Sigrun’s lips quirked. Frittigil had quite evidently been schooled in manners and forms in the last two years.
Behind her, she heard Adam, in Hebrew, rap out, sharply, “Imah, I am not putting her through any more of this. I can’t find a rabbi who will marry us. There are plenty who would cheerfully perform the ceremony if Sigrun were just a normal Goth or Frisian or what-have-you. They find out who she is, and they all get the same look on their faces. The one that says ‘This was not covered in my training and doesn’t appear anywhere in the manual.’ We contacted one in Burgundoi who’s used to interfaith marriages, and even he said he’d have to consult with the priests, and that if he didn’t consult, any ceremony could be technically invalid. So we’re going with Gothic ceremony with Roman civil paperwork, and there’s an end to it.” A pause. “Besides, I don’t need a ketubah on my wall to know I’m married to her.”
Sigrun sent Adam a look of relief. A ketubah was a necessary document in a Judean marriage. It was typically read out loud at the wedding ceremony, and, in theory, if it were lost or destroyed, the couple couldn’t live together until a new one had been fabricated. It represented a contract between the couple, and had provisions for who brought what to the marriage. That was all fine by Sigrun. The fact that it traditionally called for a paragraph specifying whether or not the bride had come to the marriage a virgin was, to her, private information that no one besides them really needed to know. You came to me a virgin, Adam had told her, grinning. Yes, but I do not believe there’s a way to put that in the writing, and have it remain no one’s business but our own, she’d replied, squirming slightly. We can leave that paragraph out? he’d replied. And if we do, that’s an admission in and of itself, is it not? A quick, amused glance from him. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, I take it?
He’d explained that the ketubah had been, back in the day, a truly radical document that had ensured a woman’s rights in a marriage. It was submitted to the Sanhedrin, or High Court, but the wife kept it, and it defined both parties’ rights and responsibilities in a marriage. Sigrun had listened, and while she’d been willing to do a double ceremony, one for each faith, she had certain constraints on her, too. Gothic godi, or priests, had no problems with mixed marriages. They were polytheistic. They knew perfectly well there were other gods that other people might honor, and it was perfectly commonplace for a mixed Roman-and-Gothic couple to be married twice, once in a temple of Juno, and once in a temple of Freya. In her case, however, she didn’t really answer to the godi. She answered to Tyr.
Behind her, on the phone, Adam was trying to explain some of that, diplomatically. “Goths do things differently. It’s called a hand-fasting.” Another pause. “Technically, it means we agree to marriage for a year, and if we don’t separate after that, we stay married. In the old days, however, it took getting the hand-fasted woman pregnant to make it a full marriage.” A pause, and then a tone of irritation: “Yes, it’s a real marriage, Imah.”
Sigrun returned her attention to the letter. Frittigil Chatti was fifteen years old now, and a far stronger person than she’d been a scant two years ago.
As you know, I have not been permitted to return to public school, though I have renewed my petition to at least be permitted to stand with my classmates when it is time for their graduation. They all still have at least one more year to go, except for those on track for university education; they have two more years beyond that. Nevertheless, they are my friends, and I wish to stand with them, if I may.
The Odinhall has replaced last year’s tutor, who was a priestess of Eir. I liked her. She taught me basic medicine as well as languages, history, and mathematics. My new tutor is Radulfr. He’s interesting, I have to admit. He is a bear-warrior, and I did not understand at first what on earth he could teach me. While I understand that I must learn to be strong, I did not see myself engaging in combat training. He pushes me, constantly. Why, he’s even taught me about magic—seiðr, rather. And he told me that I needed to face my fears. He drove me out to visit the Evening Star’s people, telling me that she has marked me just as much as Baldur did, and that it is my responsibility to learn more of her people. He was right—even though I hated to admit it—and I had been neglecting this duty. Radulfr told me that facing my fear would make me stronger. He was probably right about that, too.
I am not quite strong enough in my mind to return to Ponca. Not yet. But I have asked permission to enter the kingdoms that belong to other peoples of the region, and to learn something of their ways, even as some of their children were required to attend Roman schools. I would like it very much if some form of an exchange program were instituted between the Roman-style schools and the peoples of the various small nations around us. I watch the news of the war on the far-viewer at night, and it seems to me that we should all know one another better than we do. And if any good can come out of what happened to me, it would make it somehow worthwhile.
Sigrun nodded over the letter. “Brave child,” she murmured over the sheets of paper. “You have a good heart, Fritti. Better than mine.”
Behind her, Adam paced back and forth. “Explain to my brother, then, that it is not his wedding, but mine. Explain to him that if my children happen to be god-born, I will not be raising them in the Judean fashion, and if he objects, then he can explain it to Tyr One-hand.” A pause. “I realize that Burgundoi is very far away. But the other options were worse . . . well, far northern Europa, for one.” He paused, and switched to Latin, covering the mouthpiece with one hand. “She wants to know why we’re not doing this in Cimbri-on-the-Caestus, where you grew up. How do I explain this?”
“Tell her that we have a choice between two places. The Odinhall is in Burgundoi and Áhkká is north of Gotaland. Áhkká is technically closer to Judea, but far, far colder than Burgundoi. They wouldn’t like the waist-deep snow at midsummer that they’d experience there.” Áhkká was the mountain under which the entrance to Valhalla had been built, in the misty morning of the world. Sigrun could not enter those halls, not while she lived, at any rate. No human or god-born was permitted within. But they could stand outside, on the snowy slopes. Look up at the sky, still alight even at midnight during the summer months, and say their vows. It was an option, at any rate.
“Not very helpful, Sig.”
“Sorry, Adam.” Sigrun flipped through the letter. “Tell her that the only entity empowered to perform my marriage ceremony makes his home in those two places?” Sigrun gave him a droll look. He wasn’t the only one with certain constraints on him, little though his mother seemed to believe this.
“Even less help, neshama.” The word meant soul, and Adam tended to use it interchangeably with mami, a light term of endearment. Either one made Sigrun smile. He sighed and uncovered the telephone’s mouthpiece once more. “Because the ceremony has to be done either at the threshold of Valhalla or inside the Odinhall. Yes, you’d be permitted in there. It’s a public building. Most of it, anyway. That’s why we’re opting for Burgundoi. See, if we could find a willing rabbi, the Judean ceremony would be held not far from the Odinhall. But we can’t, so it won’t.”
Sigrun flapped the letter at him to get his attention. “Should we invite Fritti and her family? She’s god-touched now, and it would be very nice to see how well she’s doing.”
Adam gave her a harried wave of assent. Sigrun chuckled and started writing her reply, even as he continued, behind her, to deal with his family. “If that’s how he feels, then he doesn’t have to be there. Or acknowledge her as my wife. Or, for that matter, acknowledge me as his brother. I’m tired of these conversations. His life is not my life, and he can go to—don’t cry, Imah.”
Sigrun looked up from her reply to Fritti as Adam finally sighed and hung up the phone. “This is going to be a wonderful occasion,” she told him, solemnly. “My sister, should she attend, will be speaking in tongues and giving prophecies. She might even bring some of Delphi’s serpents with her, since it’s a special occasion. Your br
other will take one look at her and have a fit of apoplexy. Your mother will collapse in tears. My father’s wife will stand back and complain about everything, from the food to how I am dressed. Even the presence of Tyr himself will not cause her to smile. My father will be very pleased, but, on seeing my sister, his wife, and me, all at once, may decide to drink all the honeybeer of his wedding gift to us, himself. Your father will wonder at your sanity. Kanmi will crack jokes and juggle honey-cakes without using his hands. Trennus will take notes. Ehecatl and his family will be edging politely towards the exit, trying not to be rude about it, and Livorus will not even lift his eyes from his dispatches for the bulk of the ceremony.” She nodded, soberly. “We should run away together, Adam. I have heard that they perform lovely weddings in Tahiti.”
“Tyr would be upset with you.” Adam was, in spite of his irritation, starting to smile, reluctantly, at her worst-case scenario.
“He would, I think, understand.”
Trennus’ only question, when they announced their wedding, was “May I bring a guest?”
Kanmi had snorted at this. “The mystery woman you’ve been courting? I thought she was a myth. Certainly, there’s been no evidence of her besides the permanent and rather annoying smile on your face.”
Trennus’ lips quirked up, and Lassair, in her firebird form on his shoulder, turned to regard Kanmi with ruby eyes. Kanmi folded his arms over his chest and lifted his chin at the manifested spirit. “Besides, how does the average woman react to the constant companion? Do you put a sheet over her perch?”
Sigrun had watched the Britannian’s lips twitch again. “Not as such,” Trennus replied, mildly.
For her part, Sigrun had watched Lassair closely, since the spirit had admitted to having absorbed some of Tlaloc’s energies. The changes in form that Lassair managed to pull off were apparently absolute, and were completely manifested; there also didn’t seem to be limits, so long as there was always some tinge of an otherworldly nature. Fire, or fiery coloration. Lassair couldn’t hide what she was, but when she was a tigress, she was a tigress, albeit an incredibly intelligent and apparently tame one. When she was a phoenix, she was a firebird. It was a far cry from the amorphous and rather timid ball of energy she’d been in Nahautl.
Kanmi shook his head dourly and turned back to her and Adam. “I take it this is all being done somewhat quietly, so that no one insane out there tries to kidnap one of you to use as leverage on the other?” He shrugged. “Personally, I’d almost pity any fool who tried.”
Sigrun nodded. “Yes. It will not be publicized. It will be noted in Praetorian records, but that is the extent of it.”
“Not even changing your last name?”
“Even the men of my family take their name from my god-touched ancestor, Solveig. Her first-born took her name. As did my father, and as did I. It’s a matter of honor. Judean custom says that I would be named for my father. Which would be what, bat Ivarr?” Sigrun made a face. “So, will you and Bastet and the boys be in attendance?”
“I’ll bring the boys. They need to see more of the world, and Burgundoi will open their eyes a bit.” Kanmi shrugged. “Bastet said she couldn’t get away from the hospital.” His expression told Sigrun that Kanmi didn’t believe it himself, and was merely repeating a social lie.
Adam managed a smile to cover the awkwardness. “She’ll miss a show, then. I’m personally expecting fireworks of some sort.”
___________________
Trennus headed back to his apartment that night, smiling to himself, Lassair having de-manifested. Are you quite certain about this? Lassair asked him, silently, as he let himself in the front door. There will be at least one god in attendance, if I understand Stormborn’s thoughts. He will see me. He will know what I am. She manifested in a swirl of light, and Trennus wrapped his arms around her. Other than having killed a stag for Saraid this year in Britannia, he had scarcely heard from the spirit of the Caledonian Forest. It was as if the forest spirit were making herself scarce. Giving the two of them room to explore the boundaries of their new relationship.
“Is that going to be a problem? Will a god take offense at a spirit?” Trennus looked down at her, and smiled a little. “I’m a little behind on my otherworldly etiquette.”
I do not know. I wish I could remember more from . . . before. The memories are so fragmentary. The earliest here in the world is that moment in the fire, when I realized I did not wish to return beyond the Veil. That I wished to stay in this world, with all it offers in the way of experiences, forever. When I realized what people were. Not mere moving bags of water and carbon, ruled by instincts and impulses as animals are . . . . but . . . kindred spirits. Lassair ran a hand down Trennus’ face. When I realized that they were alive, too. Differently than we are, but aware. And capable of so much feeling.
Trennus leaned down and kissed her. “It’ll come back,” he told her. “We’ll keep trying as many different things as possible, until the memories are all jarred loose. And then you’ll know who you are, completely.”
What if I don’t like who I am? What if you don’t like who I am?
“Not possible. Because then you wouldn’t be you.” Trennus flicked a twist of curling, fire-red hair out of her garnet eyes, and asked, suddenly, “You know what? Can you eat in that form? They’ll be serving food at this wedding. You’ll fit in a little better if you can eat with everyone else.”
Lassair’s eyes rounded, and she put a hand to her abdomen, and then lifted it to her mouth. I . . . . do not know.
“I’ll cook something for you. What sounds good? Can you drink in that form?”
That would involve . . . . liquids. Her tone was slightly apprehensive.
“Yes, but I haven’t met a fire elemental yet who didn’t like wine or uisce beatha.” Trennus pulled her along to the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the overhead lamps; the feathers curling through her hair and the light radiating from her skin was usually enough to find his way. “Let’s see . . . damn. I’ve got to stop living like a bachelor if I’m going to be feeding you.” He grinned at her, as Lassair stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “We have half a cooked chicken, a loaf of bread, some cheese that hasn’t gone moldy yet, some apples that have seen better days, and a bottle of red wine. What do you want to try first?”
. . . bread. I think. Her tone was apprehensive as he broke off a corner of the loaf which had evidently been in the icebox for a little too long; it was the approximate consistency of a brick. “I think I could build something with this,” Trennus assessed. “Or possibly use it as a weapon.” He considered it for a moment.
Lassair tentatively nibbled on the crust he’d handed her, and made a face. There was a distinct burning odor in the kitchen, and his smoke detector went off overhead, wailing loudly. Trennus reached up absently, twisted it loose, and removed the batteries, silencing it. This had become almost habitual with Lassair in residence. He honestly didn’t know why he bothered to keep the batteries in, anymore. These days, when one of the alarms started going off, they neighbors would pound on the ceiling overhead. He had no idea what they thought he was doing in here, and tried not to meet their eyes on his way in and out of the front door.
“Best I do something else with this bread. Hold on.” He managed to cube it with a knife after some effort, and he melted the cheese and the wine together, stirring once in a while as he cut up the apples, too. Then he stood in the kitchen, and dipped the bread chunks in the cheese and wine sauce, feeding Lassair with his fingers, chuckling under his breath at the look of stunned amazement on her face. “This doesn’t seem familiar?” he finally said, as she licked at his fingers, trying to get a last taste of the food. He chuckled at the sensation. In eight months, he hadn’t quite gotten over the effect she had on him. And didn’t really want to, either.
No. But I like it.
“No one’s ever fed you before?”
Only . . . things thrown into my fires . . . . Lassair concentrated. Honeycakes, I think. Fl
owers. Grain and . . . blood. Yes. There was blood. But it was from the entrails of the animals, the sinews and whatever else they didn’t want to eat themselves. Astonishment in her voice as she looked up. I didn’t remember that before!
“Did you like eating?”
Yes. It is . . . what humans do. And now I understand why. The body requires it, but it is also pleasurable. She looked around. Though we could have sat down.
“Yes, but then we’d have had to get back up to go back to the stove with every bite.”
I could have kept the food warm at the table.
“I was feeding you. Seems impolite to expect you to provide services during that.” He wrapped an arm around her. “All right, next question. Now that we know you can eat with that mouth . . . can you speak with it, too?”
I speak perfectly well without using my lips.
“I know, dear one, but I want to hear your voice. And again, if we’re to go out in public together, it’ll frighten people less if you can speak to them in words that don’t just echo in their minds.”
Yes, but mere words leave the possibility of being misunderstood. Words are slippery. Words are false. This? This is truth. She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him, and Trennus blinked, rapidly, and picked her up to put her on the kitchen counter. When Lassair kissed like that, it completely clouded his judgment. After a moment, however, Trennus pulled away, put his head on her shoulder, and asked, his voice muffled, “Change form, please.”
Why, dear one? I thought this was your favorite.
It is, but I can’t think at the moment, and there was something else I wanted to ask you. Trennus exhaled, partially in frustration, and partially in relief as she shifted, becoming . . . a housecat. With a literally fiery orange coat and gleaming red eyes. “Off of the counter,” he told her.
You just put me here, silly.
“I know, but now you’re a cat.”
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 80