“Bread and circuses for everyone, and a chicken in every pot,” Kanmi muttered. “Baal. What are they assembling?” He looked up. “I’m shaky on the politics up here. Brandr, a Mongol threat? Here?”
The bear-warrior shook his head. “Jaatinen’s a Fenn. Historically, the Mongols or Qin pushes into Raccia, Raccian populations get displaced into Fennmark and the rest of the Nordic countries, or Raccia turns and tries to conquer Mongolia or parts of Qin. It’s a mess, and it happens every twenty to fifty years, give or take.” He stared at the pile of blackened, pieced-together letters. “Perhaps these Fenns in Potentia ad Populum are looking to build an army.” He shook his head. “Is there a location, anywhere, in any of that . . . insane political dribbling?”
Trennus grimaced. “He mentions a lake. Pielinen.”
Even Brandr had to think about that one for a moment. “Fennmark,” he said, after a moment. “On the Raccian border, or close. Many peat-bogs in the area. That’s all they use for fuel up there.”
Trennus managed to find a map of Europa in Reginleif’s belongings, and they all pored over it for a while. “Going to need to do some research,” Trennus muttered.
Brandr grimaced and scratched at his beard. “The Fenns—sometimes also called the Kvens—and the Sami both have a long history of sorcery. In our oldest epics, any time something Fennish is mentioned, it’s always meant to imply that magic is about to happen. Some of them share our faith, others follow Baltic gods and beliefs. The Sami have their own religion as well, but . . .” He exhaled. “The land up there is unsettled at the moment. Half a dozen bear-warriors went up there to investigate rumors of . . . monsters. Erikir and I were among them, until I got pulled back to have my brain dry-cleaned.” His voice was sour.
Did you find any? Lassair asked, tilting her head to the side.
“They found us, dear lady.” Brandr replied, without humor. “Ask Erikir about those new scars on his face.” He shook his head. “Before we go even one step further, I must contact Valhalla. Directly. They’re closer than the Odinhall at this point.” He gestured at the documents on the desk. “I am sure you will not wish to give up your evidence, so . . . make your pictures. I must tell my people . . . and my gods . . . everything we have learned here today. I do not want to think that Reginleif has gone astray. Perhaps she is merely operating under orders to which I am not privy.” His voice held leashed anxiety.
When the huge man had left the room, Trennus turned back to the others. “I didn’t want to point out to him that it could go deeper than just Reginleif.” He reached out, and slid his fingers closed around Lassair’s hand, as she looked up at him.
It could, however. The words that were read, about Hel wishing for Reginleif to have gone to the mountain where Inti died? Were most clear. The goddess wished for the adherent of her father, Loki, to be there. Perhaps to save lives, though I do not know what a mistress of illusion could have done, that Stormborn did not.
“I doubt it’s a question of lives,” Kanmi said, tiredly. “It’s probably much more a question of power. Who wants it. Who wound up with it. And what the ones who wanted it, wanted it for.”
Minori put her hands on his shoulders. “You’re such a cynic, Kanmi.” She paused. “Unfortunately . . . your cynicism usually turns out to be truth.”
He reached up and caught one of her hands. “You have no idea how much I wish it didn’t.”
Chapter 4: Essence
While most sorcerers work with what is real and tangible—four states of matter and various types of energy, all controlled by a latticework of natural laws described by physics—some magic-users are capable of working in the realm of the mind. Spirits, who are often more attuned to matters of the mind than those of the body, seem to be more naturally adept at this art than humans themselves are. In the main, there are two forms of illusion: figments and delusions.
A figment is subject to observation in objective reality; that is to say, a surveillance camera will perceive a properly-crafted figment. A skilled illusionist uses light itself as his or her medium, and sculpts it like an artist shaping stone or molten bronze. Most creators of figments will admit to being able to create tangible reality for only one or two senses at a time; someone who specializes in visual and tactile illusions can bend light, and create a wall of force, using trapped dust particles embedded in a matrix of energy, to simulate the sensation of touch. Thus, a beautiful woman created by figment specialist might well have a delightful smile, and, should you wish to touch her skin, there will be resilience and pressure there . . . but she might be unable to speak, and sniffing at the supple skin will yield only the odor of dust and ozone. A team of figment builders, working together, might be able to create a full, five-sense illusion, but because it is a team effort, substantial rehearsal may be needed to allow the woman to smile convincingly, look in the correct direction, and breathily offer the viewer a good time. There is also a distinct tendency for such figments to fall into what is called the ‘uncanny valley,’ where the illusion is substantially realistic, but somehow, not quite human enough, and therefore, highly disquieting to the person experiencing the illusion. It takes an extremely talented illusionist, incidentally, to fool a video camera; the video camera’s speed of information capture simply outpaces the human mind, in many respects. Lag, blips, and glaring absences are revealed on film, over which the human eye and mind gloss.
A delusion, by way of comparison, occurs solely in the mind of the affected person. It is a hallucination, and as such, cannot be detected by cameras or other recording devices. But because it occurs wholly within the mind of the individual, the illusionist can rely on the natural physiological processes of the brain to fill in details. When we look at an object, we rarely actually see it. Our brain interpolates the data, and there is a priority queue for relevant information. Fast-moving objects and known dangers take priority. Our brains, marvelously evolved sacks of nerve cells that they are, fill in any number of details for us that our eyes simply miss. A suitably trained illusionist can convince the brain that it smells, hears, sees, touches, and tastes something that is not there at all.
A delusion, however, is difficult to spread to more than one person. How many minds can one person completely and deeply affect in this way? It’s a matter of skill, practice, and power, but in all honesty, the practical limit for a deeply convincing hallucination, created by a human, seems to be about five people. A hallucination derives most of its power from the unobservant nature of humans at rest, and the power of our own minds to manufacture details. But any group of people will begin to talk about a shared experience, and that is when the differences in the perceived experience will begin to unfold.
Most people subjected to a skilled illusion never realize that it occurred. Trained observers have been fooled. The best defense is information; knowing ahead of time that someone may use this power on you. The second-best defense is awareness. Cultivating a skeptical mindset, in which you parse reality around you for mismatches. Sooner or later, a human illusionist will make a mistake.
This is not wholly comforting, of course. Because spirits are only prone to making mistakes regarding human emotions and details of personal history. And gods? Gods are rarely prone to mistakes at all. Though it has been known to happen.
—Kanmi Eshmunazar, “Virtual Reality: Conjoining Illusions, Figments, and Delusions to a Digital Environment.” Technomancy: The Journal for Engineering and Sorcery. Vol. 4, 1971 AC.
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Aprilis 20, 1970 AC
Sophia liked her sister's house, and though she'd never set foot in it before this week, knew every corner of it intimately. She had, after all, seen it in visions for over twenty years. She liked the large, Roman-style atrium, with the tall palm trees, between which swung a hammock. She enjoyed the comfortable living room, the dining area that had, instead of Roman couches, an antique set of chairs and a table Sigrun had inherited from her mother, all burnished oak. She liked sitting in the kitc
hen, painted a vivid Mediterranean blue, and hung with crisp white curtains. She peered into the bedroom that Adam and Sigrun shared, but didn't intrude; that was their place, and it was somehow different in reality, than in visions. She walked through the nursery, and shook her head. They'd put their hearts and souls into this little room, adjacent to their own, and now it was closed off, so neither of them had to look at it, and see the sun-yellow walls, the ceiling painted dark blue and spangled with stars in their correct constellations, the planets, the sun, and the moon. All painted by Adam's hand, of course. Sigrun had no such talent, but she'd sewn a quilt with tiny animals native to Caesaria Aquilonis on it. Black-and-white striped seganku, wolves, coyotes, bears, raccoons. Sophia knew that Sigrun didn’t like to admit to knowing how to sew, but her sister did it, as she did everything: with meticulous care.
But the brightly-colored quilt just looked forlorn, tucked atop an empty dresser in a room filled with dust. They’d received Adam’s family’s cradle, years ago, antique wood, dark-stained and polished with years of use. Rockers on the bottom, and a long stick that could be used to roll the cradle gently back and forth. It wasn’t in the nursery; Adam had put it up in the attic a few years ago. He hadn’t, Sophia thought, wanted Sigrun to pass by the closed door of the nursery, and feel it looming on the other side, like a silent accusation.
They hadn’t listened. But then again, she’d always known they wouldn’t.
Sophia drifted through the rest of the house, like a ghost. Peeked into their hobby room, where Adam stored his telescopes. Sophia knew that in a year or so, a Judean-made calculus would perch atop a desk in there, and he’d get Sigrun a ley-powered one as well, though it would go downstairs, near the kitchen, by a ley-tap that Trennus would install for her use.
She could hear echoes of future conversations. Why did we buy this big house, Adam? As a monument to a family that will never exist?
No, Sig. We have uses for it. My parents are moving in soon. Guess us not being able to go to the moon was a good thing, after all. They need us.
There’s always someone who’ll need us, Adam. I sometimes wonder if we’re both as much slaves to duty as my sister is to prophecy.
We’re not. I swear, we’re not. And we’ll find a use for all the space. I promise. We won’t feel like we’re living in a mausoleum forever.
Sophia walked along the upstairs hallway, checking on the children in their beds. The youngest had just been weaned to formula, thankfully, and she always knew precisely when Tasalus was going to wake up, hungry. She had . . . fourteen and a half minutes before he’d shift in his sleep, smack his lips, and open his eyes in confusion that the world was not perfectly comfortable, and in the realization that there was a hole in his belly. Enough time to check on the toddlers, Deiana and Linditus, who, on their cots, looked as if they’d crash-landed from outer space. The boy had his face mashed into his pillow and his arse in the air; it hardly looked comfortable, but he was limply unconscious and breathing deeply. Deiana had kicked off all her blankets into a tangle on the floor. The next room down held Latirian, Inghean, Solinus, and Masako, again on little cots. Sophia straightened out the blankets, and just stared at them for a long moment. It was pure joy looking at them. Not seeing death. Just . . . futures. Solinus and Masako starting to walk out together when they were adolescents. Masako going to the University of Jerusalem, amazingly, to study sorcery, like both her parents. Living. Loving. No end in sight. Little Masako would be thirty-six when the end came, but no death. She would be in Jerusalem when the time came, and Jerusalem would be . . . safe. Sophia knew that.
Of course, there would be that whole ugly business with her eldest brother, Himilico, and too bad about his legs . . . and there would be the long, dark period, when the Archmage was away, doing the work that the Godslayer would ask of him. But it wouldn’t mark Masako badly. Sophia slipped the blankets over the slumbering forms, and went downstairs, humming under her breath. She mixed the formula, warmed it in a pan of water, and hovered her hand over the phone.
And when it rang, she caught it before the shrilling sound could wake the whole house. “Waes hael, Sigrun,” she told her sister. “You’re sending Fritti and Rig here?”
A pause. “Stop that,” Sigrun replied, testily.
“Oh, come now, it’s not as if I didn’t know they were coming here. I have their room all set up already.” She took the bottle out of the pan, and asked, trying hard to concentrate, “So, are you up in Fennmark already, or did I miss something?”
“. . . does it ever bother you, Sophia, that you always skip to the end of the book before reading the beginning and the middle?”
“Of course it does. After all, I know how it all ends.” She tested the milk against her wrist. “But being here . . . gods, Sigrun. It’s so wonderful here. No debris. No bodies. I just see . . . peace. You don’t know how much I envy you. Oh, not the death and the dying and everything else being destroyed around you.” She paused. “Oh! I keep forgetting. Have I told you how much I appreciate the way you’ll visit me in the asylum every week?”
A frozen instant of silence. “What asylum? What are you talking about?”
“When I go mad, Sigrun, of course. When they won’t let me have scissors, and will shave my head, so I’m not such a bother, and nick my vocal cords so they won’t hear me screaming anymore.” Sophia’s voice was absent.
“Gods damn it, Sophia, that is not going to happen.”
“We can argue later. I have to go. Tasalus is going to wake up in about . . . forty-five seconds, and I definitely see myself having this bottle in his mouth before he even realizes he’s upset.” Sophia nodded to herself, and heard her sister laugh.
“Sophia? Why aren’t you a mother yourself? You’d be wonderful at it. You’re . . . so much more . . . grounded-sounding right now.” All the usual suppressed heartbreak in Sigrun’s voice. The hidden pleading, that said, Please, baby sister, stop destroying yourself. Change your path. Change your wyrd.
And yet, Sophia blinked. She didn’t remember that question. For a disorienting second, she had no idea what to say. “Because I have an appointment on a mountainside in 1991. After that, children aren’t going to be a possibility.” Her voice wavered. “And before then . . . really, Sigrun. I just don’t see them in my life. Lots of lovers. But no love.” Sophia cleared her throat, and tried to will the images to the back of her mind. Sigrun hadn’t meant harm by the question. Quite the reverse. And yet, it had triggered all the visions again. “I have to go, Sigrun. Eight seconds to showtime.” She slammed the phone down, and ran for the bedroom, bottle in hand, and delivered the milk to Tasalus’ mouth before he could even chirrup in unease. “There you go,” Sophia crooned as she held the baby, and looked into his future for a while. “Oh, aren’t you going to be a handsome one? You’re going to have the girls following right after you. And ivy and grapevines will sprout in your footsteps, too. Such a good boy.”
Sophia was concentrating so hard on the now, that for a change, she actually realized what day it was, when the knock came at the door. But the sound startled her for an instant. What? Who? Oh, they’re here already! “Everyone, we have guests,” she told her young charges, whom she had in the atrium, using chalk to outline each other’s bodies on the flagstones. And when she answered the door and smiled at Frittigil, Sophia told her, delightedly, “Oh, it’s so good to see you again!” and reached out to embrace the younger woman. Here was another face that didn’t turn into a decaying skull. And Rig . . . Rig she could see as an adult, though his form . . . wavered, and it made her shiver. He’ll live through the end, Sophia knew. He’ll live past the moment of my death. And what he’ll become after Ragnarok, is not for me to see. But what a life he’ll have. He’ll ride lindworms and carry death in his hand . . . . His adult face was superimposed over the childish, soft features. Short-cropped hair, Roman-style. Piercing gray eyes that saw through all illusions, while he wove his own, to strike from the shadows.
But for now .
. . she could see the awestruck look in the boy’s eyes as she introduced him to all the other god-born children. Could see him twist around to stare back at his mother, gasping out, in Gothic, “Oh, Mama, can we really stay here? Can we stay here forever and ever, where there are other children I can play with?”
“I don’t know, Rig,” Fritti temporized. “I have responsibilities back in Nova Germania.”
“Which you haven’t been attending to since Rig’s birth,” Sophia told her breezily, flipping a hand at her. “I don’t see you going back to Nova Germania. It’s all right. There will be a lot of refugees here who’ll need you.”
Fritti’s eyes widened. “Refugees? There’s going to be another war between the Empire and Persia?”
“Oh, there will be another war. Several of them. All at once.” Sophia shrugged. “It’s inevitable, but believe me, here, you will be doing what you’re supposed to be doing.” She looked around, as Rig entered into the chalk-drawing contest in the atrium, and laid back on the ground, smiling up at Inghean as she picked up a blue chunk and began to outline him. “And, of course, Rig will be marrying Inghean over there in, oh, about twenty years. No, you’ll be here for a good long time, Fritti. I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”
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