Adam swallowed. That was rather more truth than Kanmi ever let anyone see. “Tren?”
The Pict shook his head. “Like last time. It’s like I can see through into the Veil. There are spirits all around us. Hundreds of them. All bright and shining and ephemeral, and there’s nothing but light all around them.”
Adam nodded, slowly. “It’s a good bet that when it comes time to take the wedding pictures,” he said, “none of this will show up on the film.”
“I’d be terrified if it did,” Kanmi returned. “Besides, whose version would be there? In objective reality? We’re probably going to see a plain white background on those images.”
The three lictors now needed to step off to the side, where the dwarf they’d seen here last time, Dvalin, took charge of them. The dwarf, scarcely more than four feet in height, turned and scowled back at the rest of the people in the vast chamber, his feet, to Adam’s perspective, leaving tiny impressions as space dust flew away under them. No pictures! the dwarf snapped. Not until the ceremony, anyway. He scowled up at Adam. There’s nothing here except you mortals that your film can actually capture. I do not understand humans. Why can they not simply sit back and experience a wonder? Why do they want to capture and quantify it? I guarantee, at some point in your future, you people will have cameras grafted to your hands or foreheads, and rather than looking at the world and experiencing it, you will reflexively take pictures of it. Dvalin made a gesture with his hands, as if parting a curtain, and reality unfolded in front of them all. A small room appeared. Here. Change your clothing. Leave your belongings on the shelves. And don’t touch anything.
Kanmi, in the small, cluttered room, which had shelves filled with . . . drinking horns and weapons and eating utensils and a dozen different types of devices, including, Adam thought, an astrolabe, narrowed his eyes at the dwarf’s back, and reached out and poked a shelf with one finger.
I did mean that, Kanmi Eshmunazar. Fingers to yourself, else I will cut them off and use them as pens. The dwarf didn’t even turn around, just closed the . . . door? Yes, on this side of reality, it was a door . . . behind him.
Adam just shook his head. “This is one of those occasions where I’m just going to follow other people’s lead,” he told Trennus and Kanmi. “I’m so far out of my element, I might as well not be in the same universe anymore.”
“Technically, you’re not, if this is a construct for accessing the Veil,” Kanmi told him, sardonically, as they all unlaced their bags.
Adam had decided, after hearing from Sigrun what her wedding outfit was likely to be, that if he was going to break most of the rules, he might as well break all of them. As such, he’d brought with him the full formal uniform of an officer in the Praetorian Guard. In the JDF, as a member of a foreign levy to the legions, Adam’s dress uniform had consisted of a black hat with a red Roman Eagle and a Star of David counterpoised beside each other, and a red cockade to remind people of the old helmet crests, matched with khaki-colored pants and tunic and a black cloak, all of stiff gabardine.
The Praetorians themselves rarely wore uniforms anymore. Bodyguards generally needed to fade into the background, except on formal occasions. Livorus generally required them to look like the many fingers in Rome’s fist, not like a cadre of Roman elites.
But when the Praetorians needed a full dress uniform, which served to remind people of the might and splendor of the ancient Empire that they served . . . the only acceptable choice was armor. The uniform started with an long, sleeveless tunic of undyed wool, to protect the body from the armor itself, and to provide a limited amount of modesty. The ancient Romans had found the breeches worn by the Gauls and Germanic tribes to be unmanly on first encountering those other civilizations.
Since Adam had had previous military service, and wasn’t a mage, that meant the lorica segmentata for him, a steel cuirass of plates welded together, with shoulder protection that allowed for arm movement, but that didn’t protect the vital underarm area, which Adam twitched at having exposed. There were veins there, and access to the chest cavity, and while he knew, rationally, that he wasn’t going to be lifting his arms much—nor wearing this armor for long—it seemed so singularly useless. Then again, this armor had been designed for when men fought in phalanxes and marched in columns and lines to do battle.
In his previous military experience, Adam had earned the right to wear phalera. Typically, these discs indicating awards for honor, courage, or good conduct, were worn attached to a leather harness worn over the top of the rest of the armor. He had four, total, two in gold for exceptional service, and two silver ones. One of the gold ones had been for the djinn incident, in fact. He had to cinch down the harness tightly to avoid clattering.
His personal armor also included manicas—overlapping metal pieces that provided sleeve-like protection to the outsides of his arms—greaves, which protected his shins, and a balteus which held his ceremonial gladius and secured his pteruges, the heavy leather strips meant to protect his upper legs.
While Trennus and Kanmi now wore similar outfits, they didn’t bother with the manicas or the greaves. They both needed to stay mobile. “Comfortable?” Trennus asked, handing Adam his helmet.
Adam shook his head. “No, but comfort really isn’t the point.” He pulled the helmet on. For an officer, the crest ran transverse, from ear to ear, rather from nose to nape, but it still had a faceguard . . . and because armor hadn’t entirely frozen in time in 150 AC, and he was an officer, the faceguard could be pulled down, like a visor, concealing his mouth and cheeks, and had a fine, stiff mesh over the eyes, to protect the wearer’s sight. “Between the fact that I clank when I walk, and I’ve got drafts where there really shouldn’t be, this isn’t feeling like the best idea I’ve ever had.” He shook his head. “How do you stand the kilt?”
“I’m used to it. Helpful in summer. I’ll admit it gets a bit nippy when you’re trying to walk through waist-deep snow.” Trennus’ grin got him dirty looks from both Kanmi and Adam.
Adam grumbled and adjusted one more strap. “Ridiculous, inefficient armor. If you’re going to trap yourself in a shell like this, it should cover everything and not limit mobility.”
“They relied on the shield a lot more than anything else.” Kanmi pointed out. “We have everything? Tren. Ring.”
“You ask one more time, and I’m pretending I’ve forgotten it somewhere.” Trennus arched his eyebrows and grinned.
Adam opened the door back onto the panorama that was the entire universe, and, just for a moment, wondered what it would be like to be . . . a disembodied consciousness, roaming forever in that vastness. Always with more places to explore and discover. Always voyaging. It stirred him, but it also seemed an incredibly lonely thought.
Someone, likely Dvalin, had set up chairs in the middle of the cosmos for everyone, and the dwarf now impatiently beckoned Adam and the others forward and positioned them up at the front, where Sophia already stood, staring around the room in total contentment. “Stand here. Don’t move around. And don’t slouch, either.” Adam stole a glance at his parents, to see how they were doing; his mother hadn’t even reacted to the Praetorian uniform and the lack of a tallit. Good. This means she’s in so much shock right now she can’t possibly get any worse.
A single horn sounded in the distance, and when Adam looked up, Tyr One-hand himself had appeared to his right, and Adam had to control the urge to jump. Tyr wasn’t dressed in a suit and a fine cloak today. No, today he wore armor of ancient, worn steel, and a black cloak that looked like the night sky around them. Adam could have sworn that there were stars trapped in the fabric. Real, burning, multicolored galaxies, just . . . distant ones.
A worm at the back of Adam’s mind reminded him, again, that his had been the hand that had ended Tlaloc, and this was a god, too. Though if Tyr objected to Adam’s presence in his valkyrie’s life, there had been no evidence as yet.
Tyr now lifted his right hand and spoke. Be welcome. And be at peace. To
day is a day of great happiness, though sorrow always follows joy. Remain on your feet, I pray you. This is how one shows respect. By standing upright and tall, and by showing one’s heart and hands. In the audience, Ivarr struggled to stand before one of his gods, though Medea was clearly trying to push him back down into his chair.
Tyr’s levinbolt eyes canvassed the crowd, and stopped on Lassair, and the faint, ephemeral form of the hind beside her, that was Trennus’ other bound spirit. Adam could feel Trennus tensing beside him . . . and then something seemed to pass between the god and the spirits, and Tyr actually inclined his head in respect.
The god gestured, and the horn sounded again, and at the back of the hall, a door opened. Light streamed into the universe, as if a floodgate had been opened, and two figures entered. One was Livorus, dressed in his Senatorial toga, and looking oddly prosaic as his sandaled feet caused meteors and comets to skitter out of his path. The other was, of course, Sigrun. Today, she’d chosen to show what she was: a battle-maiden of Valhalla. As such, she hovered above the starry floor, not disturbing the universe an iota. She wore a cloak of white swan feathers that actually trailed the ground behind her, and was pulled up over her head like a cowl, though her copper-tinged hair hung free under it. And she wore armor. Not her old chainmail, but a shining cuirass, bracers, and greaves over her tall boots. Light poured from her rune-marks, and she looked ethereal as she hovered beside Livorus, one hand on his elbow, the other hand gripping, not flowers, but a spear. Adam could suddenly envision her hovering over some ancient battlefield, the last sight some fallen soldier would ever see.
Livorus, as calmly as if he were at some political function, took her hand from his arm and handed her over, gently, so that Adam could clasp her fingers. Sigrun allowed her feet to touch down, and Adam reached forward with his free hand, pushing the hood back from her face, to reveal a band of flowers woven through her loose hair.
___________________
For her part, Sigrun remembered, later, only a handful of things about the moments leading up to the wedding. For her, the hall was, as it always had been: a vast and limitless sky, with clouds scudding here and there. No ground below. Just light pouring down from above, and endless canyon walls of thunderstorms intermixed with warm, uplifting thermals. A paradise for birds, or anyone else who loved to fly. She heard Livorus cautioning Adam, softly, “Treat her right, or you’ll answer to me,” and Adam’s quiet reply of, “I’ll always try, sir.”
And then, just for a moment, Tyr’s eyes filled her entire world. You are sure, daughter?
Yes.
You will know sorrow. I will not conceal this from you. You will watch him die, slowly, day by day, as he ages, and you do not.
I do not doubt, that when he dies, I will follow him not long after.
The future is unclear, and the road of wyrd ahead is troubled. Take joy while you can, daughter, and receive my blessing with it.
Then, vows. Simple ones. To cherish one another, to treat one another with respect and courtesy, to protect and defend one another, and to live together as long love should live. As Tyr bound their hands with a silver cord, Adam leaned in to kiss her, and Sigrun saw, through her closed eyelids, the flash of a camera. Dvalin is going to fuss . . . .
The formal pictures were all taken downstairs, at the reception. Adam sheepishly taking off his helmet and leaning his head against hers for the picture that she knew she’d be carrying in a locket or a watchcase for the rest of her life. Trennus and Lassair were caught with them in another. All four lictors, Livorus, Kanmi’s children, and Lassair in another. Ehecatl and his family joining for another work-related image after that. Then one of Sigrun and her family, her sister beside her, staring off into the distance at something invisible to everyone else, some fancy inside her own mind. “So, sister,” Sigrun challenged her directly, before dinner was served in the main reception hall. “So much for your prophecies. I am married, and you said I would never be wed.” Sigrun was happy, and she wanted to use this moment. She could batter down the visions that locked Sophia away from the real world. “You’ve said since you were ten years old, that you saw me, never married, but beloved of a man who was both young enough to be my son and old enough to be my grandfather at the same time . . . carrying a child under my heart, a spear in my hand, and a raven on my shoulder, with death in my eyes and the world in flames behind me.” Another faint smile. “I’m married now, Sophia.”
“Ask his family how married you are,” Sophia replied, dreamily. “Ask them in a month, or a year, when time has dulled the wonder. Ask his mother. Ask his brother. Ask the rest of his people.”
“You hang a lot on interpretation, Sophia. I defy your iron-clad, predestinate fate. There is only wyrd.” Sigrun leaned in over Sophia’s shoulder, trying to shake her certainty. Just enough so that Sophia might let doubt into her life. She’d be healthier for it.
“You walk the path that you were always going to walk, and with the people you were always going to walk it with.” Sophia reached up and patted Sigrun’s cheek lightly.
“But my choices on that path are my own. It is my decision how to meet every turn in that path.” Sigrun bared her teeth in a smile. “According to Kanmi over there, there is a new theory called quantum physics. It holds that everything that can happen, does happen. And that for every choice we make, the universe shatters, and a new one is formed.”
“You make the choices that, in this universe, you were always going to make, Sigrun. Because you couldn’t be you, and not make those choices.” The dreamy tone never wavered. “Everything is happening exactly as I have seen it happen, Sigrun. Oh, and duck.”
Sigrun blinked, looked up, and flinched as a tall waiter walked by, balancing a tray full of drinks. She dodged, but one cup fell anyway, and splashed white wine all over her swan cloak and the front of her armor, even dampening the white shirt that peeked out under the cuirass. “I’m terribly sorry,” the waiter told her, and caught up a towel out of seemingly nowhere to dab at her cloak. “I thought I had it, and then I didn’t. Can you ever forgive me?” He kept dabbing ineffectually at her, and Sigrun felt oddly cold. She rarely felt extremes of temperature besides the heat, but for some reason, the chill of the wine seeped right into her.
“It is of no moment,” she told the waiter, staring at his face. Nondescript. He could have been Burgundian, or Frisian. Pale hair, watery blue eyes, and a fussy demeanor. “Please, do not trouble yourself any further.”
The waiter took his tray and fled, babbling profuse apologies as he backed away. Adam reached Sigrun’s side moments later, directing a hard stare after the man. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly, yes.” Sigrun shook her head. “A good thing I did not wear silken finery today, yes?”
She turned to look at Sophia, to make a joke about the ineffectiveness of a prophecy that couldn’t be issued in time to be avoided . . . and was stunned to see tears in her sister’s eyes, just before Sophia excused herself from the reception.
Shaking off the chill, Sigrun ensured that she and Adam spoke with every guest before they departed. Quite a number of her teachers from over her years in the Odinhall at least dropped by to give her their well-wishes. After the fourth or fifth batch of bear-warriors gripped his wrist firmly, Adam was puzzled. He couldn’t understand the look of sympathy, even sorrow in their eyes, each time they did so, or gave Sigrun an embrace. And as Erikir clasped his wrist, Adam overheard Brandr telling Sigrun, embracing her, “We’ll be here when you need us.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sigrun asked her old mentor, smiling a little.
“Just what I said. We’re all here for you. Just know that.” Brandr turned, clasped Adam’s wrist, and then left with Erikir and a few other god-born, leaving Adam to furrow his brow in confusion. There had been no blame or accusation in the man’s eyes. Just sorrow.
Adam cleared his throat. “Ah, I wasn’t expecting so many god-born to drop by,” he said, to cover the awkward moment.
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br /> Sigrun looked down. “It’s not often that a valkyrie weds,” she admitted. “There aren’t many of us.”
At that point, Frittigil and her family circled around to speak with them. “Thank you so much for allowing me to attend,” Fritti said, shyly offering each of them a hug. Sigrun could see in Adam’s face how deeply moved he was that the girl actually embraced him, when, the last time he’d seen her, two years ago, she’d cringed away from even a light hand’s touch.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” Adam told her, patting her back a little before she let go. “You’re blooming.”
Fritti was, too. She was god-touched of Baldur and the Evening Star, and it showed. No scars anymore, and no rune-marks on her skin. Just health and roses in her cheeks, and her eyes still sparkled, quite literally, like stars. Straight-backed and shouldered now, no more fear in her as she chattered at them both, eagerly about how she thought that her job might be to become a bridge of sorts between Nova Germania and all the smaller kingdoms that shared the continent with them and Novo Gaul. “You know, I thought I saw the bear-warrior who’s been mentoring me this year, but when I turned to look for him, he was gone.” Fritti danced a little in place. “I didn’t think he was going to be here today.” She flushed a little. “He’s taught me so much, Sigrun.”
“Unfold a little of this man’s wisdom to me,” Sigrun told her, humoring the girl.
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 83