The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3)

by Deborah Davitt

  A long pause. It was not because you thought that you might meet your end safely, with all these unwanted powers? The dragon’s voice was . . . agitated. You did not consider that his jaws would absorb all your energies, without harm to the world around you, on your demise?

  Her head jerked up. No! She winced in pain at the sudden movement. She had not yet even considered the fact that her death, now, could cause injury and madness to those around her, and she swallowed, hard, shaking her head again. I swore that I would not leave you alone. I am not an oath-breaker, Niðhoggr. I would not find some technicality to release me from my oath to you.

  The dragon settled his head down on the floor. I am glad to hear that, S . . . my friend.

  . . . you don’t have to avoid my name.

  You hate the sound of it in your ears. I will find something else to call you.

  I am sorry I said so. She winced at the recollection.

  You should not be sorry for speaking the truth. But I do not understand why you hate your Name. It is who you are. Hate it, and you hate yourself.

  She settled her head against the cloud-floor again. Lassair had been the first to tag her with it. Saraid agreed that it was her Name. Almost every spirit she met seemed to think it correct, and the fenris had adopted it, with her first name, universally. Worldwalker once said that a thing named . . . is defined, she finally said, wearily, letting her eyes drift closed. I have been defined. I am always and ever Sigrun Stormborn. For better or for worse. I . . . may have done the defining. But there are days when I wish I were . . . not myself. She sighed. But I was being . . . childish. Childish and pettish, and I cry your pardon for it.

  Rest, Sigrun Stormborn. Time enough for all of this, but later.

  . . . can it be Sigrun, between us two? Or Stormborn, but not both?

  As you wish.

  An indefinable amount of time later, she made a plaintive request. Can I not go to the courtyard, and eat of the cherries there? Is the food here real? I am so very hungry and thirsty . . . . She paused. Wait. If I eat here, am I trapped forever? Like Persephone?

  A snort that sounded like laughter, and a spray of ice crystals. The food here is a manifestation of how you perceive yourself consuming the energy of the Veil. I have learned to absorb it directly. You may require a physical analogue. Imagine what you would most like to eat and drink, and you should be able to will it into existence, and consume it.

  She had a difficult time imagining anything at the moment, but she closed her eyes and visualized something simple. An apple. One of the ones from Freya’s tree, sliced carefully. An earthenware cup, full of cold water. When she opened her eyes, both had appeared on a newly-created table in front of her, and she reached for them, eagerly, with fingers that were sloughing away all her burned skin, revealing pink, clean flesh beneath. Niðhoggr’s tail coiled at the small of her back, helping her to sit up, and she ate, her fingers trembling. Her stomach roiled at first, and then strength returned, and she was able to stand. To walk. To her annoyance, she seemed to retain physical needs, such as urination, and she had left the castle as devoid of lavatories as she had of furniture. So she had to imagine those facilities, as well. Fortunately, she was well aware of the reality of plumbing, having helped rebuild the Judea house.

  That gave her pause. It was the first time in what felt like days that she’d thought of home. Of Judea and Adam. She leaned against the wall as she stepped back into the room where she’d been resting, and asked, tentatively, How long have I been here?

  Perceptually, about two days. I have been allowing duration to pass here a hundred times faster than it does in the mortal realm, however. His tone was placid. Thus, about twenty-eight minutes will have gone by, if we were to return this instant.

  She stared at him, her mouth opening and closing. His tail lashed in amusement. You look like a fish, Stormborn.

  I . . . you can do that?

  We can do that, yes. I will show you how. How else could the gods be in so many places at almost the same time? Not all can split themselves, as your friend Lassair does.

  Can we return there . . . before we left?

  Technically, yes. But that creates problems that are best avoided. It is not practiced among the Vanir and Aesir. Even my progenitor did not dare meddle with time, any more than she dared meddle with the ley-lines that construct the reality of the mortal universe. He paused. Change what you will here, Stormborn. We have time. All that is required is . . . willpower. That, you have in abundance.

  She exhaled, and worked at imagining the castle better. She hadn’t thought of it as a place that she might spend any amount of . . . time. No furniture. No purpose to any of the dozens of rooms, save that they were . . . rooms. No lavatories. No running water or a well . . . though putting one into a cloudbank seemed ridiculous, so she created gargoyle downspouts connecting to water barrels for collection of rain. Taps that ran hot and cold water, and she invented, wholesale, a contraption that would take the rain from the barrels and use that to fill the boiler. It amused her, and the dragon followed in her wake, snorting periodically at the logic behind each choice. How very Roman of you. You can’t just have taps that produce water from the ether.

  Of course not. That wouldn’t make sense.

  She consolidated the rooms. Placed furniture in them, including a large, wooden-framed bed in each of the various sleeping chambers. Dressers, though that seemed ludicrous as well, but the rooms looked bare without something besides a bed. There were pictures on all the walls, however. Every one of them an image of a city she had visited, a person she loved. A music room filled with instruments that she didn’t know how to play, and music boxes that sang for her, instead.

  Occasionally, she began to see . . . flickers in the air. Incipient movements, at which she and Nith both stiffened. And then they faded away again, but at least once, she thought she could see a giant almost twelve feet tall, and humanoid, outlined there, if briefly. Hrímþursar, Niðhoggr identified it.

  No one has seen the ice-giants in the mortal realm in thousands of years.

  They are allies of Loki and of my . . . progenitor. I remember practicing fighting against them, when I was young. And they marched with us against Rome, several times. But why we are seeing echoes of them here . . . I do not know. He sounded intrigued. Perhaps a hint of something yet to be. Or that already is.

  They dismissed the mystery for the moment, and she returned to work. There was no kitchen . . . of course, if she could imagine any food she wished, that hardly seemed necessary. And she wasn’t even entirely sure what her body was processing that was giving her the urge to use the facilities. You believe that you need to do so, the dragon told her, again with that faint amusement in his voice. Belief is the most powerful thing that humans produce, besides love and hate. It took me years to believe that I did not need to eat here. And I was kept here from infancy.

  You will tell me the whole story someday? Will you tell it to me in Judea, under the apple tree, as I sit with Steelsoul? She felt like a child begging a favor, but she wanted to share some of the wonder with Adam. Even if she had to keep so much of it a secret from him. Just . . . a little bit.

  If you wish it of me. The dragon stood, his tail lashing. You are healed, Stormborn. But I think you may wish to restore your appearance before we return. As Freya told you, you will need to think about the image you show to others now.

  She froze in place in the courtyard of the castle, and looked down at herself. She had been burned. The wounds she’d taken from the world-serpent had seared her flesh. Her clothing would have knitted into the new flesh, had it been left in place, that much was certain. And until this moment, because of the unremitting pain, the necessity of healing, and the not-warm-not-cool temperature around her in this place, she hadn’t even registered that she was as naked as if she were at a Roman bath, or at the sea-shore. The valkyrie felt her cheeks flush, and clouds spun up from the floor to cover her. Two enormous, lambent eyes blinked at her, in what
looked like confusion. Consternation. Amusement. Bafflement. That is . . . hardly necessary, Stormborn.

  The valkyrie fidgeted. Looked down at her hand, and realized that her wedding ring had been melted, in part, with her flesh. Her expression turned horrified, and then the ring shifted. Reformed itself, precisely as she remembered it. She scrambled, mentally, to try to remember what she’d been wearing when she’d ridden off to battle. I can’t think with you looking at me.

  The dragon’s form grew, resuming his normal size. His scales gleamed. Use my scales as a mirror, if you wish. You should be able to see your reflection here, as it is, in the Veil.

  She had flinched away from mirrors for decades. The rippling surface of his hide, however, wasn’t, at first, very threatening. The reflection it caught was not particularly clear. And then it sharpened into focus, as things did in the Veil, when she concentrated, and she pulled back in shock at the image there. The woman there was bleeding. Hundreds of wounds, a flayed goddess, like Xipe Totec was a flayed god. I thought I had healed! She looked down at her arms.

  Nothing there but clean skin. No burns. No wounds.

  That is how you see yourself, Stormborn. If you persist in this imagining, it will become your reality. I was not always what you see here. I was made into this, by the force of another’s will. You have enough will to shape yourself. Will you make of yourself a horror, like my progenitor?

  Stormborn stared up at the eyes so far above her own. This is what Freya warned me about. About letting others shape me.

  Or even yourself, if you are unwary.

  You are not held in that shape by anyone, anymore. You could change it.

  She made changing shape . . . difficult for me, I believe. It does not come naturally for me, and this has been my form for close to two thousand years. He paused. And as I said before . . . it is possibly for the best if I do not. And this is not about me, Stormborn. It is about you. Do not let yourself become . . . her. The word could have meant her reflection, or Hel herself.

  Or both at the same time.

  She exhaled, and worked to erase what she saw in the dragon’s scales. Banished the blood-carved runes on her body. Strove to put her own features back on her face, but they slipped away, every time. Over an hour of perceived time later, and she was still no closer, but icy tears of frustration slipped down her cheeks.

  Niðhoggr leaned down. Will you accept a gift?

  I would not say no to assistance. Her pride was false, and she knew it as she sank to a crouch. She hadn’t even gotten as far as clothing.

  Then look again. See yourself, as I see you.

  She reluctantly raised her head, and peered at the image in front of her. And frowned. It looked . . . somewhat like her, to be sure. The gray eyes were the same. Tired. Distant. They’d seen too many things. The light radiating out of her skin was clearly rune-born. There were just . . . so many of them now, that they all blended together when she was undertaking a large use of power. Her hair was long, as she remembered it being, and wrapped around her like a cloak, or waved in the wind, like a living banner, unrestrained by the usual braid. There was the black feathered cloak, of course, but her hood was back, and there seemed to be stars caught in the folds, somehow. And under the cloak, she wore . . . armor. Scales of liquid silver and night, akin to Nith’s own skin, clinging to her. Not so tight that she couldn’t move, and enough give and resilience to the armor that it would deflect a blow, dispersing it. And not so bulky, either, that she couldn’t move. Plain, simple, and unornamented . . . except that it fit her like water flowing along her body. A spear materialized in her hand, as if summoned, and slowly, she began to nod. It . . . wasn’t bad. He still saw her as a fighter, if a creature of night, cold, darkness, and sorcery. But the loose hair was a hazard. That would have to change.

  She concentrated. Made the image hers. Felt the armor form around her, warm-cool to the touch. Felt the weight of the cloak settle around her shoulders, and her hair grew back to its accustomed length, and she briskly braided it back. Thank you, she told him, simply, and rested a hand against his death-cold side. For everything. For your patience.

  And I thank you for trusting me.

  How can I not trust eyes that see so clearly?

  And then they left the Veil once more, and Sigrun was surprised to realize that her cloak and armor remained exactly as they had been when she’d imagined them in the Veil. How I wish I could tell Adam about this, she thought, and a tear crept down her cheek. How I wish I could.

  Ah, you are healed. And you are better girded for battle. Excellent. Freya’s commanding tones entered her thoughts. Sigrun glanced down at her watch—an old, wind-up, gear-driven one that Adam had given her—and realized that she couldn’t see it; it was under her new armor. If it even was the same watch now that she’d envisioned it, as it was before she’d entered the Veil. But she thought she might have been gone only forty-five minutes. Which was an eternity, in the midst of battle. But then, she’d spent some of that time not healing, but . . . learning. So she ducked her head, abashed, as the goddess went on, And now, you have more to learn, young one. To work!

  They ranged over the ice for the better part of a day, hunting down mad godling fragments. The godlings surged to the surface of the ice, drawn by the power of Freya, Zhi, Saraid, even Sigrun and Trennus themselves. It was difficult to fight them, in many ways; they persisted in holding themselves partially unmanifested. Freya had no problems in wrapping each of them in a net of seiðr and drawing them down from the sky as they rose up, tiny sparks of black energy, crackling with arcs, tendrils of power. Sigrun watched as the goddess reft each one apart. It is similar to how Zhi taught me to unspin an efreet that has taken cyclone form.

  Correct. Now you must try the next, Stormborn.

  She set her teeth, and tried. Like a kitten’s pouncing lessons, she thought, as the creature struggled against her tentative grip with seiðr. Sigrun had practiced healing minds with the power, and little more, for twenty years. The knowledge was there, at the back of her mind, but it was like any other skill. The more it was practiced, the more apt the mind and body were to perform it well. Nith actually snapped that godling in half with his teeth, and snarled as the creature’s energies rippled through him. His attacks go beyond the physical. Interesting.

  Of course I can attack that which is not fully manifested. It’s not as effective, but I’m not defanged. I have spent millennia in the Veil. A pause as he snorted amiably. Shall we find another?

  They found another. And another. Sigrun watched from a distance as Zhi simply engulfed one of the creatures, that was in the act of cannibalizing one of its own kin, and swallowed both of the smaller godlings, able to ambush the pair because of their inattention, and Rig’s ability to mask their presence. Both Zhi and Rig were grim afterwards, with Rig noting, “Headache. And I . . . kind of want to hunt down more of the damned things.”

  They are like the sesame cookies Fireflower devours when she is permitted. It is difficult to eat just one. The mad gods’ hunger becomes your own. Zhi held Rig aloft. I am already a devourer. It matters less for me, than perhaps for you. You must judge for yourself if you should continue.

  Sigrun hastily studied Rig in othersight. Bubbles and ripples of the mad godling’s essence moved through his core as he tried to assimilate the creature. “You might be able to handle another,” she said, cautiously. “Be careful that they do not overwhelm you from the inside.”

  That is precisely what I feared with the first one, Zhi admitted. These are far smaller and weaker, however.

  “I’ll be all right, Aunt Sig,” Rig said, shaking his head. “The instant any of you think it’s getting out of hand, put me with Sari and Trennus, and I’ll . . . make sure no one can see them while he keeps working on the ley-line.”

  Sigrun gave the young man another concerned look. But as Nith had told her, Rig needed to understand what he was made of. And the rest of them needed to know, as well.

  Martius 22, 1992
AC

  “It was amazing,” Rig said, sitting at the dinner table in the ben Maor house, punctuating his story with illusions, so that the others could all see what he was describing. And under the table, he held Inghean’s hand. “We’d hunted down most of the damned things, but while we were hunting them, and they were hunting us, they were also hunting each other. They seem to have some level of primordial awareness, I think. These ones didn’t have the concept of working together, though. They were aware that they were in danger . . . and their response to that was to become more powerful as individuals. Not to hunt as a pack.”

  His little illusions stalked each other on the table, and Adam shuddered. He hadn’t seen any of these creatures since the moment they’d gone from men with the power of gods inside of them, to the shattered, mad things that had fled Kanmi and Baal’s wave of destruction. They had changed, or so Rig’s images showed. Black spheres of annihilation, pure and simple. “It’s almost . . . meteorological,” Rig added. “Or even astronomical.”