The Goddess Denied

by Deborah Davitt

  “Lassair, Saraid—” Adam struggled to his feet. “Can you dampen it down? Absorb some of it?”

  I . . . already took as much as I could take, Lassair admitted, her voice tiny in his mind.

  I assisted Niðhoggr with the load from Dagon, Saraid replied, regretfully. I can take no more.

  Wait, you what . . . ? The debris cloud began to clear, and Adam could see the lake clearly now. Niðhoggr was ringed by a half-dozen glowing figures; the other ten or so had all turned to face them. Their faces were only . . . vaguely human now. Distorted, melting like wax. “Tren!” Adam snapped out. “Divert some of it into the ley-grid, take the strain off Esh—”

  “I can’t,” Trennus said, on his knees, his head down. “The entire system is in overload. I can feel earthquakes rippling as far away as Alexandria. This is . . . not good.”

  Going for the understatement of the year award again, are you, my fine Gallic friend? Kanmi’s tone was acerbic, but there was affection lurking in there, as well. I can . . . hold them off, when they’re attacking, one by one like this . . . Another blast-wave of force hit the shield, which held, solid as the mountains of Atlas . . . Sooner or later, mad or not, they’re going to work together. And I honestly don’t know . . . how long I can hold out.

  Sigrun’s voice was still dazed. “He’s . . . he’s not in you—”

  No. No personality but me. But we all know I’m a bastard. Known for it. Esh the Bastard, not Esh the Happy, remember? Another explosion thundered into the shield, which showed its first hint of flickering. Do we really want fifteen insane humans out there, with this kind of power?

  “Don’t—” Sigrun’s voice was a bare thread of sound.

  My choice this time, valkyrie. Not yours. Now get out of here, all of you.

  Adam stood, frozen. He didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. “Wait,” he said, his voice choked. “Wait just a damned minute—“

  I said get the fuck out of here, ben Maor! Kanmi spun, and flicked a hand, and Adam and all the others suddenly flew, propelled on a powerful, but controlled wave of force. Adam hit the ground, and rolled, trying to get back to his feet. Tried to orient himself, and became aware of close to two dozen other people around them. Children, young men. Rig, Minori. All staring at them wide-eyed, and Minori seizing his arm and demanding, “Where is Kanmi? Why isn’t he with you?”

  Another barrier of raw energy flared up in a dome around all of them, and Adam could only point, silently, back the way they’d come.

  Minori stared at Adam, then whipped back around to stare at the figures, tiny with distance. She’d spent the last twenty minutes keeping random misdirected spells and debris off the young men and children, most of whom were dazed, drugged, and apt to wander off. A shepherd to a particularly imbecilic flock of sheep, and feeling worse than useless as the others fought and struggled, but knowing that this time, her role was to protect the innocent, if she could.

  Now, she stretched out all her senses, and felt the spells, the raw energy, being launched at Kanmi. Felt him redirecting it, as he always did. Building a reserve of heat in a sphere, hovering just over the surface of the draining lake. “Kanmi!” Minori shouted, trying to throw her voice with the power of her will behind it, suddenly having a terrible understanding of what he was about to do. “Kanmi!” She threw herself at the wall of the dome, and found herself hurled back, with all the stubborn strength of her husband’s will.

  Stay, Min, he told her, gently, the words echoing in her mind, like a spirit’s, and tears began to roll down her face. This is mine to do. And if there’s a way. If there’s any way at all . . . you know I’ll come back to you. Bury my bones, assuming you can find any of them, in Jerusalem. And live.

  “Kaaaaanmiiiiiiii!” Minori fought. She threw all the strength of her will against the barrier, and found it as unassailable as the mind of a god. Niðhoggr, sensing what was afoot, sprang into the air, black-silver blood still streaming from his sides, and vanished, entering the Veil.

  She could only watch as Kanmi split all of the regional hydrogen off from the oxygen in the water, and allowed the power of the other sorcerers, siphoned off and given to him as a gift, to ignite it. I’m with you to the end, Min, he whispered. You’ll know when I go. But stay.

  Minori didn’t look away from the explosion. The brightness should have seared her eyes to blindness, and in her despair, she wanted that. She wanted the last thing she would ever see to be the funeral pyre that claimed her husband, but he’d wrought his protective spell around them too well for that. The fireball lifted off, and cloud convection formed a towering mushroom cloud that went up probably into the stratosphere, and all Minori could do was stare up at it in anguish. Because Kanmi’s mind no longer touched hers.

  Ashes and dust and sand melted into splatters of glass coated the sphere, and the outside world was no longer visible as she rocked on herself and screamed, over and over. Arms, wrapping around her, tightly, squeezing the kaiken knife she didn’t even realize she’d drawn, out of her hand. Trennus on one side, Adam on the other. Lassair’s warm hand on one shoulder, Sigrun’s cool one, hesitantly on the other.

  But even in the depths of her grief, her other senses still, damnably enough, functioned, and Minori lifted her head, and with a hitching sob, told them all, “They’re not dead.” It wasn’t quite a question.

  “I only feel death,” Sigrun said, but her voice was uncertain. “There is nothing mortal out there . . . but you are right. Something moves.”

  The barrier, held up by the last remnants of Kanmi’s will, dissipated, and the wind shifted, blowing stinging bits of molten sand at them, before whipping away the smoke just enough to let them all see a dozen glowing, amorphous entities. No bodies. No humanity. Just the last, twisted remnants that had been Baal’s fragmenting consciousness. Given perhaps a little direction by the remaining human minds that had melded with the god. Minori was aware of . . . mad laughter. Glee, really. And then all of them rose into the sky, and fled, leaving only their laughter in their wake.

  Minori curled in on herself, staring around her blankly. The dunes of the Sahara to the south had all been faced over in a thin layer of glass—black in places, and startlingly yellow in others, depending on the chemical composition of the sand that had formed it. The Chott el Jerid was a crater, at least where they were. A dozen or more vortexes of power that had once been human, but now were gods had just taken to the sky—the very thing that Kanmi had given his life to prevent. Minori sobbed and tried to throw herself down on the ground, but the others, wrapping their arms around her, would not permit it. It was all for nothing, Kanmi-kun, it was all for nothing. You tore away their mortal forms. It should have been enough to loose the energies, but they stayed bound to this world, somehow . . . . You said you were coming home, and you died for nothing. You could have lived and fought them each, one by one, why, why, why, why, why . . . .

  Chapter 13: Saturation

  Aprilis 10, 1987 AC

  To: Naevius Maximus Albanus, Commander, Praetorian Guard, Rome

  From: Adam ben Maor, Commander, Praetorian Guard, Judea

  CC: Senator Marcus Valerius Livorus; Privy Office of the Imperator

  SECURITY LEVEL: EYES ONLY, CLASSIFIED.

  Dominus:

  It is with regret that I write today to inform you that after thirty-three years in the Praetorian Guard, the last twelve of which I have been the Judean Division commander, that I have decided to retire. I have been in the service of the Empire, as a foreign legionnaire levy in the Judean Defense Forces, and the Praetorians, for forty years, in all.

  In those forty years, I have seen wonders. I have fought the enemies of the Empire, and the enemies of humanity, both. I have made both friends and enemies. I have rescued the helpless, and I have sent good men to die, in causes that I thought were right, just, and necessary. I stand fast in the knowledge that I have never left a man behind.

  But I also hold the recent events in North Africa to be a personal fail
ure. Kanmi Eshmunazar and I, with the Imperator’s blessing, tried to head off another catastrophe, like the Loki incident in Europa. The analysts have been kind enough to inform us in the past six weeks, that the data suggests that Eshmunazar accomplished three important things in his heroic last stand:

  1) He bled off some of the power and potency of the godlings spawned from Baal-Hamon’s demise. These beings are clearly chaotic and possessed of a certain level of malevolence, given recent evidence. But they are also deeply random in their actions, rarely pursuing any line of attack or interest for long.

  2) He removed himself, and the power he absorbed from Baal-Hamon, from the playing field. He did not trust himself not to go as mad as the godlings have, and he did not allow them to consume him.

  3) He saved the lives of our entire team, as well as nineteen civilians, all intended sacrifices of Baal-Hamon.

  I have lost men before. But for me, Kanmi Eshmunazar was far more than a colleague. He was a friend, a compatriot, a true comrade-in-arms, for over thirty years. When we were lictors under the late propraetor, Antonius Valerius Livorus, we often joked that the four of us were the fingers in Rome’s fist, or its extended hand of friendship. Eshmunazar, no doubt, was the digit most often responsible for rude gestures . . . but I am lessened by his death. And so is the Empire.

  I would like to take this opportunity to petition for his posthumous investiture as a Hero of the Imperium—he would, doubtless, laugh at the gesture, but it is well-deserved, will restore his good name, and will give people something to look towards with hope in these dark times. To know that there are still people who will give their last breath for others is a powerful thing.

  Thank you for your patience in reading this missive, and I ask for your forgiveness for any tasks that I leave undone. To everything there is a season, my people say. A time to sow and a time to reap. My spring is long behind me, and winter fast approaches.

  May whichever god you favor, cast blessings upon you, and upon Rome and all her subject nations.

  I remain your servant,

  Adam ben Maor

  ______________________

  Martius 21, 1987 AC

  Zaya Lelayn had decided, over the course of the last year, that Jerusalem was . . . all right. It wasn’t home. Home was always going to be Chaldea, and the summer retreat in Media, right on the Caspian. Of course, the summer house was here now, and had . . . more or less been repaired. The faucets all worked again, anyway, and the lavatory facilities once again reliably flushed. Any number of bewildered contractors and plumbers had been flummoxed as to how to set up city water and sewer lines to a house that had simply appeared in place on its land. Her father, Illa’zhi, had managed to re-corporealize after a few weeks in the Veil, alive and unharmed, and that had made everything . . . much better.

  The fact that Judea was, at its heart, something of a theocracy, niggled at her mother, Zaya knew. Oh, Roman norms had been imposed, and there were representative forms of governance borrowed from the Hellenes here, as well. But Erida was Chaldean, and still followed the few remaining Chaldean-Babylonian gods, like Marduk, which made her an idolater to the locals.

  Those were distant concerns for Zaya. She and her brothers and sisters were somewhat freed of the bonds of their pedagogues here. For instance, she was being permitted to go to school with the Matrugena clan, and that was a gift, as far as Zaya was concerned. She got to see normal people every day, and around the Matrugenas, her foreign accent hardly stood out. Her brothers and sisters, as spirit-born as all the Matrugenas, had friends . . . and so did she, to her surprise. Friends were not something she’d ever had before. Her family kept largely to itself in the various manor houses owned by her mother and brother, and thus, her only companions had been her siblings, the servants, and her pedagogues. The few gatherings they had ever attended had all been Magi affairs, or noble soirees. Where children had been expected to behave as small adults, or were banished to the nursery in shame.

  But now, they were refugees, albeit refugees with means. Her mother had transferred a good deal of the family assets into a variety of banking institutions, including Judean ones, over the years, so they weren’t as badly off as many other Magi families, who’d had their assets frozen when Persia invaded Chaldea and Media. However, her mother now taught at the university, in the Thaumaturgy department, along with Dr. Eshmunazar, who was off currently on some kind of a research trip with Maccis’ mother, aunt, and father. Many of the other Magi in the area seemed to regard this employment with a certain mild horror, as if Erida had come down in the world. Voluntarily. All Zaya knew was that her mother made her help grade the papers, and took her to the archives three afternoons a week to help her organize the books and papers and tablets that had been rescued from the Persian army. You’ll learn more from this than you realize.

  In Zaya’s opinion, this was boring. She thought she was going to wind up knowing more about magic than anyone in the world, and would never be able to use a damned bit of it.

  Today was the equinox, and because Passover week was beginning, the Judean school system was relaxed about absences . . . a good thing, too, because all the heathen idolaters were taking the day off to celebrate the arrival of spring. The Carthaginians were baking Baal-loaves, the Gauls and the Goths were preparing bonfires, and there would be music echoing back from the walls in a dozen neighborhoods as people gathered for circle-dances. Dances told stories, or let the community play together, one partner passing to the next to the next. Everyone dependent on everyone else to keep the time, to keep in step. Zaya had seen these dances on the far-viewer last year, and longed to participate in them. She was being trained in classical Chaldean dance by one of her pedagogues after school—her mother considered it essential, in the way other mothers considered it a good thing for a child to learn the harp. When we have guests, we must be gracious hosts, and offer them entertainment, Erida often told her, when Zaya balked at the lessons.

  But I’d rather go to sparring at the Matrugenas! Shouldn’t I know how to protect myself, in a way that I . . . actually can?

  Being able to defend yourself is an excellent goal. You may organize your schedule however you wish, but I insist on three afternoons a week at the archives. If you wish three evenings a week at martial arts, and I require three evenings a week spent learning the muscle control, precision, and grace of a belly-dancer, then you will have to decide for yourself on which days these will occur. All of these things will teach you self-control and patience . . . and that, in turn, will help you with that temper of yours. How someone so quiet and retiring can have such a fiery disposition . . . Her mother had smiled. Well, it’s a testament that you are your father’s child.

  So while it wasn’t a school day, Zaya was trapped at home until her lessons were done. Sari—Maccis’ mother—had managed to remove all the flower-mouths from Zaya’s pedagogue, leaving no scars beyond the mental. The woman started the music again, and lifted her arms over her head, and Zaya, sighing, followed suit, beginning to work her hip and thigh muscles. “A more gracious smile, please,” her pedagogue told her. “After this, and you may work on languages.”

  However, within fifteen minutes, there was a knock at the door, and Zaya welcomed both her reprieve and her guests with equal joy as Maccis and one of his half-sisters, fiery-haired Eisa, entered the room. “You know, it’s three bus transfers to get here,” Eisa grumbled, good-naturedly. “Maccis wanted to run.” She rolled her eyes.

  Zaya’s mouth fell open. “You should have called us!” she said. “Mother would have sent the car for you.”

  “It’s a good day to go wolf-form and run. The weather’s nice.” Maccis dropped to one of the low pillows in the room and lounged. He always managed to look relaxed, no matter what form he wore. “Besides, the last time your mother sent the car, your butler said something about finding dog hair in the back seat. And I didn’t even change.” He shrugged.

  A pulse of anger flashed through Zaya. Their butler—a new m
an, a replacement for the poor old fellow who’d vanished into the Veil, and whom Master Matrugena had been unable to find in a year of looking—clearly didn’t like the Matrugena children. He made disparaging comments like that every time they came over. “I will remind him that you are all Pictish royalty,” Zaya told Maccis, hotly. “And that he should show you the proper respect.”

  Both of them began to laugh, ruefully. “Picts don’t really show their own kings very much respect,” Eisa said, rolling her eyes again. “Last summer, Uncle Vindiorix—he’s the sitting king, you know—and Uncle Riacus got in a fistfight at dinner. Took our father and all our other uncles to break it up.”