Trennus leaned his head back against the cushions of the couch, as Minori and Saraid rejoined them, the youngest twins currently down for a nap. “Not entirely, Adam. The spirits brought infrastructure and homes with them. We’re not talking a displaced population without jobs or industry. We’re talking a displaced location with population, homes, jobs, manufacturing, everything.”
“But why . . . why move them?” Adam was staggered. “Why not . . . dome them off, or something?”
Trennus shrugged. “Because that kind of protection needs to be sustained. There are legends about a place called the Isle of Apples—Ynys Afallon—among the people of western Britannia, the Cymri. It’s said to be behind a curtain of light, set apart from all the rest of the world. I could probably have managed that, if I tied the working directly into the ley-grid . . . but the mad godlings have already shown that they can and will feed from ley-lines, unlike regular spirits and, well, gods.” He rubbed at his eyes, tiredly, and put his cup of honey-beer down on the end table beside him, wrapping one arm around Saraid, who curled into him. “Plus, I’d have had to stay inside the curtain, sustaining it. And it would have required that I divert every ley-tap on the island into a defense curtain. Not one device would have worked. No far-viewers, no iceboxes, no motorcars. I wasn’t looking to return my people to the Bronze Age overnight.”
And there is the possibility that the mad godling might well simply eat any such protection, Saraid pointed out, quietly.
“If we’re talking god-like protections,” Minori put in, quietly, “Moving the area out of phase with the rest of reality should be on the table. The math isn’t insoluble. And would be akin to what has been done to Sigrun, in terms of her, ah, medical condition.” A sidelong look at Adam.
Trennus shrugged. “The math’s above my head, Min. I’m not Kanmi. I try to deal with this dimension, and the Veil, and do a lot of very fervent praying that the ley-line fractures we’re seeing won’t lead to tears to other dimensions. The Aether, for one. I do not want to deal with Nameless entities running around this reality.” He shuddered. “At any rate, I considered . . . for about two or three seconds . . . permanently moving everyone into my little piece of the Veil. Making the ‘faerie kingdom’ my people always believed in, real. That wouldn’t let them get on with their lives, though, and they’d still need to come back out to do any good. Protecting them in this world, up in the north? Anything I did would be temporary, or would be a snack for the mad godlings. And of course, there’s Sophia’s prophecy rattling around the back of my head. She always called Judea an undying land. And there hasn’t been even a single mad god attack here. So . . . I took a chance.”
A very large one. But I am grateful that it has turned out so well.
Adam had rubbed at his face. “So, social disruption might not be entirely horrible—”
Min lifted a finger. “I’m going to get Bodi to sit down with one of the supercalculi at the university, as soon as we can get a topographical map that’s worth anything. We’re looking at massive climatological changes for the entire peninsula, Adam.”
He’d blinked. “How so? I thought you said you couldn’t predict changes like that, because there are too many variables, and no one is an expert in all the fields—oceanic, atmospheric, and seismic.”
Minori nodded. It still struck him as odd, looking at her now-young face. She’d dropped thirty years, easily, in the past five, and now looked almost exactly the way she had when he’d first met her . . . other than her eyes. Her eyes were shockingly old in that young, unlined face. “It’s still true, but we can get rough estimates. Let me put it this way. Judea is located where four climatic systems overlap, a ‘saddle’ zone, if you will. A low-pressure system usually predominates over Europa, to the northwest. This brings rainfall. A second depression in the Gulf is normally the engine that drives the monsoonal rains in India and the rest of southeast Asia.” She caught his expression. “You spent two years in India, correct?”
“I remember monsoons very well,” Adam replied, grimacing. “That’s two of the four. With just those two, we would be getting floods all the time.” He looked away slightly. “Though for a couple of decades, people have been talking about microclimate change here . . . .”
Minori waved that off. “There are two other systems that influence the area. High-pressure systems are usually dry and rainless. One sits in Asia, and the other sits directly over the Sahara. Add to all of this the westerlies, the band of westward-moving winds that wraps around the subtropical regions just above the equator, which normally propel hurricanes across the Sea of Atlas, and you have at least five factors that normally impact Judea’s weather.” She steepled her fingers before her lips. “Now what happens when you put mountains in front of the flow of weather from the low pressure systems of Europa?”
Adam thought for a moment. “We’re going to start seeing droughts?”
“It’s possible,” Minori admitted. “Then again, the westerlies might propel some of that monsoonal moisture this way . . . and forests beget weather, just as deserts do. They cool a region. Not as much heat or albedo from the desert pavement, and therefore, we might see more rainfall. The new mountains might also even trap the storms, forcing them to rain on this side of the elevated areas, before lifting up above them and heading out into the Mediterranean. It’s going to be an interesting problem to simulate on a sufficiently advanced calculus.”
The real issue will be that there were hundreds of farms to the north of the city, Saraid put in, softly. Those farms have been taken by the Forest. Land will need to be allocated for growing food south of the city, in areas that have been traditionally unsuited for agriculture. She sighed. I am not good with cultivation. That has always been Lassair’s role. Even thousands of years ago, that was her domain, other than fire and passion.
Adam decided to address the elephant in the room. “So, Tren . . . exactly what did you do to make Lassair so angry with you that she left?” This was the thing he was having the hardest time dealing with, mentally. After forty years of marriage . . . all right, not really marriage, but close enough . . . he’d thought Tren would die still bound to Lassair. All right, maybe not die. But I thought they were . . . forever. I mean, look at how many children they have . . . .
Saraid’s ears drooped. “And that’s my cue to exit,” Minori said, looking up at the ceiling. “I will speak with you later, Trennus, once we get the climate models set up, all right?”
Does Amaterasu have anything to say about this chain of events? Saraid asked, quietly.
That I wish I had thought of this as a solution for my own people. The power in the voice rocked Adam back on his heels. There are some pockets of refugees still in the Korean peninsula, who have been attempting to journey here. I will try to transit them in this fashion. Though my land is dying, my people may yet be saved. You have done very well this day, young one. And it is not every day that one sees a god ascend. I have been privileged to see it twice recently. It fascinates me.
Saraid dipped her head, and Trennus flushed, vividly red. Minori left, Saraid hastening to escort her to the door, and Adam shook his head. “God?”
“Don’t go looking for Caliburn,” Trennus muttered, still flushed. “Amaterasu’s thinking of Tenjin, I’m sure. A human who died, but knew his Name, and had enough personal power and will to . . . stick around until he had enough belief accrued to become a kami. He was destroyed by a mad god a few years ago. I’m definitely not that. I didn’t die. Well, not lately. And no one particularly believes in me.” He shrugged his massive shoulders, and gave Adam a rueful glance. “As to Lassair . . . I don’t think she’s angry at me. She’s . . . discomposed. She knew I loved Saraid. She didn’t realize that I loved her enough to die for her.” Another faint shrug. “I don’t think Lassair’s capable of feeling jealousy, but . . . .”
Adam shook his head, still at sea. “Lassair has been a part of your life for longer than I’ve known you, Tren. You defied your family and conv
ention for her. I don’t even want to ask what it cost you to deal with her last summoner. And you gave her your soul.” Words defied him for a moment. “And now you’re not married anymore?” Because you fell more in love with Saraid than with her? Is that all that loyalty is? A matter of waiting until something else comes along? He didn’t want to say that, though.
“I think we’ve always been more fluidly defined than ‘married.’” Trennus looked uncomfortable for a moment. “She’s used me, and the children, as conduits for a long time. It allowed her to stay here in the mortal realm for long periods, without having to return to the Veil to regenerate her power. And she’s been able to divide herself into different selves for decades. It’s a different approach to what she is, than say, an entity who regenerates in the Veil for a few minutes of our time, and can then transit the globe almost instantaneously.” Tren shifted, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t. “Both approaches allow someone to be different places at almost the same time. Lassair’s method is just more literal.” Trennus picked up his cup of honey-beer again, and took a sip, staring into the distance. “But as Sig told her, some of that has come at a price. She’s become different than she used to be, and she . . . wants to get her old self back. I can’t blame her for that. In fact, I hope she gets it all back. She was always mystery and excitement. She should be that, again.”
“Sig told her that?” Adam stared at him. “Sig never sticks her oar in unasked—” Harah. She put her nose into this triangular relationship and that’s just going to wind up pulling us in . . . .
“Lassair asked her for advice. I was unconscious at the time—ah, shit. Don’t be mad at her. Sari yelled for her to come here, and I think she took about fifteen minutes to come here and wake me up.” Trennus looked embarrassed. “She’ll probably tell you about it tonight.”
Adam filed that away. It hadn’t escaped him that Sigrun seemed to have a few extra degrees of freedom currently, than she’d previously had, and he wasn’t entirely sure why, since the battles were getting worse, not better. He’d mostly taken it as her gods’ reward to her for long service, and an acknowledgement on their part that her long absences had put a strain on their marriage . . . and that he might not have much time left, all told. It didn’t matter, at the moment. The greater mystery, currently, was Trennus. “Doesn’t this bother you?” It was almost inconceivable to him, how calmly Tren was taking the dissolution of over forty years of not-quite-a-marriage . . . unless Trennus had somehow been looking for that dissolution. Which was just as inconceivable.
“Of course it does! I wouldn’t be human if it didn’t.” Trennus sounded frustrated. “But I originally told her that the soul-bond was only going to last until she was healed. It lasted nearly fifty years, Adam. Though, subjectively?” He paused. “Every night I sleep and find myself in the Veil, three days of time go by there for me. That’s how I’ve set up duration there, just so I’d have time to do all the things that I need to do there. I’ve lived . . .” Trennus looked away. “. . . in excess of ninety-nine years in the last thirty. I’ve never really made an issue of it because, well . . . no physical changes.” He shrugged. “However old Sig is, I’m giving her a run for her denarii.”
Adam’s mouth dropped open. Trennus gave him another rueful glance. “Yes, I know, it’s perceptual. I know it’s not physical or real.” He looked at Adam, his expression calm. “It gives me a slightly different perspective, though. And you know what? Of the time in the Veil itself? Most of it was spent with Sari. Hunting together. Protecting the Woods.”
“I don’t think it’s the same . . . .” Adam protested, weakly.
“Maybe not to you. Accept that my definitions are a little different. You’ve always been good at understanding that, Adam. Don’t let me down now.” Trennus’ smile was faint. “My time with Lassair was amazing. But there’s a time to let go, too. I wasn’t trying to hold her back . . . and she didn’t mean to hold me back, either. But . . . .”
“But what?”
Trennus’ expression grew sad. “She’s beautiful, Adam. She’s passion and fire. But fire consumes.”
“She’s demanding?”
“She doesn’t mean to be. Saraid had a previous claim on me, which she never really pushed. Lassair realized it, and made room.” Trennus shrugged. “I made the Wood in the image of Saraid’s forest. I didn’t make a volcano. I didn’t do it intentionally, but that strengthened Saraid. She and I hunt the wild Veil. We’ve seen dead worlds that I cannot explain or fathom. Lassair’s fierce, Adam. She’s beautiful.” Tren sighed. “I don’t regret any of our children, but I’ve also told her that I would be all right with not having more. But Lassair’s also fertility. So is Saraid, but Saraid is wildness, too.” Trennus’ shoulders shifted, uncomfortably. “They love each other. I love them. We’ll always be connected. But there’s a time to bind, and a time to unbind. Lassair’s been concentrating on fertility for a while. No one’s objecting to the bumper crops. She’s made sure hundreds of children were born without birth defects and without endangering their mothers’ health. But that’s not something that most people tend to understand or acknowledge, other than the mothers. And their belief, as Sig pointed out, has shaped Lassair.”
Adam shook his head. “So what’s she going to do now, then?”
“I think she plans to grab Inghean by the ear, and head south. Start making the land there bloom, so there won’t be food shortages with the Wood occupying what used to be Judea’s bread basket.” Trennus rubbed at his face for a moment. “She also muttered something about not being a battle entity, but that she wanted to talk to Zhi about being fire again.” Trennus shrugged. “I’m concerned about her, but she’s shown us all before that she’s capable of taking care of herself. As the late Sapa Inca would certainly attest.”
“I just don’t understand where this all started.” Adam threw up his hands. “One moment, everything’s fine, and the next . . . god. It just sounds like a very late mid-life crisis.”
“I’d say it was a combination of things. Saraid is gone ninety percent of the time. And when Sig needs help, it’s Saraid she calls for.” Trennus’ eyes slid to the side. There was something there he wasn’t saying. “Latirian’s out on the front lines. So’s Sol. Most of the children above the age of eighteen are involved, somehow, in the war. Evacuating people from Britannia. Counterintelligence. Counter-summoning. Front-line work. Maccis is, gods help me, off with Fenris, as a hostage, and we haven’t had much word from him, save what he’s told Saraid, and what Sig’s managed to bring us.” For a moment, Adam could see how much worry Tren lived with, and then his friend smoothed his face, visibly. “I think Lassair was shaken awake today and made to realize that she’s been going along as if nothing’s changed.” Trennus looked down. “She isn’t the only one guilty of that. But she’s been aware of all the power she’s gained. She hasn’t been resisting it. It’s complicated.” Trennus looked at Adam. “She’s not really leaving, you know. She’ll visit. She’ll stay in the children’s lives—though at the moment, she wants to have a little time away from all of them, to . . . get her head together. We still love each other. She just doesn’t own me anymore, if that makes it easier to wrap your head around.”
Adam put a hand over his face. “It’s not my business, but, er . . . .”
“Do I still plan on sleeping with her?” Trennus frowned. “No.” He looked at Adam. “It wouldn’t be healthy for either of us. I’ve always had a problem saying no to her. And . . . let’s face it. You can never go back. You can never be the person you were, decades ago. Also, Sari might start being a little more territorial now.” A slightly sheepish expression crossed his face. “Which I would not mind at all. I hope Lassair can find someone to see passion in her. To rekindle and renew that aspect of her. But you can’t leash a phoenix. You can’t control them. I would never even try. All you can do is get out of the way and try not to be burned too badly when they decide to leave.” Trennus shrugged again. “But on a positive note, I m
ight get to see more of Sari as a result. She can’t split herself the way Lassair can. So there’s a whole lot of life that hasn’t been getting lived, here in the mortal world, Adam. You don’t see it because, while we’ve established a colonia in your house over the years. . .” another sheepish look from Trennus, “. . . you’re not much in mine. I haven’t gotten to share many meals with either of them. Some of that’s the war, and some of that’s the children, and I accept that. Completely. But there’s more to intimacy, than just sleeping with someone. You actually have to share a life. Sari and I have had the Veil for that, but it would be nice to see her more here, in the real world, too.”
“You’ve gone from saying you spent most of the last . . . ninety-nine years . . . with Sari to saying you need more time with her. It sounds like bullshit. No offense.”
“Time here is different than time in the Veil. You’d understand if you ever went there. There’s a big damned door now. I made sure of that.” Trennus’ smile was sly. “I could walk you through. You’d probably feel better there. The effects might even come back through to this side for you.”
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 27