“Then do it!” the man demanded, taking a step forward, his eyes ablaze.
Lassair swallowed. This wasn’t a bargain. There was no exchange of energies. And it wasn’t a free sharing, a gift returned and returned and returned, as it was between her and Trennus. She’d been compelled before. But she could also read the desperate hope in the man’s heart, and the faint flickers of it in the woman, who had longed for death as a release from pain for years now. I can only heal from within someone’s body, she told him, quietly, as Truthsayer screamed once more in her mind and her muffled voice crept out from behind the closed door in the wake of that silver-sharp sensation. I cannot do that, without de-manifesting this body.
“You mean, you’ll have to possess her?”
That is correct, but I cannot do it. Lassair actually wrung her hands, conflicted. The gentler parts of her pitied the woman, and wanted to help her. But the parts of her that had been compelled before raged up in refusal, hissing no, no, not again, never again, my spark will not be put out because another demands it, I am not a thing, I am not a tool, I am not a toy, I am not a resource to be drunk down and exhausted. And, too, Truthsayer’s agony in her mind.
The man couldn’t hear her inmost thoughts, of course. He took another impetuous step forward, pushing the wheelchair closer to the binding circle. “Do it. Release that body—I’m sure whoever’s it used to be will be grateful to get their mind back—and enter my wife’s. Heal her.”
Lassair’s head snapped up in affront. I do not possess this body, she replied, a little more sharply than she’d intended. This is my own creation. I am not a thief. I do not steal the bodies of others.
“Drop your meat on the floor, if that’s what it takes. Heal her. She doesn’t have much time.”
Another white-hot spasm of agony from Truthsayer. Lassair couldn’t think. Too many competing demands. Too much, from too many directions at once. She cast around desperately, and finally settled on the truth. If this man truly understood love, if he truly understood generativity . . . he’d understand this. I am with child, she told him, silently. Not, as she’d intended at first to say, this body is with child. The words simply formed themselves, and she put a hand, apprehensively, to her belly. Please. I cannot disperse the body. If I leave it, the body will dissipate, and the child may go with it. But I swear, when the child is born, I will heal your wife. You have my word. Please. Stop hurting Truthsayer. Release me. I will heal her . . . but not today.
And not, a voice whispered at the back of Lassair’s mind, because you’ve demanded it of me. But because she does not deserve to die in this way.
The man’s head came up, and there was a strange, wild expression there that Lassair didn’t recognize. For a moment, he looked alien, his eyes no more than wet, gelatinous orbs, his face a rubbery mask that his spirit wore. “You’re pregnant?” he demanded, fury uncoiling from him like a dark lash. “You? We couldn’t even have a child, because of Pitahaya’s condition, and you, who aren’t even human, are going to have one?”
The woman tried, valiantly, to raise her head. Tried to grunt out words, but her husband was clearly past hearing her. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “She doesn’t have nine months, spirit. She has less than six weeks.”
I am sorry—
“No, you’re not!” It was a shout that bounced back off the walls, which coincided with another scream from Truthsayer and the continued slack indifference of the god bound in the center of the chamber. “All I’ve had from the gods is silence. All I’ve had from the emperor I’ve served is indifference. The gods will pay for their silence, their indifference to all of us. The emperor . . . .I can’t do anything to him. But you? I can hold you to account.” His eyes glittered. “Your so-called friend will continue to have Huallpa’s attentions until you give in, or she gives us your Name. Either way, you will be healing my wife today.”
Lassair closed her eyes on a fresh wave of Truthsayer’s agony, and tried, again, to take the pain away. Made it her own. Suffered with her new friend, for her new friend. Absorbed it into her light, and burned it out. But she could do nothing about the actual damage being done. And now Lassair was caught. She had to weigh the tiny, incipient life within her against Truthsayer’s pain. Against, perhaps, Truthsayer’s life. On the one hand, it was hardly more than a ball of cells, though it represented so much more to her. It was a symbol of her bond with Trennus. Something they’d created together, when she didn’t even know she could create. And on the other hand . . . was it selfish of her, to weigh that against the human woman’s suffering?
Her will wavered. The stubborn refusal almost banked. Almost bowed. She didn’t want to be the cause of Truthsayer’s pain. She does not know my Name, Lassair whispered, but it was a lie.
She reached out. Touched the human’s mind. They say they’ll stop tormenting you if I heal this man’s wife. But if I do that, I think that I will lose the child. Infinite tenderness in her tone, as she again leached the pain away. Gave the woman a moment of peace. I will heal his wife. You should not be in such torment for my sake.
No! Truthsayer’s words were almost incoherent, but the sense of them was clear to Lassair. They will go on! They will go on and on and on, because this one enjoys suffering, because they would know all our secrets, the only way out is through, I will allow this to pass through me and over me and it will not touch me—
I will end this—
NO! They will cometheywillcometheywillcome. I am the daughter of a samurai and I willnotbreakIwillnotbowIwillnotyield. Neither will you!
Lassair recoiled from Truthsayer’s mind, stunned by the force there, and opened her eyes. The human’s spirit was formidable, and bolstered her own. No, she told the man, feeling nothing but pity for his wife, and sudden, renewed anger at him. He was the cause of Truthsayer’s pain, not Lassair’s refusal. He was the reason for it all. I will not.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “No? So much for your love for your friend. But there’s another way I can compel you. I can relieve you of your excuse, spirit.” He wasn’t thinking clearly. Lassair could see the rushes of adrenaline and stress cortisol moving through his body and brain, inhibiting higher brain functions. She knew that the body did a lot of humans’ thinking for them. That the body and the spirit were connected in such fundamental ways, that they needed time to be able to separate the physical from the mental. Of course, for her, time was an endless plane that curved forever, in every direction. She had time. Humans . . . didn’t.
She could feel his decision before he made it, and flinched, pulling her hands up, uselessly, to defend herself. He incanted, rapidly, and it was a relief when his first attack on her was fire. Fire was a friend. It sheeted over her skin, warming her, soothing her, curled up and puddled at her feet. Not hot enough to melt rock. And poured-stone never burned. It took temperatures akin to those at the heart of the earth to melt poured-stone. It had to become lava in order to melt. The fire even left her clothing untouched; she made her clothing, every day. Willed it into existence, as part of herself. Deprived of sustenance, the fire died, and Lassair felt colder for its absence. I’m afraid, she told him, quietly, that you cannot harm me in that way.
“No? Then if not fire, spirit . . . we’ll try force.” He incanted, even as his wife twitched and tried to mumble something that sounded like no.
What felt like a cannon ball rammed into Lassair’s stomach, and she was thrown backwards—not out of the circle, but slammed against the invisible wall of force that was intimately bound to the symbols on the ground. It wasn’t just marks that held a spirit, but a summoner’s will. Lassair clutched her stomach, and reached inside. Verified that while there was bruising, everything, including the tiny spark that dwelled within, was safe. And then she raised her head, her red eyes glowing like coals. I will end you. You will die in fire.
___________________
They’d kept a bag over Sigrun’s head the entire flight. This hadn’t surprised her. They assumed she needed her eyes to targ
et her god-born powers, and for the most part, they were right. She could, at any time, call lightning to her own body. It wouldn’t damage her, but it would surely hurt anyone in contact with her. But she needed to be under an open sky for that . . . and while being shackled to a seat in an ornithopter was definitely ‘under an open sky,’ she did not think that slamming the vehicle with lightning was the best idea. She might survive the crash, though she wouldn’t put long odds on it. Adam, however, certainly would not.
Livorus was still probably in the palace in Machu Picchu. Though he could have been kept in Cuzco, too. The Sapa Inca seemed to change his mind a dozen times an hour, as far as she could tell. Over the course of the flight, he screamed at a servant, gave an order to have the servant flayed alive for having spilled a drink on him when the ornithopter caught an updraft, and subsequently forgave the man. At least, that’s what she was catching, when they occasionally slipped into Latin. The Quecha language had no cognates in any of the languages she did speak, so listening for more than tone was something of a lost cause.
She was all too aware of the fact that someone had a gun on Adam. There was probably one pointed at her, too, but that worried her less. Then again, that’s what they’re counting on. They’re using him to compel my obedience. Him and Livorus.
The ornithopter came in for a landing; the bird-like vehicles didn’t always require runways, but could take off and land like a helicopter, in many cases. Sigrun raised her head as their captors shoved her, ungently, out the door of the vehicle. Cool air slapped at her skin. Hint of snow and thin air. Just from the feel of it, she knew they were a solid 13,000 feet above sea level. Lassair and Minori will realize that we haven’t come back to the hotel, Sigrun thought. They’ll call Kanmi and Trennus. We’ll have backup.
She stumbled on the rocky path, and fell into Adam’s arm, only to be jerked back upright. And that was when Lassair’s frightened mind seined through her own. Stormborn! Stormborn, you are here!
Lassair’s voice was muffled, and Sigrun stumbled again, this time in shock. Lassair? You’re here?
I am bound. The spirit’s voice seethed with frustration and anger. I am in a place of machines and metal, a tall place, I am bound, Truthsayer is being tormented, and I could not sense you or Steelsoul until this moment. Something blocks my sight, something beyond the binding that encircles me.
Sigrun tried not to stumble again. So . . . Kanmi and Trennus most likely won’t know we’re gone. Gods. We’re going to have to get ourselves out of this. And get Lassair and Minori, as well.
It was a long hike, blindfolded, easily a couple of miles. Finally, the dirt track underfoot became stone. Sound of doors opening ahead, and closing behind them. The wind’s breath stilled around them. Then they were propelled through various rooms and halls, until the rattle of iron bars was audible, and, hands still shackled behind her, Sigrun was shoved into a cell, and rough hands removed her hood. Her head came up, and she could see, as they pulled the barred door in front of her shut, that they’d put Adam in a cell across from her own. They want me to watch when they threaten or beat him, Sigrun decided, meeting Adam’s eyes from across the way. He looked disheveled, but remarkably calm. For all that his hands, too, were locked behind his back, he stood with his back straight, eyes studying their captors and surroundings. “This does not,” Sigrun said in Latin, “seem like quite the tour of the facilities that the Sapa Inca promised.”
The guards didn’t laugh. Most of them didn’t speak Latin, but one of those who did raised his head and met Sigrun’s eyes, just for an instant. Regret there, but also fear. Fear that if he didn’t do precisely as he was told, he’d be flayed alive, or some other torture inflicted on him, by people equally terrified of the same ruler. And this ruler’s power did not stem merely from his control over other humans. He’d been trained as a sorcerer and a summoner . . . and he had powers that seemed to be divine in origin, as well. But he’s not a god-born. And he’s not the avatar of a god, the way Xicohtencatl became Tlaloc’s, right at the end. His body was dead, so Tlaloc assumed him, wore him as a spirit wears a corpse to become a ghul, or a manufactured body to become a golem. Sigrun’s few discussions with representatives of the Odinhall had garnered her one fragment of information in the intervening years. If a god used the living body of a human as a vessel, instead of manifesting their own form, they could derive power from taking the mind of the body and devouring it—a form of sacrifice. A kindly god—or one secure in its power—could allow the mind of the human to continue to exist, though it would be subsumed to the power of the god.
They were left with only two guards, for the moment. Sigrun switched languages, into her heavily-accented Hebrew. “Asha and Minori are here.”
“I know. Asha touched my mind.” Adam’s tone was grim. “Can you break us out of here?”
“Yes. I can break the manacle chain. I doubt the bars on these cages are more than wrought iron. But I don’t think I can do it before they can shoot you.” She inclined her head towards the guards, who were already looking at them in deep suspicion, and raising their muskets, pointing the weapons at Adam. “Now? Or wait?”
Adam grimaced. “We’re not going to get far unarmed.”
“Nonsense. I see at least two weapons in the guards’ hands.”
“True. Be ready to heal me, Sig. I don’t want to slow you down.”
“You never do.”
But before she could move, a distant door opened, and she could hear footsteps coming towards them. Could see, just around the left wall of her cell, that the guards had both stiffened to attention. Sigrun exhaled and stood. She wouldn’t meet any captor on her knees.
Her eyes widened as a figure in a colorful red and blue robe, heavily embroidered with gold threat, moved around the edge of the cell block. The man was at least eight feet in height, and twisting horns protruded from his forehead, like a gazelle’s. His skin was brick-red, with symbols that looked like eyes, worked in white paint, all over his face and bare arms, while his own eyes were black, from lid to lid, and glossy, like polished onyx. White fangs curved against his lower lip, which protruded with a marked underbite. In his hand, he carried a heavy club, made from solid obsidian. And the sense from him . . . cold crept over Sigrun’s skin, though she could walk barefoot through snow without noticing. But this chill was like oil, and left a crawling sensation in its wake. Sigrun turned and looked directly at Adam. She could see the rigidity in her husband’s body, the tautness in his muscles. He knew precisely what they were looking at, just as she did: a god who had taken a mortal form.
The aura around him was overpowering. It spoke of dissolution and despair in the voices of a thousand whispering ghosts. It spoke of bodies rotting in the earth, and the end to which all mortal things came. It spoke of finding death on one’s knees. Of giving in. Surrendering to the inevitable. It even hinted, teased, that only through death, could new life begin. But not yours.
The guards had fallen to their knees, and put their heads on the floor, abasing themselves. Other prisoners, in the cells around them dropped as well. Protecting their eyes from the glory of the god, perhaps. Sigrun fought the insinuating whispers that pressed in on her mind. Heard Adam groan across the narrow corridor, as he sagged for a moment, then pulled himself upright again.
How interesting.
The avatar’s lips did not move. The voice was a dusty rasp in Sigrun’s mind, like sand sifting out from the ceiling of a cave as stone shifted against stone. A child of one of the northern gods? You have power young one. More than you imagine. Your sacrifice will be a fitting one. Your strength will be added to mine.
“Fikkest thu.” Sigrun’s voice was thin, but even. She rarely resorted to profanity, but this certainly seemed an appropriate moment to start. She could see the muscles in Adam’s arms straining as he tested the strength of his own manacles. Could see that his eyes had narrowed, the look of murderous intent there clear. Part of her, the part subject to the despair that surrounded the figure, wante
d to tell him, Don’t. Don’t bother. There’s nothing we can do. There’s nothing you can do. He’s a god. But that part of her, she realized, distantly, could be overcome. That voice needed to be reminded that Adam was, for all that he was a mortal . . . a godslayer. They’d fought a god before, and survived.
This god wasn’t Tlaloc. He wasn’t constrained to a binding that she could see, and his power wasn’t being drained, visibly, by machines and wires. Sigrun swallowed, and forced her mind to calmness, even as the red-and-white creature turned his head to study Adam for a moment, and actually sniffed at the man for a moment. This one has the reek of destiny on him. But no power in his blood. We shall save him for consecrating the ground at the final point on the circle. Make your peace. We will begin the ceremony soon, for you, child of the northern gods.
Sigrun lifted her head. “Kill me, and they will come for you,” she said. Her voice was barely audible, a thread of sound, but grew in strength as she spoke her defiance. “Are you so strong, that you would defy my gods?”
They will not make war for one foolish child who has entered another’s territory unbidden. And soon, they will not dare come at all. The fanged mouth smiled, and he turned and walked away once more, leaving dizzying clouds of despair in his wake.
Sigrun shook. That yawning pit of despair, of the certainty of mortality, loomed before her. No matter what Sophia had always claimed about her accursed visions, this was where she and Adam were going to die. Even the forlorn hope that her gods might avenge her was foolish. They wouldn’t make war, disobey the Pax Romana, just for her. She and Adam were on their own. Idiot. We are always on our own. The gods reward right action, but every child knows that we are expected to stand on our own two feet. That is why we do not kneel before our gods. We must do for ourselves. Make our own choices. No fate.
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