Hel, however, seemed almost personally offended by Sigrun. The gaunt goddess, whose frost-white hair and face were covered by a black hood and eye-mask, periodically wiped away tears of blood as she paced around Sigrun, sniffing at her, as a wolf might scent its prey. Sigrun had never seen the goddess before, and tried not to show emotion or fear. You, Hel finally scoffed. You slew Supay? I believe it not.
And yet, there is no lie in her. My child speaks nothing but the truth before us. Tyr’s voice was calm.
I was not overly fond of Supay, Hel allowed, after a moment. I found him quite distasteful, in fact. However . . . She sniffed at Sigrun again, and under her mask, she licked her lips. You smell of carrion, valkyrie. Odin’s ravens will follow you as if you were a moveable feast, I think. You reek of death. In a flash, she smiled, a dreadful expression. Perhaps I should claim you for my own. I think I would have the right to do so.
I will grant my daughter the choice of whom she would serve. Tyr’s voice held the ring of law. But all those here will abide by her decision, and I will suffer no attempts to make her recant. So, whom would you serve?
Sigrun raised her head. “You, my lord,” she replied, immediately. “After you, our people and Rome. As I have ever done.” And there was nothing but gratitude in her heart for her grandsire’s protection.
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While she was interrogated by the gods themselves, almost every visit, Sigrun was also periodically taken to a small room, furnished with old oak furniture. Comfortable chairs, a long, polished conference table. Little paper cups of water. On the whole, she’d have preferred to be stared at, sniffed, and weighed by the gods, to the hours she spent in that room. For in that room, inevitably, Reginleif awaited.
Reginleif Lanvik was a valkyrie, god-born of Loki, and over two hundred years old. She had the frost-white hair that marked most of those born of Loki, whether they were Hel, the Fenris wolf, or a mere valkyrie, and wore it cropped short. Her face was unmarked by her years, and she bore not a single rune-mark on her pale skin. Her eyes were a piercing sky blue, and she had been one of Sigrun’s teachers in her four years at the Odinhall, primarily teaching her students how to recognize and avoid magic. How to discern what was illusion, and what was not. “You’ll never see through an illusion crafted by Loki,” Reginleif had told the class, years ago, smiling. “But mortals inevitably falter. They simply lose track of the details. They don’t know when they can allow the mind of the viewer to interpolate their own information into the construct, and where to focus the details. They’ll forget one of the senses . . . smell or touch, usually . . . and if you’re aware enough, you’ll know what’s reality, and what’s falsehood. Let’s try it again, shall we? This time, Erikir, do try not to charge directly through the illusion into the gap in the floor, hmm? Bear-warriors do not fly so well, but they fall most excellently.”
The sessions with Reginleif nowadays were much less physical, but they were mentally and emotionally exhausting. The tone of them differed each time, but Sigrun had sat in on enough interrogations over the years to know precisely what Reginleif was doing. The first session had been adversarial, at best. Eviscerating, at worst. “Explain to me precisely why you chose not to inform the Odinhall about your mission to Tawantinsuyu in advance.” Reginleif folded her hands on the table, and stared Sigrun down.
Sigrun opted, at first, for the rational. “The mission was for Rome, not for the Odinhall.”
“And where then, do your loyalties lie? With Rome? Or with your gods?”
“The gods themselves have permitted me to serve Rome—” In sober truth, fifty people were allowed to go about their normal lives, every year, without being levied to serve in the Legion or the Imperial navy, because Sigrun served in their place.
Reginleif cut her off. “Irrelevant. When loyalties come into conflict with one another, you have forgotten that you serve the gods first.”
Sigrun shook her head mutely, her eyes turned inwards, in self-examination. She didn’t think that this was the case.
“Oh? Is this not true, Sigrun Caetia?” Reginleif had settled back in her chair, folding her hands in front of her.
“I serve the gods, our people, and Rome.” Sigrun raised her eyes and met Reginleif’s. “Those duties rarely, if ever, conflict.”
“Then why did you not immediately inform the Odinhall of the events transpiring in Tawantinsuyu?” The words were rapped out, coldly.
And why were the gods not actually aware of those events, themselves? Sigrun felt like asking in return, but she didn’t quite dare. The truth was, she knew why. The gods could not see the bound servants of others. Could not intrude upon each other’s people, as a result of their compact with the gods of Rome. Humans weren’t allowed to proselytize. Gods weren’t allowed to encroach. People had free will and self-determination. Sigrun had come to understand in the past weeks, that the gods were forced to work through agents like herself, when they wanted to understand what was going on among the servants of other gods. Her gods relied, more than she’d ever known, on their bear-warriors and valkyrie. They weren’t just hands and weapons. They were eyes and ears, as well.
Even knowing that, however, Sigrun had had reasons. “There was nothing, at first, to tell, Reginleif. We didn’t know for certain what we were going to encounter there. Dr. Sasaki had seen a pattern of earthquakes, and she had tied that to ley-power—”
Reginleif cut her off. A standard interrogation tactic, not allowing the person being questioned to finish their thoughts. Keeping them off-balance. “But you certainly suspected a correlation to divine matters,” she rapped out. “It followed the same pattern set in Nahautl five years before. You were remiss, Sigrun, in not informing the Odinhall immediately. You were wrong.” She narrowed her eyes. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Sigrun didn’t reply, at first. “Well?” Reginleif demanded. “Answer me.”
“There was a possibility that it could be related to interference in divine matters,” Sigrun admitted. “That is why part of our team was sent in advance, to investigate. To find information. Without more information, I was unwilling to contact the Odinhall.”
“And when your ‘team members’ confirmed that there were gods involved, why did you not contact the Odinhall immediately?” Reginleif shot back, her blue eyes wintery.
Sigrun’s stomach churned. She’d thought about doing so. At length. And in the end, she’d refused to do so. “For the past five years,” she said, putting her hands on the table, and looking up at Reginleif, “every question I have had about the Nahautl incident has been ignored, or deferred to you, and you have been unavailable to answer those questions.”
“What has that to do with anything?”
“I feared that if I told the Odinhall about our discovery, I would be ordered not to accompany the rest of the team.”
“You certainly would not have been permitted! I would have been sent, in exchange—”
This time, it was Sigrun who interrupted. “You might have been sent, Reginleif, but you would not have been accepted. You are not a Praetorian. You are not a lictor. You are not a member of our team.”
“And your precious Praetorians have never worked with someone outside their ranks before?” Reginleif’s eyes narrowed. “I note that Dr. Sasaki is not a Praetorian or a lictor.”
“No. She is not. However, you would have been viewed as an intruder, an attempt by the Odinhall to assert control over a Roman mission, and Propraetor Livorus would have rejected it, immediately. The other members of my team would have rejected you.” She swallowed, and focused on her hands.
“Oh, so this was all a masterful attempt on your part to ensure that there would be no political repercussions to the Odinhall.” It was an outright sneer.
“I wish I could claim to that much foresight.” Sigrun’s tone was rueful. “No. It was much simpler than that. If the Odinhall had commanded me to stay away, Rome, in the person of Livorus, would certainly order me to go. And my p
ersonal loyalty to my husband and to my friends would compel me to go, in any regard.”
“Even before your loyalty to your gods?” Reginleif’s tone was scathing now. “You do not know your place! It will be my job to re-educate you.”
Sigrun winced, and raised her eyes. This was one of her oldest teachers, after all. “I am sorry to disappoint you,” she told the older valkyrie, her stomach churning. “I used my best judgment to prevent a conflict of loyalties from occurring—”
“And instead you left us all in the dark.” Reginleif’s voice was harsh. “I should have been the one to go! I should have been there, on that mountainside, not you.”
Sigrun didn’t know what to make of that. The words could have meant that Reginleif was outraged on her behalf, and that she, older and wiser, should be bearing the burden of the mission in Tawantinsuyu. But Sigrun wasn’t sure that that was what the other woman actually meant. “I am sorry—”
“You damned well should be. You substituted your own judgment for that of the gods. You presumed, in your arrogance, that you knew better than they. That you should be the one there, on scene, not whom they would have chosen.”
Sigrun swallowed. The words were a lash. “We are given free will,” she said, looking down at the table, and then up again, her voice barely above a whisper. “We are given choices. That means that we are expected to use our judgment, not merely to defer to the will of the gods and fate. Else all we could do is sit like stones—”
“A very pretty tautology, Sigrun.” Reginleif actually clapped her hands, slowly. “But the fact remains that you are a disobedient child. And disobedient children must be punished. What are we to do with you? Perhaps we should no longer permit you to be a Praetorian. A lictor. Obviously, there are conflicts in loyalty and obedience for you, and the role only seems to foster arrogance and pride in you.”
Sigrun took a deep breath, and calmed herself. Reminded herself that this was an interrogation. Every word uttered was calculated to cut her, diamond against diamond. To reveal the flaws in her. “That is certainly possible,” she acknowledged. She had wanted to be the one sent. She had been angry that they’d closed her out of the Nahautl investigations, in spite of the fact that she’d been there. Sigrun swallowed through a tight throat. “I maintain that we are not mindless. That we are expected to make decisions. Even mistakes—”
“People with powers like ours cannot be permitted to make mistakes!” Reginleif’s voice slammed into Sigrun again.
This time, however, Sigrun went on doggedly, through the interruption. “We are still human, Reginleif. Mistakes will happen—”
“And are you admitting that this was a mistake?” Reginleif suddenly purred. No anger. No annoyance. She just leaned forward, eyes almost feral.
Gods. I walked right into that one. She’s very good at this. Sigrun exhaled. “I know not if it was a mistake,” she replied, with grim formality. “You are certainly attempting to persuade me that it was. I do not know if your judgment is that of the gods.”
“So, then. Again, what to do with you.” Reginleif appraised her, openly.
Sigrun lifted her head. “The Odinhall may certainly recall me from my service to Rome,” she said, quietly, accepting it with a certain measure of resignation. “Given my marriage to Adam ben Maor, however, it would be difficult for them to forbid me from having further knowledge of the situation.”
“And if we were to bid you stay here, in the Odinhall, for the rest of Adam ben Maor’s life?” Reginleif raised her eyebrows. “What then?”
Sigrun stared at her. It was nonsensical. “You are suggesting that I should be imprisoned for the term of Adam’s life?” She was aware, distantly, that the edges of her vision had gone gray, in an adrenal reaction. “I would never stop trying to escape.”
“You would reject the justice of the gods? You would, again, substitute your judgment for theirs?” Still that dangerous, measured purr.
Sigrun laced her hands together to conceal the shaking. “I doubt that the gods would do this, for it is not justice. But if they did? I would question them, yes.”
Reginleif had sat back in her chair, her eyes sparkling now. “Well now. Isn’t that interesting? You may go now, Sigrun. But do recall that you’re to return here in a week’s time for another interview.”
Sigrun had walked out of that meeting room with her back straight and her head held high, but she hadn’t been able to feel her knees at all.
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For the first three months, they’d hardly seen the others, other than at hearings. Sigrun was just glad to see that Trennus seemed to be doing all right after his experience in the Veil. She didn’t want to think of it as a death and resurrection. It hadn’t quite been that, after all. Lassair had kept his body alive, and kept his mind intact. Trennus seemed sane, and he and Lassair had purchased a small house in Britannia, “Just for the summers, since she doesn’t really like snow,” Trennus had said, looking sheepish. “Winters, we’re going to buy that house in Judea you two keep mentioning.
Adam had grinned in response. “What changed your mind?”
“She did. She was very specific about wanting to be closer to our friends. You just have to help us fix it up.”
“That’s not a problem. We’d be happy to—right, Sig?”
“You feel free to speak for me in this?” Sigrun had said, without rancor.
Adam looked abashed, then grinned, ruefully. “I somewhat assumed, yes.”
“Yes, I’ll help, too.” Sigrun had been sitting next to Lassair in the living room of their Roman apartment, and Lassair, laughingly, had taken Sigrun’s hand and put it on her swelling abdomen to feel the baby kick. Lassair was now six months pregnant, and the glow that lit the spirit from the inside out had nothing to do with flame, and much more to do with happiness.
It is good that you will do so. I have not the slightest idea where to begin with any of this.
“Were your parents at least pleased about the baby, Tren?” Sigrun asked him.
“My mother? Ecstatic. My father . . . concerned. At least one of my brothers asked if it was going to come out with sheep’s hooves and little ram’s horns.” Trennus shook his head. “At this point, I think they’re trying to bait me, deliberately. So I just smile.” He bared his teeth. “For some reason, they seem to have trouble meeting my eyes anymore, so it does make things both easier and harder at the same time.”
Sigrun had given Trennus a single concerned glance, but on the whole, if anyone was suited to become spirit-touched, he was. He had enormous self-control and considerable training with his existing powers. And he and Lassair certainly seemed to be happy.
Minori, in the meantime, had been put up, periodically, at a hotel in Rome by the Praetorians, when she had to fly in from Lutetia in northern Gaul to testify. She and Kanmi seemed to be seeing a good deal of each other, but they had also started, very quietly, on a secondary research project. One that all of them were working on, in their suddenly all-too-copious spare time. When Sigrun had regained a little more access within the Odinhall, and was permitted to use the facilities there for more than being poked, prodded, interviewed, and sniffed, she began working her way through the historical archives, slowly and warily. What she was looking for, she didn’t really want to ask a reference librarian, or, gods forbid, Dvalin himself, for assistance in finding. Asking the Master of the Runes “could I please see everything that we have on the godslayers of old?” would only lead to more interviews, after all.
And while she was pursuing leads within the Odinhall, on vellum scrolls that were brown and cracking with age, rune marks carved into stone stelae thousands of years old, and images cast on golden bracteates amulets, preserving in the peace-gold offered by Rome to some of her ancestors, legends that the gods might remember, but that humans had forgotten, Adam began digging, just as quietly, at the University of Judea. His father’s connections in the intelligence community, and rank within the Judean Intelligence Agency got hi
m entrance to the Temple archives, as well. He cast his questions as a rekindled interest in the history of his people, brought on by the recent events in Tawantinsuyu. Hebrew, being a living language, had undergone massive changes in the past two thousand years, so he needed to teach himself to read the archaic form. He wasn’t a scholar of Aramaic, either, so he initially had to read those scrolls and scraps of papyrus in translation—always a dubious thing. He was muttering about taking classes in the dead language, however.
Trennus, being a summoner in very good repute with his home university, had contacts all over the world, as did Kanmi and Minori. They all realized that this particular research project might well take up the bulk of their lives. The majority of information commonly available was on Akhenaten and Akhenaten’s assassin. The information on the destroyers of Babylon and Akkad was scanty at best, in the west. But Kanmi held a surprisingly good relationship with Lady Erida, to this day. The Chaldean magus was part of a broader effort among the Magi to protect their ancient books and scrolls, which were vulnerable, even within climate-controlled vaults, to strikes from enemy forces. “The Persians don’t want to destroy the College of the Magi,” Kanmi told them all, one night over dinner at a restaurant. “They do that, and if and when they get Chaldea back under their control, they’ve lost an important resource. But the fact of the matter is, bombs miss. And once you let an efreet go on a rampage, they’re not particularly discriminating about which buildings they burn.”
“Lady Erida’s summer estate is right on the Caspian, right?” Trennus played with a piece of bread before feeding a bite of it to Lassair.
“Yes. She says once the situation there stabilizes a little, we’re all invited. Apparently, we’re her favorite Romans.” Kanmi snorted. “I pointed out that not one of us is an actual bona fide Roman. She answered that that makes us the best kind.”
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The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 126