A few images of the younger girl—presumably Sophia. A few snapshots labeled as The Raccian Border, the Caspian Sea or the Northern Lights. Images of Livorus with Ptah-ases, Ehecatl, and a Nubian and a Gaul that Adam didn’t recognize . . . but could guess at the identities. And a few more, from the past year or two. At the back of the album, he found newspaper accounts, in Latin and Gothic, about cases she’d settled as an ælagol, incidents they’d settled as lictors. A cursory glance at the dates told him she had, indeed, spent ten years as an ælagol.
And for all of that, the album felt . . . oddly empty. Adam pointed at one of the pictures as Sigrun came back into the room with tea. “Your sister? Sophia?”
“When she was young, yes. There’s one near the back of her when she went to Delphi, her first day officiating as a Pythia. She sent me a copy. She’s in her regalia.” Sigrun’s tone was colorless.
Ten or so pictures of Sophia when she was a child, and one, now that she’s grown. No pictures of your father since he married . . . except the one highly-edited family portrait on the mantel. Almost no pictures at all of you, yourself. Oh, there’s information on where you’ve gone and what you’ve done . . . but you’re not in the picture. Adam found it fascinating, what you could learn about a person from what they chose to display in their homes. Everything had meaning, and you could connect a coherent narrative out of it. Especially in a home like this, which was clearly never intended to be seen by anyone else. Nothing here was for show or for display. He’d be willing to bet that if he were to open the door in the wall to the north, which clearly led to her bedchamber, that there wouldn’t be a double bed in there at all. I’d be surprised if there’s more than a couch. Adam cleared his throat. “Do you get a picture from each place you go?” he asked, gesturing to the walls.
“Yes. If I’m there for more than a day or two, I try.” She shrugged and looked around. “I’m sorry. It’s no more than what I need, and it’s really more of storage shed than a home. I have a storage place in Burgundoi for the things I inherited from my mother, but that I haven’t wanted to transport overseas.” Another faint shrug.
Adam set the album down. He wasn’t sure what to make of the signals he was getting here. Generally speaking, being asked into the home of a single Gothic or Gallic woman was an invitation to explore the way to the bedchamber. On the other hand, he wasn’t getting any of that sensation from Sigrun. It was hard to deny the evidence that suggested he might be the only person she’d invited into this sparsely furnished apartment since she’d rented it. The fact that she sat across the living room, a full five feet away, in that uncomfortable chair, only reinforced his perception that there were no signals here. And yet . . . . Adam smiled slightly, stood, and gestured for her to take the comfortable chair . . . which she adamantly refused, at first, until several rounds of insistence and counter-insistence persuaded her to move . . . and he promptly sat down on the floor beside her. “See? Perfectly comfortable,” he told her, and stretched his legs out, picking up one of the books she’d just purchased for their trip, and watching, out of the corner of his eyes, how wide her own had gone. Like a startled maiden, Adam thought, highly amused, and flipped through the book. “Ancient Egypt: The Dynasty of Akhenaten the Godslayer,” he read out loud. “Sounds like a page-turner.”
He found a set of plates, images taken from the tomb walls of Nefertiti, and stopped to stare at them for a moment. The golden eyes staring out of the pit gave him a sense of creeping horror, for some reason. “Apparently, she got a good look at the godslayer in question.”
“The Assassin,” Sigrun said, quietly, leaning forward to look over his shoulder at the book. “Those eyes give me chills. They really do. Like they’re looking at me.” She actually did shudder. “Nefertiti and her children were lucky to escape.”
“From the way the creature’s pointing in the panel before the entire palace collapsed on it . . . ” Adam said, dryly, “the various respected archaeologists seem to think it told her to leave.” He looked up at her. “Next you’ll be saying that a godslayer can’t be a good man, by definition.” Internally, he grimaced.
Her hand actually fell to his shoulder. “I might have said that before last year,” Sigrun agreed, quietly. “There is, however, new evidence on the topic to consider. And I pride myself on being a good ælagol.”
Adam chuckled, and was startled, some two hours later, at how quickly the time had flown by. They’d done nothing but talk, mostly about the interests that the various books they’d purchased had expressed, and he hadn’t realized just how hungry he was for just that. Talk. Companionship. Something that wasn’t work. She wasn’t ignorant about what was in outer space, but she hadn’t cultivated much of an interest before this . . . but asked good questions as he once more flipped open a book to show her the moons of Jupiter, or the dormant volcano complexes of Mars.
Finally, she reminded him, at close to midnight, with something that sounded like regret, “We have an early morning flight.”
“So we do,” Adam had agreed, and levered himself to his feet. They’d had nothing to drink but tea since coming to her apartment. And as she opened the door to let him out, he’d leaned forward, just for a moment, wondering if he should kiss her cheek, but reading startlement in her eyes, he quickly changed the gesture into another, finding a hair caught in the shoulder of her bodice, and freeing it for her. “Good night, Sigrun.”
___________________
While Sigrun’s apartment was in the Esquiline Hill area, and had been picked, surely, for being in an out-of-the-way neighborhood, equidistant between the ancient, terraced gardens of Maecenas and the local nymphaeum, a rotunda dedicated to the nymphs, Trennus had chosen an apartment complex in the Quirinal Hill area, near the baths built by Flavian II, predecessor of Diocletian II. The apartments were within walking distance of several libraries, restaurants, and shops, so Trennus never had to do more than perhaps take a trolley to them. But unlike Sigrun’s apartment, it had also been selected for the resonant ley-line directly under the complex. Where Sigrun’s apartment had a door onto a balcony for easy access to the sky, Trennus’ apartment was situated on the ground floor, with access to the complex’s small kitchen garden.
Anyone who happened to visit both apartments—as Adam had—might have been struck between the similarities, as well as by the differences. Like Sigrun’s home, the shelves of Trennus’ apartment were lined with books, and there was, as in her apartment, a notable lack of a far-viewer. His shelves were, however, also lined with pictures of his large and boisterous family. He had no less than four older brothers, all of whom were married and who had produced children, resulting in visitors, like Adam, being treated to a barrage of Celto-Roman names that they’d surely not remember in the morning. There wasn’t the slightest trace of dust on those shelves, but the icebox was empty even of ice; Trennus didn’t cook for himself, though he’d have been happy to cook for a guest . . . if he’d had any.
And, of course, the landlord of the building would surely not refund Trennus’ security deposit when he moved out, because the summoner had scored a binding circle into the wooden boards that made up the floor of his living area, which he’d stained dark with a variety of herbal concoctions over the last year. Most of the time, he kept a couch and a low table positioned over them, but at the moment, Trennus had moved the couch into a corner, leaning up against one of the few bare spots on the walls, and stacked the low table atop the one in his kitchen, for free access to his binding circle. He sat at the center of the circle now, reading Names quietly from a grimoire. As each spirit answered, Trennus bargained silently with it in turn. Most took no more than a sentence or two; either they were interested, or they weren’t. He had a feeling he might need to have a handful of helpers available for the Judea trip, and he’d actually made a few more alliances with spirits during his time in Nahautl than he’d expected . . . but many spirits were bound to local areas. Few were as unbound, in that sense, as Lassair was. Even Saraid, thoug
h powerful, became less so, the further from Britannia they traveled.
Lassair had convinced him to move a mirror from the bathing chamber out here, and, while he worked, she was manifesting and de-manifesting. He could just see it out of the corner of his eye. He was, privately, amazed at the changes in her in the last ten months or so. Before, she’d wavered, barely more capable of form than a jellyfish, really, sometimes flickering into a vaguely feminine shape before dissipating back into tendrils of red-tinged white energy. Always beautiful . . . but hardly even there. Now, however, the phoenix was one of her favorite shapes, certainly, but it was hardly the only one she’d mastered. This one could be very useful, don’t you think?
He glanced up, and saw that the phoenix shape had given way to the dainty form of a hind, the body ivory and apricot, the dainty hooves wreathed in flames. “I think Saraid may object to you stealing her favorite form. And how would that be useful?”
You could ride on my back for a quick escape.
“Lassair, I would break that poor creature’s back.” He made several banishing gestures, poured another cup of wine and sifted sugar into it, before setting the mix on fire; it was all done in a metal cup for a damned good reason. “Etain,” Trennus said, reading from his grimoire, and using his will to pull the attention of the spirit in question.
A dazzling spark of light, like the sun, appeared before him. You speak my Name, and offer my favorite sacrifice. What will you with me? A hint of intrigue in the spirit’s thoughts. Do you still wish information on the remnants of Tlaloc?
“Do you have any to offer?”
I could find some—
She’s fibbing, Trennus. Make her go away. She doesn’t have anything, or she’d be asking for something of value now. Lassair’s form shifted, and became a sleek and deadly pard, made entirely of glowing amber flame, with her ever-present ruby eyes.
“Unless you’ve got something more specific, all I’m interested in is your promise to help when I go to the lands of the god of Abraham.”
There? Why would I ever want to go there? It would take more than sugar and wine to entice me to go to that place There are no profitable alliances to be made in that land, nor anything of real interest..
“Then begone, spirit.” Trennus winced and cupped his hand over the flames, putting them out, and Etain vanished with them. “I’m going through this list at a frightening rate,” he admitted, glumly, and turned the page with a finger not covered in soot.
Yes, but do you like this shape?
Trennus looked up, and evaluated the pard. “Dangerous,” he told her. “Very dangerous. You’d tear right through an enemy with those claws. But you’d be a target, too. People are very frightened of big cats, and rightly so. You might be better off sticking with the phoenix.”
How about a griffon? She shifted. They have the claws, and the wings. And I could carry you through the air.
“You know how I feel about flying. No, thank you.”
He was just about to speak the next name, when there was a knock at the door. “Master Matrugena?” an older woman’s voice seeped through from the door.
It was Sappronia, his landlady. “Gods,” Trennus muttered, in annoyance, and then called through the door, “Mistress Sappronia, if you’re having problems with your lares again, I must remind you that they are your household gods. You have to leave them their cup of wine and their bread, or they will view your contract as null and void. That’s why the drains are always in such bad order!”
Well, either that, or it could be because Latronicus on the third floor pours his cooking oil into them every day, Lassair pointed out, pragmatically.
I’m sure that doesn’t help them, no.
“Master Matrugena, I really must speak with you, and I’d prefer not to shout through the door!”
Trennus looked down. He was sitting cross-legged, had four open grimoires in front of him, along with a silver knife, two bottles of wine, a sack of sugar, a pot of honey, and a small glass jar of lamb’s blood scattered inside of his work area, and had just put out a fire in a metal goblet filled with alcohol. The potential for catastrophe if he stood up now was high. “In a minute!” he shouted back at the door.
I’ll get it, Lassair told him, cheerfully, and incarnated completely. As a fire-wreathed gryphon, all golden fur, and savage, foot-long eagle beak.
“No! Lassair, not like that!” Trennus slid his books to safety at the perimeter of the circle, and stood, gingerly, brushing off his kilt and sending sugar and salt falling to the floor as he did. You’ll scare her to death, and that’s not really the way to get out of this month’s rent.
Oh, then maybe I should look like this, then? Lassair’s form blurred. Shifted. Pulled inwards, moving towards the white hue that was her baseline, spirit-only state . . . and then assumed the amorphous shape of a human woman. Red glow at her bare feet, as if she stood on coals. Curving figure, lithe waist, and a lot more details than the last time she’d tried human form. For one, there were apricot-gold flames that formed nipples this time, and more flames that curled shyly between her long, slender legs. Trennus blinked and jerked his eyes up, and saw that her hair still billowed out around her, as if caught in a storm, white, but tinged with amber-gold . . . and the eyes were still the ruby glow of banked coals. But there were no features. No lips, no nose.
Gods, Lassair, no, you’re still in spirit form, you can’t even open the door— Trennus wasn’t entirely thinking straight at the moment; this was the first thing that happened to pop to mind.
Oh, that. Human form’s a little complex. I’m never quite sure what all the bits are supposed to be. Lassair shifted, and, for a moment, became male. For example, I’m really not sure what to make of this. I don’t really like this shape. Though, to be honest, being both at the same time doesn’t feel all that uncomfortable. She shifted again, amorphous and immaterial, the curves of hips and breasts becoming pronounced again, but the male and female aspects becoming conjoined at the legs. Like a statue of Aphroditus in a temple, a union of opposites. Which do you like, Trennus?
“Ah, the first one,” Trennus managed, averting his eyes hastily and picking up at least the bottle of wine before he managed to kick it over. He ensured that he’d banished everything in the vicinity that he’d been working with, stepped out of the circle, and opened the door before Sappronia could knock on it again. “Mistress Sappronia, I’ve told you before, I will not bargain for you with your lares if you won’t adhere to your side of your bargain with them. You might be the owner of this place, but they aren’t really tenants.”
He looked down at his landlady, who was staring up at him, and belatedly, Trennus realized he’d answered the door wearing no shirt, just his kilt, barefoot, holding a bottle of wine in one hand . . . and, as he watched her eyes track behind him, Trennus inwardly prayed, Please, please, please let it be the phoenix that she’s seeing.
“I, ah, apologize,” Sappronia told him, her voice strangled. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just wanted to ask about the next month’s rent, since you said you’d be out of town.”
“I left the next two months’ worth with your daughter this afternoon. I have a receipt written in her handwriting for it, too. Check with her.” Trennus didn’t dare turn around just yet. Just kept his voice nonchalant. “If that’s all?”
“Ah . . . yes.” Sappronia actually leaned to the right to keep peering into the door as he closed it in her face. Oh, gods, this does not bode well.
Trennus turned around, eyes on the floor, braced himself, and looked up. Lassair wasn’t ephemeral at the moment. Not at all. She’d incarnated, just for an instant, and there were veils of diaphanous golden gauze drifting over her body, revealing and concealing at once, showing the clean line of long, slender legs. Even through the gauzy covering, her skin had that sun-touched honey overtone that had entered her spiritual form of late, adding luster to the base ivory tone. His eyes moved up, cautiously; curving hips, narrow, taut waist, breasts that strained at the
cloth, pink crests still visible underneath . . . feathers made of flame, the long peacock-like flare of them, white to white-gold, blue-violet eyes, all along the backs of her arms, and extending along sweeping, glorious wings that emerged from her back . . . . white hair, shot through with glitters of gold here and there . . . red-dyed lips, a pert nose, high cheekbones . . . and ruby-red eyes, fringed with long lashes. Is the face better this way?
The bottle slipped out of his numb fingers at that point. “What?” It hit the wood floor with a thump, not breaking, but red wine pouring out over the floor like a libation before a goddess.
Lassair lifted a hand, and studied the bird-like talons that glittered at the ends of her fingers. Are the features better this way? Or should I keep working on them? She dissipated back into incorporeality again, but retained the form, the sweet smile still playing on her lips. Is it better this way . . . or this way? More like Stormborn, perhaps? A slightly sterner cast to the features, her overall body elongating slightly, taking on a slightly more athletic build. Or . . . different in some other way? The features shifted again, taking on a sweeter, more winsome cast, as her eyelids slid down, almost shyly, a glitter of gold appearing briefly in the irises.
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 54