The Goddess Denied

by Deborah Davitt

  Sophia smiled, slightly, and kissed the worried man right on his torn and leprous cheek, which felt smooth and whole under her lips. “There is only one safe place now, old friend. And this is not it. Can a mere soldier hold off a mad god? I think not.”

  “Apollo will protect us.”

  “Apollo of Rome will die in battle. Apollo of Delphi will cower in the Veil.” Sophia said it dreamily, while part of her mind raged, if Apollo were going to protect us, don’t you think he’d have done so by now? Fools! Idiots! Why don’t they see? She paused. “I’m just going to stretch my legs. Oh, and when my sister arrives? Make her welcome, show her to my room, and tell her which way I went.”

  “Oh, the valkyrie will be here soon, then?” Relief in the man’s tone. Clearly, he thought that Sigrun could talk some sense into the mad priestess he served. And then we can all go to Judea together and have tea and cakes and live happily ever after, except you’re already dead and I’m already mad.

  Out loud, she just confirmed, “Within a day.” Sophia’s stomach churned. Maybe it’s already happened. I remember it happening. Maybe this is just me remembering it all, after the fact. Oh, gods, what a relief if it is.

  Past and present and future began to collide again, her awareness shifting. She hadn’t dared to take any of her usual remedies today. Poppy blood might have made the pain and the awareness less, but she was already staggering, assailed by visions on all sides. Hardly even aware of her surroundings. But flickers of reality came through, regardless. Just enough to terrify.

  . . . . In Thessaloniki, her mother, Medea, had had a stroke and been confined to a nursing home. She wheeled herself, one-handed, through the halls, hearing far-viewers chatter in every room. Family came to visit many of the other patients, but somehow, no one ever came to visit her, and she was bitter about that. Her own daughter was too good for her, apparently, the daughter she’d loved and cherished and made so much of. She’d lavished Sophia with dresses and dolls and frilly lace curtains as a child. Everything she’d ever wanted herself, but that her father’s financial imbroglios hadn’t permitted. The same financial peccadilloes that had resulted in her being sold into slavery when she was only sixteen. She’d been fortunate to have a tolerable master, who saw in her an investment. He’d had her trained as a pedagogue, and had only bedded her three or four times, to ‘break her in,’ though a virgin would have sold for more. And then, at twenty, she’d been sold to a pedagogue service, who had, in turn, sold her to Ivarr Caetia. He hadn’t so much as laid a hand on her. Always grieving for his precious wife, doting on his precious brat, and all she’d wanted to do was go home. She’d wanted nothing to do with the stubborn, mulish, precocious child, and every time she’d seen the girl lift herself into the air, light as a feather and carefree, the overwhelming urge to strike the girl had risen with her.

  All the instructional manuals for dealing with Valhallan god-born had agreed that one needed to be firm with them. That they needed to be taught, from an early age, that their duty was to their gods and their people. And Medea had finally gotten the girl to be tolerably obedient by her adolescence, and then, thankfully, she’d been packed off to the Odinhall, and no longer her business. And then there she’d been. Stuck with the unpalatable prospect of being sold off and sent to someone else’s house to do it all over again, only this time, in her mid-thirties. Ivarr’s proposal had been . . . unexpected. And a relief. And then she’d had her own child, and she’d been happy about that. For ten years, she’d been able to spoil the girl, and then Sophia, too, had turned out to be god-born. And of course, it was Sigrun’s fault. If she hadn’t come home that night . . . .

  Medea had dealt with it as if it were a disability, making sure Sophia got the right training, but also encouraging her to do as much as she could, experience whatever she could, and then sent her, with a certain amount of tears and a little pride, to Delphi. And then watched her daughter turn cold and distant, and she had no idea why. She’d only asked for little things over the years. What the stock market would be doing in ten years, so she could arrange Ivarr’s finances to take advantage of it, so they’d have a comfortable retirement. When her own parents were supposed to die. Not that there’d be any inheritance, thanks to her spendthrift father . . . . It all came down to Sigrun, again. She’d turned Medea’s sweet Sophia against her. It was the only explanation, and now she was here, pushing her damnable chair through the halls alone . . . .

  . . . rumble of some kind of explosion in the distance. Medea frowned, as orderlies and nurses began scrambling to secure all the patients in their rooms. “Please, everyone, just stay calm. We’re in a secure area, and the legions have a perimeter around the city. If an evacuation order is issued, this facility will be one of the first notified.”

  . . . shattering of glass. Medea was in her own room now, and her heart began to pound at the sound. She was ninety-nine years old, having held onto life with tenacious strength all this time, and she didn’t know why. She’d outlived her husband, all of her family besides her daughter, and all her friends, such as they’d been. But this was the first time in all those years that she had really felt primal fear. She awkwardly shifted her chair towards the door, and cracked it open with cautious fingers, peeking out into the hall. At the end of the long, white institutional corridor, was a window that looked out onto the gardens. It lay in shards around the feet of a half-dozen winged creatures, all naked, besides their feathers. One of them had hooked an orderly by the neck with cruel talons, and Medea could see blood pouring out of his throat.

  Sophia inhaled. She was out of condition. She hadn’t been keeping up on her hikes, apparently, and she couldn’t for the life of her remember why for the moment. She looked around, not hearing the hum of motorcars along the distant, winding road that lead up to the airfield and Delphi proper, and relished it. The constant stream of pilgrims was a burden, all of them asking their limited questions and fussing when they got real answers. She could hear birds singing in the trees for a change, instead of the constant hum of traffic. Bliss, really. She glanced down at herself, and wondered what on earth she’d been thinking. She was wearing heavy hiking boots with a silk peplos, and the contrast was . . . outré, to say the least. Sophia muffled a laugh. “At least I didn’t put on rogue and kohl and thread my hair with gems and load my arms down with gold bracelets,” she told the birds as she paused by a scenic overlook and reached for her canteen.

  Except, she hadn’t brought one. That’s odd. I always bring one. It’s a two-hour hike, up and down. Why don’t I have one . . . ?

  . . . because then the guards would have known I was leaving the temple’s perimeter.

  Wait, what guards? The temple doesn’t have a perimeter—oh gods, oh gods, it’s today. It’s today and I lost myself for a moment. Her head snapped back, and she looked around, her feet rooted to the ground. Maybe it’s not today. Maybe . . . maybe I’m forward-remembering again. It always feels so damned real.

  She put one foot, leadenly, in front of the next, and walked on. And lost herself once more.

  . . . it was years ago, wasn’t it? Just outside of Ponca, the gods of the Chahiksichahiks had assembled to hold off a mad godling. Too few gods. Not enough worshippers. Every kingdom had different names, different gods that represented the Evening Star, Morning Star, the Sun, and the Moon. The efforts of forty years ago, to unify all the petty kingdoms of Caesaria Aquilonis under one banner, one universal religion, had failed when the shaman and the god-born of the Chahiksichahiks had overplayed their hand. Had kidnapped a girl of Marcomanni, and dragged her here, to sacrifice her. To renew the blood-bond between the Morning Star and their people, to empower their strongest warrior god. But the god-born of the Morning Star had fallen to the earth, telling the Roman propraetor that his sacrifice had saved his people, as his blood ran out on the ground.

  And now, his gods were in the sky, holding off the godling that sent black arcs of power across the horizon. The Sun, Shakura, blazed in his human form,
trying to pour light into the maw of the creature, trying to lure it away from the hummocks that were the great earthen houses of the people here. The godling turned. Followed the bright beacon of energy away from the homes, while the Evening Star flew down from the heavens, and bade the panicking people to be calm. To take nothing but the clothes on their backs, and what little they could carry, and to get into motorcars, which were now permitted, by order of the new elders. And to flee for Ponca. I will travel with you. We will take shelter in the land of the gods of the Gauls, but only for a time. Then we must travel onwards to a safer harbor in a distant land. Quickly, you must flee!

  In the skies above, the mad godling impaled Shakura with black tendrils, and began to draw him close to its central sphere. The Sun struggled, and the Morning Star, empowered by the blood-sacrifice of his god-born, decades ago, rose behind the creature, and pulled back the string of his curving bow. A bolt of raw power slammed into the mad godling from behind, and it spun, distracted from the Sun, and lashed out, trying to kill the Morning Star now, too.

  The people fled, as quickly as they could, but one woman, holding a sobbing child as they bounced in the back seat of the motorcar, looked back in time to see the Sun die. An explosive surge of energy, blasting out of his body racing towards them . . . only to be drawn back. Sucked in and absorbed by the mad creature, which she could only see as a tiny white dot, floating around in the sky . . . .

  In Novo Gaul, the Chahiksichahik survivors huddled in on themselves in a hotel’s restaurant, and watched the news on far-viewers. Riots and demonstrations in Nahautl. A new movement, declaring that sorcery should be outlawed, as it was the cause of the mad gods. The reclusive secret society known as Blood Pact, expunged in Europa by the efforts of the Praetorians and Trennus Matrugena, revealed itself in Nimes in Novo Gaul. Or at least, a spokesman who claimed to represent this radical sect of summoners shouted that sorcery wasn’t at fault. This was all the doing of the gods themselves. That the gods should be held accountable . . . that the gods should die.

  Sophia blinked the images away. The future liked to masquerade as the past. She couldn’t understand half of what she saw, always pain and misery and violence. She sat up in bed, and looked at the clock. Almost time. She’s coming home. She slid out from under the covers, and slipped her feet into her slippers, pulling on a robe. She walked down the hall, avoiding all the boards that she knew would squeak, her foot hesitating for an instant, the echoes of the future noise echoing in her head before she moved aside, finding a different path. She had to make sure Sigrun and she could talk alone before Father and Mother woke up. Sigrun was different when they were around. But Sigrun would understand. Her sister would believe her.

  She looked up as the door opened, right on cue, and her eyes widened. Her sister was so beautiful it made her heart hurt. She was just twenty-nine, and carried herself with a spring in her step, though she’d already been on the Persian border, and the Mongol one, and Sophia knew that her sister was aching to stop the soldiering work, and come home. Be an ælagol. Travel around, resolving disputes and solving crimes. Sophia thought her sister could do anything.

  But that was because she could.

  Sophia ran forwards and hugged her sister, catching her at waist-height. “Sigrun! Oh, I’m so happy you’re home.”

  “Little one, what are you doing up? It’s after midnight.”

  “I dreamed you were coming home. Mother and Father said it wouldn’t be for a week, but I woke up and knew you were here.” Sophia paused. She had to tell her sister. “I had such bad dreams about you the past month, Sigrun.”

  Sigrun ruffled her hair. “I was very safe in the northern kingdoms.” She dropped her spear to the floor, scratching the wood. “I brought you a gift. A nesting doll, from Raccia. Let me get it out of my bag.”

  “That’s not what I dreamed about, sister.” Sophia’s voice was firm. She had to make her sister see. And behind and over her, she could feel . . . something bigger than herself. Something that burned as brightly as the sun, and it was paying attention to her, and it recognized her. And it hated her. Sigrun could protect her, though. Sigrun would always protect her. That’s what her sister was for. “I saw you. You walked a dark road, heading east, always east, and the sky was like blood behind you, as the fires of a dying god consumed the world. Ashes fell from that sky like snow, settling on your hair, which was matted and soaked with blood, hanging down around your face like a medusa’s snakes.” Sophia could see it so clearly now. “You had a raven on one shoulder, one eye clear and amber, the other white as milk, and it held a silver key in its beak.” She paused. “You had a spear in your hand, that glowed like a levinbolt, and carried a child under your heart, but the father is both alive and dead, and you had been both married to him and never truly wed, and he’d been young enough to be your son and old enough to be your grandfather when the child blossomed in your womb. This is how the world ends, sister. In fire, and not in flood. And you’ll be there to watch it die.”

  Horror in her sister’s eyes. Belief. Sigrun knew truth when it spoke to her. And she would grow to recognize the voice of prophecy all too well.

  And then, behind her, as she’d known they would be, her parents emerged, and she knew that her mother was panicking at the words she’d spoken. Terrified that her daughter could be what was buried deep in her own lineage. A prophetess. The Prophetess. Even at ten years of age, Sophia already knew her own Name: Trueseer . . . and the god to whom she was bound had just awakened to the fact that she existed. That the girl he remembered at the end of the world had awakened to him. And he reached out and shoved his memories into her mind, encysting them there, because he remembered what would happen, and she dared to be better than a god . . . .

  Sophia blinked, and wiped the sweat out of her eyes, a blissful breeze cooling her for a moment. Wait, where am I? When am I? She was . . . drifting in time. She’d been remembering events past, and then had been ten again, remembering them forwards, but she wasn’t sure, if this moment was being remembered, or lived. She pinched herself, and it certainly seemed real enough. The problem with memory and vision was dating them. Sigrun had looked the same age in every vision she’d ever had of her sister . . . other than the ones Sophia had seen that predated her own birth. Sophia knew about the mirror. She knew about the canings. She’d never been caned by her own mother, but Sigrun had, and Sophia shared her sister’s hate, as a result.

  Sophia shook her head, and plodded up the familiar track. Yes, Sigrun always looked the same. So did Sophia herself, when she saw herself from the outside, through someone else’s eyes. Other than the very end, when she saw her corpse burning on the pyre.

  A twig snapped, and Sophia spun, suddenly on edge. The birds had stopped singing. She frowned, and asked, “Is someone there?”

  No answer, and there were no hoof beats, so she knew she was safe. She turned and plodded on.

  . . . Medea waited until the harpies had all gathered around the orderly and the two guards who’d run to try to stop them. The fallen bodies were on the tile floor, blood spreading out from them, and the harpies had torn open their bellies with their talons, and were now face-first in viscera. They periodically lifted their bloodstained faces, and she could see fibers stretching from their mouths to the corpses, fine as spider webs. Her heart pounded. She needed to get out of here. They’d be going room by room after this, wouldn’t they? She saw all of them dip their heads again, jostling one another. Raking at the bodies with their claws to cut off gobbets of meat. Her chest hurt, but she had exactly one chance. She opened the door, quietly, and began to wheel herself down the hall. One-handed, she was slow, but it was better than waiting to die.

  “Raaaaaa?” It was a squawk from behind her, and she glanced back, once, over her shoulder. Saw one of the females, blood trickling down her exposed breasts, staring down the hall at her. Medea clenched her teeth—she still had most of them, other than a partial upper bridge—and propelled the chair faster. Doors open
ed all up and down the hall as she passed—she could see people peering out, but not one of them lifted a hand to help her. Sons of bitches, she thought. Some of you are young. Some of you are healthy. You could be helping. But of course, you leave the old woman to run alone. She rolled around a corner, and heard wing-beats behind her. Have to go faster. Her left arm, the partially-paralyzed one, ached in the shoulder and elbow. Useless damned thing.

  Feathers tearing at the air, ruffling sound, like a dove’s wings, and then one of the creatures was in front of her. Gobbets of flesh visible between her teeth, eyes feral as she landed in front of Medea. The creature laughed, and Medea’s head jerked up as another one landed behind her, and put its taloned hands on the back of her chair. Gave her a push, right down the hall. She jammed her good hand on the wheel, trying to stop herself, and the wheel tore her fragile skin.

  The one in front of her stopped the chair with a foot, and leaned down to smile into her face. Then it threw itself back upright and kicked her chair back towards its companion, and the wheels skidded around in an arc, letting her see what was behind her. Three more harpies had joined the crowd, and they laughed and leaped in to push her chair back down the hall. Three more passes, Medea shrieking and screaming each time, before the chair skidded into a wall, and she rocked from side to side and slumped out of it, falling to the ground. She felt her hip break, and keened, trying to get to her hands and knees. Where is the great valkyrie now? she thought, her chest on fire. Where is the protector of the weak and the helpless?