards, slowly. “You did not. You betrayed me.”
Sophia closed her eyes. “Sigrun, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t say anything.”
“Could not? Or would not?”
Sophia’s eyes opened, and widely. “I couldn’t, Sigrun! I didn’t see myself saying anything! And if I broke the chain, then this wouldn’t be happening, and you wouldn’t survive. No one would survive the end of the world, Sigrun. You don’t understand how important this is!”
Sigrun could feel everyone’s eyes drilling into her back. “Stop,” Sigrun said. She felt . . . detached. As if she were floating behind her own eyes. “I have told you before—”
“Yes, I know, I know, no more gods, no more end of the world, just a mortal life. I’m sorry, sister, but you have no choice in this.” Sophia set the heels of her hands to her eyes. Blocking visions, or holding in tears, Sigrun didn’t know which. “And neither do I. I flew here to help.”
Fascinated silence from everyone around them. Sigrun could feel her own pulse, hammering away in her temples. “By looking after the children?” she asked, her voice clipped.
“Yes. I’ll take them to Judea. They’ll be safe with me. I guarantee it.”
“Oh, fuck that,” Kanmi said, behind Sigrun.
“No, you don’t understand. I’ve seen myself doing it.” Sophia’s voice hitched up half an octave. “They’ll be fine. Masako will skin her knees trying to climb an olive tree, but I see myself with them every day, until you get back, and they’re fine every day.” Her words tumbled over each other. Sigrun gave her a close look to see if she were actually on some form of amphetamine instead of the poppy or peyote that she normally favored, but . . . no. And for an instant, Sigrun had an inkling of what this had cost her sister. She said she takes them to keep from seeing death behind every eyeblink. In what a state of mortal terror she must always live . . . .
“You are completely free of the drugs right now?” Sigrun asked, her tones clipped.
Sophia nodded.
“You won’t take them while you are looking after the children?”
“No. I . . . won’t need to.” Sophia looked around. “You don’t understand. I don’t see them dying, Sigrun. And Judea’s so pleasant. It’s not going to die. It’s not like Rome, where I look around this apartment, and all I see are the metal support beams piercing through there and there,” she pointed, with uncanny specificity, “Oh, and there, too. And the ashes from Vesuvius and the debris from the apartments upstairs, all mingling with water and forming poured stone. I don’t see the severed heads of the neighbors, rotting and decaying, the hands sticking out of the debris, or the stuffed toys from a child’s cradle, splattered with blood. Judea . . . I won’t see that, Sigrun. I won’t need the poppy-blood there.”
Sigrun closed her eyes. Then why won’t you live there? she wanted to shout. But she couldn’t. She
already knew the answer. Because Sophia didn’t see herself living there.
Sigrun turned. Saw Adam staring at her as she did. Saw the others, all staring at her, too. Minori’s mouth hung open. Minori was the only one who hadn’t met Sophia before. The sisters hadn’t done more than call one another since burning their father’s body, six years ago. This is why I don’t talk about my family, Sigrun thought, in the technomancer’s general direction. After a long moment, Sigrun told the others, “She speaks the truth. If she says she sees herself caring for your children, and them being safe, you can expect that they will be safe.” Her voice was bitter. “She has an uncanny talent for being correct, if not right.”
Kanmi was shaking his head, emphatically. “She leaves things out.”
“It’s like bargaining with a canny, wary spirit,” Trennus muttered. “Sophia? You swear that the children will not be harmed, possessed, ensorcelled, or in any way compelled to do anything while in your care? They will be alive, healthy, and well at the end of your care?”
The Goddess Denied Page 11