Adam turned and started to stand; Livorus waved at him and murmured, “No, none of that.” He stepped in, lifting a mask over his weathered face, his blue eyes alert over it. “Well, now, ben Maor,” Livorus said, softly. “Your god must be fond of you, indeed. Not a scratch on you.”
“Not for lack of trying, sir.” Adam sat back down again, feeling tremendously uneasy.
Livorus looked down at Sigrun. “I expect her to be out of here by nightfall,” he noted quietly. “Though it might take the hair a trifle longer to grow back to its old length.” The propraetor actually lifted her hand, cautiously, in his own gloved one, delicately avoiding all the blisters there. “You’re going to be just fine, my dear,” he told her motionless form, gently. “You can’t leave me alone with all these children. Whoever will I have to talk to?”
Adam blinked, not knowing what to make of those words at all. Livorus sighed, set her hand cautiously back down on the bed, and turned to meet his eyes. “So, I understand that you’ve defaced a local monument today, among other serious transgressions. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Just as Adam opened his mouth to reply . . . though he had no idea what to say in response . . . the phone beside Sigrun’s bed rang, a long, loud trill like a damned jungle bird, and he fumbled for the receiver, trying to still the ringing before it woke her. “Ave?” he said, quietly into the mouthpiece, looking up at Livorus, trying to convey with his expression that he was about to get rid of whoever it was and go back to replying to the propraetor’s questions with due respect.
“Adam?” A soft female voice almost breathed his name into his ear, and he didn’t recognize the voice at all. No one he knew would know to call this hospital, this hospital room.
“Who is this?” he asked, sitting upright, going on alert. There were no windows in the burn unit. There couldn’t be; dust was forbidden in here, as was direct sunlight.
“Oh, Adam, it’s so good to finally hear your voice,” the woman told him, her own tones drowsy and languorous. “I’ve seen such things about you. You’ve been a godslayer since before you were born, did you know? You’ve done it before. You’ll do it again.” Light Gothic accent. Young. Probably not more than twenty-five. Twenty-six at the most. From her inflections, either drugged, or mostly air between her ears.
Adam stood, holding the phone in one hand, the receiver in the other, and pulled on the wires to get to the door, looking down one side of the hall, and then the other. Who knows? he thought, frantically. Who in god’s name did Kanmi and Tren talk to besides Livorus? There was no one else there besides Ehecatl and the two Eagle warriors . . . and the warriors saw nothing, and Ehecatl wouldn’t talk . . . . “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, evenly. “Who are you?”
“Me? Oh, I’m sorry, where are my manners? I’m Sophia. Sigrun’s never mentioned me, has she?” For a moment, bright irritation in the voice, and clarity. Focus. And then back to the dreaming tone. “Poor old Akhenaten never had a chance. Not that he was much of a god, hmm?” She giggled a little. “The ones in Babylon-that-was, though? They at least put up a fight, didn’t they, godslayer?” She paused. “Oh, but of course you don’t remember. They’re not your memories yet.”
Whoever this is, she’s insane, Adam thought, but somehow has today’s news right on tap. “All right, Sophia,” If that’s actually your name . . . . “I’ll play along. What else do you see?”
“Lots of things.” It was a teasing purr now. “I know that like your Moses, you’ll die before you see the Promised Land, but you’ll finally be yourself again after your demise.”
Adam stopped moving. This wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. “You’ll be a stepfather to your own daughter, and your wife will be your widow ere you meet her again. I see a dark shadow standing over and around you, made of order and the law, though it is an assassin of kings. And its name is your name, and your name is its name. Adam. Adam, Adam, Adam, son of light.”
His fingers slipped on the body of the phone, though he had a death grip on the receiver. “Who in god’s name are you?” he gritted out from between his teeth, distantly aware of the phone hitting the ground at his feet, and jangling as it bounced on its curly cord.
“I told you, I’m Sophia! Oh, do put Livorus on. Sigrun won’t let me tell him not to shake hands with the man who hates his roof. He’ll boil the blood in his veins if he does. Oh, and is Kanmi there? I want to tell him I’m so sorry about his wife.” Rattling on now, like an errant gossip. “And Trennus, that dog. I want to tell him to watch out for himself. Lassair started out as a fertility goddess, did you know?”
At that point, Sigrun opened her eyes. The old dead skin on her face was sloughing back in places, revealing fresh pink underneath, but her expression was alert. “Who is it?” she asked. Her voice was better now, no more a harsh raven’s croak. “You look like you’ve seen a spirit.”
“Someone named Sophia.”
“Oh . . . gods.” She held out her hand for the phone, imperatively. Adam handed it to her, numbly, and sat down on the edge of the chair once more. He watched her eyes narrow as she said, “Sophia? Waes hael.”
____________________
Sigrun closed her eyes as she heard her sister’s voice, speaking in Latin. “I’m glad you’re awake, Sigrun. I tried to time my call for when your eyes would be opening after the morphine, but I was a little early. I warned you about the trap, and you fell right into it.” A sigh.
Sophia’s sleepy tones got on Sigrun’s last nerve, and she replied, in Cimbric, “No. The trap wasn’t a trap. We were taken prisoner, but released. You were wrong.”
“That wasn’t the trap I was talking about,” Sophia scoffed lightly, and in Latin. “You’re still in the real trap, sister. Besides, you know I was right. I’m always right.”
“You have not been right about the black bird on my shoulder or the end of the world yet.” Sigrun shifted to Latin, conforming to her sister’s speech mostly out of habit.
“Not yet. That’s still a real vision, though. But you did find the bumblebee and the black bird.”
Irked, Sigrun replied, “You are such a child, Sophia. Yes, there was a ‘bumblebee.’ You were right about that. But there was no ‘black bird the size of a man.’”
Livorus coughed into his hand, and Sigrun looked up, startled, covering the mouthpiece with her hand. “My lord?”
“Tototl’s given and family names,” the propraetor said, quietly. “They, ah, actually mean ‘black-feathered,’ and ‘bird,’ respectively. I don’t know how this is relevant, or who this person is . . . . ”
Sigrun felt as if she’d bitten into a rotten tomato. She had interested eyes on all sides; Livorus and Adam were fascinated observers at the moment. “It’s my sister, dominus.”
“The god-born of Apollo? The Pythia?” Livorus had, after all, read her entire dossier five years ago. None of the others had.
“She’s seen true since she was ten years old, sir, but she sees far too much, too far ahead, and never anything useful.” Sigrun grimaced. “She told me to beware of a trap and to look for a bumblebee and a black bird several days ago.”
“And you didn’t tell us?” Livorus asked, raising his eyebrows.
“If I had, we would have gone down every wrong path imaginable.” Sigrun heard Sophia asking, on the phone, is that Livorus? I want to talk to him! It’s important! “Sir, do you actually want to hear what she prophesies about you? I strongly recommend against it. It brings nothing but trouble.”
“So far, she seems more accurate than the gentlemen who perform the weather auguries on the far-viewer. Somehow, every time I want to go to the seaside, they say it will be sunny, and it promptly rains.” Livorus held out his hand for the phone.
Sigrun handed it over, and watched as Livorus’ face drained of color. After several moments, the propraetor said, merely, “Thank you, my dear. It’s very kind of you to try.” And then he handed the phone back to Sigrun, who took it, reluctantly.
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” her sister told her dreamily. “It won’t do any good, of course, but at least I’ve told him.”
“The seer who told Caesar to beware the ides of Martius changed his so-called fate,” Sigrun pointed out, tartly. “Nothing is set in stone. If you’d just realize it . . . .” She trailed off. Nothing was set in stone, not even her sister’s behavior. She had to try again. If only for her own sanity. Of course, she knew the answer already from her sister’s voice. She didn’t even need to ask the question. “You’ve taken the drugs again.” Her tone was flat. “You abuse your gift, Sophia.”
“You’re angry with me. You’re disappointed in me.” The words were rote.
Sigrun lay back against the pillows, the pain in her heart worse than any pain of the body. “Yes, I’m angry with you. Yes. I’m disappointed in you.” And I’ve said this so many times, and without any effect at all. Gods, why did they have to send her to Delphi? One more time. One more try. She had . . . just enough ability to care to try one more time. Today. “You know, if someone drinks every single night, there are problems in their life that they are not addressing. What does it say about you, that every time I hear from you, you are on a vision drug?”
Sophia didn’t answer the question. She just repeated herself. “You’re angry with me. And you’ll be angry with me for a very long time. You’ll even be angry with me after I die. You’re too good at being angry, sister. Someday, you’ll be so angry at yourself, that you’ll cut yourself in half.” Sophia’s voice was drowsy. “You’ll hate yourself for living, you’ll hate yourself for feeling, and you’ll be angry at the whole world for being what it will be, but you’ll be one of only a handful of people who can save what’s left of it. So you’re just going to have to love the world, Sigrun. And that’ll be one of the hardest things you’ll ever have to do.”
Sigrun closed her eyes. “Sophia. I’ve had enough for one day. So I will tell this to you in good, plain Latin so that you may understand it clearly: Leave my friends and colleagues alone. They are not to be bothered with what you see. And for the last time, there is no fate. There is only wyrd.” Her free hand clenched and unclenched in the blankets. “Goodbye, sister. Please be well.”
She hung up the phone, and stayed silent for a long moment, controlling her breathing. Controlling the tears. Finally, she opened her eyes, and looked at the two men in the room with her. Livorus and Adam both looked . . . deeply uneasy. “Forgive me, both of you,” she muttered. “She has this effect on people. I try not to inflict her on anyone who knows me.” Her eyes slid towards Adam. “I’m sorry you had to deal with her.”
“I’d forgotten that you had a sister. I think you’ve only mentioned her once,” Adam admitted.
“I don’t talk about her.” Ever. If I can help it. Sigrun’s eyes started to drift closed again. Now that the pain was a little further away, as her body was working through its recovery process, she was tired again. She was also, unfortunately, ravenously hungry. They’d explained it to her in the Odinhall; her metabolism sped up when she needed to regenerate damage, whether inflicted on her, or taken from another person. From nothing, nothing. She needed to eat, no matter how tired she was. “I don’t suppose,” Sigrun said, cracking her eyes open again, “that there is any chance at all of me getting some food, is there?”
Solemnly, Adam picked up the tray from beside the bed, and for a moment, Sigrun allowed herself to hope. When he lifted the lid and showed her the contents, however, she let her lips quirk a little, in spite of the pain that even a trace of facial expression brought. “Adam ben Maor, if you wanted to kill me, you should have just left me to die in the temple. This? This is the stuff of which vengeance is made.”
“No, this is the stuff of which puls is made. But I take it you want something real to eat?”
“Would kill for it.”
“Well, we’ll see what I can go scrounge, eh?”
Livorus looked down at her, and once more took her hand in his own gloved one as he stood. “We should let you rest, my dear. This is, by far, the worst injury I’ve ever seen you sustain.” Concern behind the cool mask of pragmatism that Livorus always wore. After five years in his service, however, Sigrun hardly needed the eyes of Tyr to see through it.
“There’s a saying among my people,” she managed, settling back down among the pillows as carefully as she could. Even the faintest shift of position brought the sheets into contact with patches of skin that hadn’t previously been touched, and hadn’t quite healed yet. “That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.”
Livorus’ lips quirked. “I’d expect nothing less out of a barbaric northern philosopher. Depressing, but aptly Stoic.” He pressed her hand with exquisite gentleness. “I would prefer not to see how strong you are capable of becoming.”
“That may not be something I have a choice in, sir.” Sigrun managed a faint smile for them both, and raised a hand as the door closed behind them. Her stomach growled at her, and she hissed in annoyance. The body required feeding, in order to maintain the healing that it was engaged in, and it did not care that what she’d been left by the hospital staff was unpalatable. All her body knew was that it smelled sustenance. So she pulled her tray to her, wincing as every movement made too-tight skin tug and crack . . . and ate. As fast as she could, her hands shaking in her need, and tried not to taste any of it as it went down.
When she had finished eating, she cautiously pulled at some of the dead and itching skin, wanting nothing more, at the moment, than a handful of sand to scour herself with . . . and stared at the number of new rune-marks seething under her skin. Scars. Prettier ones than the average mortal is left with, but scars, nonetheless. How many of them will I have after this? And how much stronger will I need to become, if I’ve even a hope of turning aside these futures that my sister believes are foreordained? Sigrun leaned back, and for the first time since awakening, the actual weight of what had happened in the last day hit her, and she began to shiver, uncontrollably—she, who never felt the cold. Oh, gods. Oh, gods. I have to contact the Odinhall. I saw humans using technology to mediate the power of a god. No, it’s worse. Much worse. I helped kill a god. The gods cannot make war on each other . . . . I may have just started a war between the gods themselves.
Her stomach clenched, and she had to take deep breaths to keep herself from throwing up everything that she’d just eaten. I think I might be lucky to survive the next week. And my death might even be just, from the perspective of my grandsire, Tyr. She swallowed hard, and tried very hard not to consider the possibility that she might be executed as a criminal against the gods themselves. It might not matter that Tlaloc had been deranged. That he and his mortal attendants had resumed the custom of human sacrifice. That, having stopped the technomage and the god-born, she and the other lictors had largely been trying to save their own lives from that moment forwards. That wasn’t the point. The point was . . . they’d won.
No one expected humans to win against a god. It wasn’t supposed to be possible.
She closed her eyes and rocked, feeling the weight of the meal in her stomach like a stone. Tlaloc was weak, Sigrun reasoned. His power was diminished. Loss of the belief and fear of his followers, on whom he’d preyed. The machinations of Tototl and Gratian Xicohtencatl. Their siphoning his power of for . . . the gods only know how many other power supply stations like the one we found in Tikal. There might have been dozens. Something to look into . . . they wanted a system of dependency that they controlled, perhaps? They wanted people relying not on ley, which is inexpensive, abundant, and inexhaustible, but on a power that they controlled, could give and take away at a whim . . . except they wouldn’t have controlled it. Not in the end. Unless they controlled a god. What pride . . . .
She realized, suddenly, that she was finding rationalizations, and that the rationalizations didn’t matter. Nothing she did or thought right now was going to make a difference when it came time to face her gods in the Odinhall and account for her
actions.
Sleep, however, beckoned, and she couldn’t fight it. Her body had the food that had been the sole reason she’d awakened, and now it needed time to digest and use that sustenance to rebuild. Her last thoughts were a confused amalgam of we really didn’t mean to and at least if I’m executed next week for deicide, I can’t possibly be around for the end of the world, right? Sophia will have to admit to being wrong . . . .
____________________
Outside in the corridor, Livorus beckoned Adam out of the room, and the younger man followed, trepidation suddenly sucking at the pit of his stomach. “Let us allow her to rest, shall we?” Livorus murmured as he closed the door behind them. “Let us walk, ben Maor. We have much to discuss.”
Adam winced, and followed. He hadn’t had a chance to write up his notes, let alone find an unused typewriter with a decent ribbon somewhere in this hospital . . . . If I could even find one with Latin characters. He suddenly pictured a typewriter entirely configured for Nahautl ideograms and syllabic symbols. So, this pictogram of a corpse wrapped for burial, next to the glyph representing a hollow-eyed god . . . yes, that takes care of page one, in its entirety . . . He put a hand over his face and rubbed, briefly but fiercely, at his eyes. He was obviously punch-drunk if he was finding that amusing. “Sir? Can I ask what Eshmunazar and Matrugena have already told you?”
Livorus raised a hand to stop him as they got into an elevator with a half-dozen orderlies and nurses, all of whom looked tired and harassed. “A moment. The top floor, if you would, ben Maor.”
Adam pushed the button for the highest floor of the seven-story structure, and watched the brass cage doors slide closed. Trepidation continued to build as they slowly ascended, and finally, exited. Livorus didn’t even speak then, but rather found them a set of stairs that led out onto a roof. Adam followed, feeling the sticky heat of a Tenochtitlan afternoon hit him like a wool blanket soaked in hot bathwater, and eyed the railing around the edge of the roof. “Ah, sir? For the record, I’m not actually Roman. I can’t be ordered to fall on my sword for the honor of the Empire.” It wasn’t entirely a joke. Adam closed his hands and put them behind his back. If someone wanted him to be a scapegoat, they’d damned well have to kill him.
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 44