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

by Deborah Davitt

  Maccis had stopped moving for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Da? Where are we going?”

  Trennus Matrugena looked across at his first son by Saraid, and sighed, putting a hand on his shoulder. “To go meet with Fenris.”

  “I know a lot of fenris, Da—we have neighbors who are lycanthropes—”

  “Not a fenris. The Fenris. Fenrir Vánagandr. The gods of the north are considering letting him loose, if he’ll fight on their side. The problem is, he only really ever obeyed Loki.”

  Maccis’ eyes went wide. “What can I possibly do to help with that?” he asked, dubiously.

  “You’d be one more wolf for him to smell. To show him that he’s not entirely alone in the world anymore. I’m hoping he’s more reasonable than Jormangand.” His father looked out the window, or tried to; there were vines in the way. “Do you want to go?”

  Maccis nodded, dumbfounded, not knowing what to make of the Jormangand comment. “Yes. Absolutely.” He looked around the prosaic reality of his shared room, and thought, Please, gods, don’t let me fuck this up.

  He took the chance to give Zaya a quick telephone call to tell her that he might be missing dinner at her parents’ house tonight. It would have been the first time he’d been able to see her outside of school since, well . . . she’d taken him to the library. And he didn’t want to give her any wrong messages, or make her think that now that they’d lain together, that he was bored, or anything insane like that.

  Maccis hoped to finish school with his advanced diploma; half their classmates had graduated with their basic certificate at sixteen, and were now off serving out apprenticeships or working or in the military. He knew that the extra two years that would ensure him entrance to a university, someday down the line, or could secure him an officer’s billet in the Legion, as Uncle Adam had received. But for the past week or two, he’d been chafing at school as he never had before. Because if he’d been earning a steady paycheck and had a home of his own, even if it was only a tiny apartment, he and Zaya would have a place to be, other than their parents’ homes, or public spaces. And he could have asked to hand-fast her, with a clear heart. At the moment, however, he had nothing to offer. If you had nothing to offer someone, besides yourself, no paycheck, and just a pile of debts . . . you shouldn’t get hand-fasted, in Maccis’ opinion. You had to prove yourself worthy, and stay that way.

  Zaya sounded disappointed that he might be missing their evening, but he swore to her, “I really, really want to see you, Zee. I have to go somewhere with my mother. I don’t even actually know where we’re going. But I might have a good story for you when I get back.”

  His mother, like Lassair, had never learned how to drive; therefore, his father drove them all out to the landsknechten barracks, at the southern edge of Little Gothia. Ima, Vidarr’s hveðungr wife, was out in the main yard, feeding lindworm hatchlings raw meat, while wearing chainmail gloves to protect her hands. This was usually one of Maccis’ chores, and one he didn’t talk much about, if he could avoid it. The hatchlings were . . . an experiment.

  “What’s this?” his father asked, staring as they got out of the automobile.

  Ima looked up, smiling, just barely showing the tips of her teeth. “Trennus! Welcome! We’ve called our knechten the Lindworms for decades. Vidarr had the notion to raid a rookery up outside of Byzantium last year. Everyone suspects that the lindworms, the adult ones, the first ones, were humans, once. That means that there might be human-level intelligence in them. It might just be a question of raising them right.”

  The first ones did not have voices. I have never encountered any that seemed to have more than instinct in them. I had never thought to try to raise them, Saraid admitted. Their minds are not like those of your kind, Silentheart. But if they can be awakened . . . why did you not speak to me of this? You could have asked Stormborn, as well.

  “You’ve had your hands full with the fenris, harpies, centaurs, and everyone else.” Ima shrugged. “We asked Sigrun, since she was going back up to Germania, to look into getting us more eggs, and we’ve had Maccis here working with them. They respond well to him. He can get them to stop snapping and snarling, and has trained a few of them to do tricks. In the end . . . even if they are no more intelligent than a regular wolf, wolves were domesticated into dogs. Wild horses were domesticated, as well. If we work with them? We might have aerial cavalry that radar will have to fight to detect. The nieten would have to ride them, though. Jotun would put too much of a strain on their backs, and they’d never make lift-off.” She offered one last piece of meat through the wire of the hatchling cage, and the nimble hatchling Maccis privately liked best, the black one, leaped up and snatched the red gobbet away, dropping back down to squabble over it with his nest-mates. Each of them was currently the size of a Britannian war-dog, and would only keep growing, of course.

  His mother turned and looked at him. You did not tell me, either.

  “I wanted to have something worth talking about, first,” he said, shrugging. “At the moment, they’re not much different from tiger cubs. The real difference might come when they hit adolescence in a few months. What little research has been done on lindworm life cycles suggests that they don’t have the extended ten-year puppyhood of the fenris. Much more animal-like, unfortunately.”

  At that moment, a dark shadow passed over them, and Maccis raised his head, and blinked. He’d rarely seen Niðhoggr in daylight before, and the dragon landed neatly beside them, with Sigrun and Rig already on his back. The massive creature lowered his head and snuffled at the cage of hatchlings, and all of the noisy, squabbling creatures went silent. For a terrible moment, Maccis thought the dragon might take offense to seeing the creatures caged.

  These are the reflections Loki sought to make of me? I have fought them before. I have never seen them when they were not attacking me or Stormborn. The voice was like smooth pieces of obsidian, sliding along each other’s lengths.

  Maccis’ mouth fell open.

  “Yes. He talks.” His father gave him a light buffet on the shoulder, and then looked up at Nith. “We’ve never been able to speak with them. Not even Sari. I don’t suppose you can?”

  There was a pause. The minds of those in the north were filled with madness. Or the babbling of instinct. Food, hunger, desperation, anger. These . . . The dragon paused, and snuffled the small creatures once more. Their minds contain infant babbling. Food food food. But also . . . play, play, play. Affection. They watch Mirrorshaper to see how he reacts to me. Maccis shuddered on hearing his true Name spoken by someone other than his mother. Give them a larger cage, Silentheart. That, directed at Ima. Give them room to exercise their wings, or they will never fly.

  “I exercise them three times a week,” Maccis said, staring up at Nith, his eyes wide. “One at a time. Chasing. Stalking. Play-fighting with me in wolf-form. Aerobatics in a barn where the fenris usually sleep. My flight is terrible. I tried pteranodons with them for a while, but I . . . gave up and turned myself into one of them, instead. They seemed to respond better to that.”

  There was a certain stunned quality to the looks he received from everyone besides Ima. “What?” Maccis asked, uneasily.

  You took my form. Willingly. Easily. Without pain. Niðhoggr’s head rose, and the dragon’s entire body convulsed. His voice might have been amused, but Maccis wasn’t really sure of that.

  Hesitantly, Maccis moved forwards, and unlatched the door of the cage, letting one of the lindworms, the black one, out, while the red and the blue poked their heads out, interestedly. The small creature hopped and waddled closer to Nith’s enormous forepaw, and stared up at the dragon. And then creeled at him, appealingly.

  I am not here to play with you, no.

  Another creel.

  “Would it help,” Sigrun asked, slowly, “If Nith did come here more often? A human infant only learns to speak through listening to speech. And these creatures have no one to model themselves after. No parents—the parents in the wild were ma
d, clearly. But I do not sense madness in these.”

  Nith drew back his massive paw, almost apprehensively, as a nestling the size of a large-breed dog leaped atop one of his toes, and tried, hard, to maul an appendage that was about the same size as it was, itself. Little one, I will crush you if you are not careful. I would not do this out of intention. He lifted his paw, and tried to shake the lindworm free, with surprising gentleness. Maccis’ eyes widened still further, and he struggled to choke down a laugh.

  Sigrun shook her head. “Let’s go find Fenris and see if any of us can make a friend.” She paused. “Any other friends, that is.”

  Maccis shooed the lindworm back into the cage, and then found his mother slipping her hand into his, even as Ima clambered gingerly up onto Nith’s back. Do not be afraid, Saraid told him, gently. My forest holds no terrors for you. Not in this world, or any other.

  He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was in the Veil.

  Mirrorshaper felt nothing but peace in the Wood. There was love everywhere around him, binding the trees and the land and the sky. He knew, somehow, that he had been shaped here. This was home. He looked at his mother, who was so brilliant and bright here, that he almost could not bear to look on her, wolf-form or no, and begged, unashamed, Please, may I stay here? I will tend this place.

  No, Mirrorshaper. Perhaps someday. When you are hurt, heart-sore, and in need of healing. But that day is not today.

  And then they had to travel through the wild Veil. He took his wolf-form and followed in his mother’s footsteps. Easy to follow her, easy to keep pace, and if he’d ever gotten lost? Wherever she went, flowers bloomed, and they all carried her scent. Tongue lolling out of his mouth, he chased after her, and wondered why anyone thought the Veil might be frightening . . . and then he felt a predator rush by on dark wings overhead, and froze in the underbrush of some desert canyon, hardly daring to move until his mother came back for him. Frightened as a puppy, he stayed closer to her this time as they ran through swamps and starfields and along crazy, curling ladder-like rungs, twirling up and up and up, and then . . . out.

  Maccis shook himself. He was still in human form, and clothed, as a result. He rather wished he was in his fur; wherever they were, snow blanketed the ground, and it was a solid thirty degrees colder than Jerusalem in early spring. He shuddered for a moment, and stared around at the vertiginous stone walls that cut away as the ground dropped off near his feet, where a frozen stream poured itself out in an icy waterfall over the edge of the cliff. That rugged cliff, and its attendant frozen waterfall, plunged hundreds of feet to green-blue waters below; the inlet or river, whichever it was, appeared narrow, and identical cliffs faced them across the way. On the other side, another frozen waterfall cascaded like the stalactites of some cavern revealed to the sky. The clouds overhead were sullenly gray, and as Nith landed beside him, Maccis was aware that he smelled no other people at all. Unnerving, really.

  “Where are we?” he whispered, dropping to a crouch.

  “This is Geiranger fjord, north of Gotaland,” Sigrun said. Her voice carried in the hush of the snow-filled landscape. “The falls across the way are called, these days, the Seven Sisters. The one on this side is called the Suitor. But in days past? The sisters were the Ván. And the Suitor was the Víl. Hope and Despair. Both were said to issue from Fenris’ mouth after he was bound by the gods. Of course, my ancestors’ tendency to write future events as if they had already happened comes into play.” Sigrun’s tone was dry. “Fenris was bound twice, with iron fetters. A metaphor, perhaps. He was meant to be fettered a third time, with a silken ribbon called Gleipnir, before Ragnarok. My grandsire was to put his hand into the wolf’s mouth as a guarantee so that the great wolf would know that the gods did not seek to bind him. And he was to lose his hand when the gods forsook their word to Fenris, and the wolf bit down. Then they were supposed to bind him here, to a great stone, put another stone over his head, and wedge a sword to keep his jaws apart until the end of the world.”

  I think I must say again, that younglings should not believe everything that they read. The dragon’s voice was resigned.

  “Agreed.” Sigrun helped Rig down, then floated down, herself. “Call him, please, Nith.”

  The dragon raised his head and roared. The ice of the waterfall at their feet shattered, and tumbled hundreds of feet into the chill water below. Maccis’ ears rang, and he looked at Rig a little uncertainly. “Courage,” Rig said, grimly. “At least you’re not likely to be the one who has to bargain with Fenris.” Rig’s lips turned down in a grimace.

  Wolf-form, Saraid prompted, and Maccis gratefully shed his clothing and pulled fur around himself, as Ima did the same. Just in time to hear a howl, bell-like, ringing out over the falls. It rang from the rocks in shivering harmonics, and Maccis sat back on his haunches, raising his head instinctively, to respond . . . a quick glance at his mother and Ima to verify . . . and then all of them raised their voices to answer in kind.

  Well. This is a surprise. The voice was forceful, and Maccis turned and looked over his shoulder in time to see a wolf even larger than the fenris he was accustomed to, padding through the heavy snow. White fur and glowing red eyes, and there were broken, rusted remnants of chains around his neck. No Odin . . . whom prophecy said I would kill. No Freyr. No Tyr. Tyr who brought me food and made much of me, until prophecy said that I would turn on him. Turn on all those who had welcomed me into Valhalla. But I smell Tyr on you . . . valkyrie. The tone was puzzled. And I smell Loki here, as well. Loki, who fled to the Veil, leaving me alone. How is this possible?

  “I am Rig, Loki’s son,” the older man said, quietly, stepping forward, holding up his hands to show he had no weapons, back and shoulders straight. Maccis recognized the posture as assertive. Dominant without being threatening, but he could smell uncertainty on Rig’s skin. Something that no matter how good Rig was at illusions, he couldn’t quite disguise, because he didn’t sense it, himself. Ima’s scent, uncertain, but curious. His mother’s glorious scent, all leaves, moss, clear water, and heather. The dragon’s odor was peculiar. Not overpowering, but also not very animal-like. A faint musk, but mostly an odor like the earth itself, volcanic rocks, frozen by a glacier, only to be warmed by the first touch of sunlight in thousands of years. And Aunt Sigrun . . . she smelled as she always did. Of moonlight and night winds. No fear. Respect, yes, but no fear. That alone made Maccis relax, wolf-form automatically reacting to the mental condition of the rest of his pack.

  “And I am here to ask you to be our ally,” Rig went on, his voice steady. “The mad gods range these lands. How have you remained free of them?”

  They yet fear my teeth. A few have tried to pierce my heart with their black spears, but I snapped them in half, and then they fled into the sky. You smell like my father, youngling. You come here on the back of Hel’s pet. And yet . . . I think it wise not to trust. There is always a Gleipnir waiting for me. He turned and studied all of them again, sniffing cautiously. Name yourself, valkyrie . . . if that is what you are.

  I am Sigrun Caetia, called Stormborn by some. Maccis’ hackles rose. He’d never heard Aunt Sig use mind-voice before. She didn’t sound like his mother’s gentle voice, or Aunt Lassair’s carefree, loving tones. Her voice had the iron clang of duty and inevitability, and held winter’s chill in it. I am of Tyr’s line, yes. And as to prophecy . . . . A savage note now, Let prophecy go to Hel’s black heart, wherever it might be. I care not for it. I defy it. I spit on it.

  Stormborn. I have heard that name on the wind, carried by the song of the forest children. Fenris’ massive head lifted, and Maccis could smell surprise on him. You do not believe in what I am foretold that I must do? End Odin’s life, only to fall at the hands of one of his sons, after putting out the sun and the moon?

  New prophecies have come and gone during your exile. And even these new prophecies, I would shatter, if I could. That is, in fact, why we are here. The Aesir feared you would not listen to them, so
they sent those whom they thought you might find more acceptable intermediaries. We need everyone who can fight to prevent the Ragnarok that is already shaking our world, from coming fully to fruition.

  “Sigrun is right. I do not know if the gods are . . . ashamed of how they have treated you. If I were them, I would be. But fear is a terrible thing. It makes people . . . and gods, I suppose . . . do things that they would not ordinarily.” Rig’s voice was oddly compassionate.

  Fenris stood and began to pace around them all. I do not know your scent, he told Saraid, after a moment.

  I am Saraid.

  A frozen instant, and Fenris leaned in, sniffing her, carefully. It is your name that the forest children sing, before they turn and depart. I have heard so many voices on the wind in the past decades. Those who come to awareness always leave before I can sing back to them.

  I call them to a place of safety. I did not mean to leave you here alone, cousin. You may sing among the hundreds of thousands of voices in the place to which I have called them. They will look to you for . . . inspiration.