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

by Deborah Davitt

  The magus’ mouth had fallen open. “Yes, that’s precisely my current research effort . . . .”

  “Well, let me see. Hittite blood sacrifices, no . . .” The card catalogue had been started by her mother’s predecessors, and Erida had inherited it with the title of Keeper of the Archives. She’d added to it, as new texts were rescued from various locations all over the world, and Zaya had been painstakingly transcribing every card to a calculi database for the past two years. Tedious, but useful work. “Sumerian water purification rituals, no. Akkadian namburbî rituals . . . hmm. They were originally designed to ward away evil in the house, as personified by snakes and scorpions, by purifying the area using flame . . . oh! Here’s one.” She made a note on the foolscap pad beside her. “Sumerian igi ḫul, or ‘evil face’ incantations. Earliest-known protective charms that don’t involve invocations of a specific god. And we happen to have a few. Do you need the translations, too, or do you just want to look at the originals in the reading room?”

  His mouth finally closed. “The original, and any translations you have,” he said, after a moment. “Translations will be of varying quality, depending on the biases of the person translating the words.”

  She nodded, put a smile on her face, and slid her passkey out of the poke tied to her belt. “It’ll be a few minutes. Please go to the reading area and wait. I’ll bring the drawer to you.”

  Zaya had been in on enough of her mother’s conversations with Minori Eshmunazar over the years to understand that “old,” in terms of magic, did not necessarily mean better or more powerful. What going back to the very oldest known incantations, and tracing them forward, allowed a magus to do, was to look at roads already taken, and see what had not yet been attempted. Avenues not yet explored, or that had been used, and then forgotten about. And devising counter-spells was not entirely dissimilar from devising new codes and encryption schemes. It helped to be able to come up with things that the other side hadn’t seen before.

  So she brought out the required drawer, and went back to her own research. Adam ben Maor had been instrumental in getting her access to the Temple archives. She couldn’t study the originals here; she had to go across town and sign in at the Temple to be permitted to do that. But the archivists had, as a professional courtesy, provided her access to microfiche slides of about twelve thousand documents, and document fragments, all relating to ancient Judean magic and mysticism. Most of them were uncollated, unindexed, and untranslated. Almost no one had really ever studied any of it. A scholar back in the eighteenth century had attempted an index, but had been relying on his own general knowledge of script types to determine where anything fell in chronology, and carbon dating had proven most of his estimates wrong.

  Adam ben Maor had been through some of these documents before her—in fact, his early research in the ‘60s and ‘70s was the only reason why so many of these fragments were available on microfiche, and he’d donated his notes to the Magi library, to give Zaya a roadmap of sorts.

  For the moment, she was working her way through the writings that had been deposited at Kumran, near the Dead Sea, over two thousand years ago, by Judeans who had been fleeing Roman rule, before Caesarion the God-Born had made peace. Those who had fled had included both rich and poor, and had included a group of Essenes. They had been a radical sect who had dedicated themselves to ascetic, monk-like lifestyles including voluntary poverty and abstinence from worldly pleasures, sometimes including celibacy. They’d lived communally, refused to own slaves, and had been forbidden weapons, other than for self-defense.

  Half the fragmentary documents were old copies of the Torah, or receipts for grain payments, or other items of no use to Zaya. But all of these documents had been dug up in the second century AC, and returned to the Temple, and had been kept in a remarkable state of preservation since then. The papyrus scrolls had, over the years, deteriorated to little more than strips with a few letters on each, of course, but copies of a few had been made on vellum before they reached that state of decay. Of course, copyists made errors, and some of the scrolls had simply not been deemed worthy of being copied. So it took time and patience.

  Time, Zaya had. She was on summer break from school, and she hadn’t heard from Maccis since he’d disappeared with Fenris. Part of her realized that he was probably deep in Germania and couldn’t write. On the other hand, she felt as if people at school pointed and stared at her. Admittedly, the number of people in their class had shrunk. Two years ago, they’d had six hundred people in the same grade; four hundred of them had accepted their basic certification at sixteen and left school for apprenticeships or the military. Judean news outlets commented on the fact that wars tended to produce baby booms, in the natural course of things, and that certainly seemed to be true. Half the girls Zaya had known who’d taken their basic diploma, were now married, and half of them were pregnant. She had a handful of wedding and naming-ceremony invitations sitting on her desk at home—all with a sympathetic note attached, saying that the sender understood if she didn’t want to come alone, but to consider attending anyway.

  Of the two hundred students who’d remained behind to go for their advanced diploma, half of the boys had dropped out last semester. Every one of them had gone to enlist. Judean citizens were required to complete two years of military service anyway, so the only real surprise was that so many were opting to do so early.

  She finished up her work for the day, and headed home. Her mother had Bodi Eshmunazar over again tonight, and they were working on complex calculations regarding magic and something to do with gases. It seemed to be classified, so she didn’t talk about it outside of the house, but her mother had set her to collating everything she could find on combinations of air and fire sorcery from classical sources, and had her pulling everything the physics department had on hydrogen and other flammable gases.

  Over dinner, she listened to her mother describing a conversation with Adam ben Maor about improving security at the archives; they were currently a soft target, and the Persians would do a lot to either destroy the library, or retrieve it for their own use. “We have to be aware of the potential for espionage,” Erida warned her. “Double-check all letters of recommendation. Personally call the people who referred any new researcher.”

  It never really ends, does it? Zaya was tired of thinking for a while, and wanted nothing more than to listen to some music, so she nodded dutifully, and escaped to her room.

  The doorbell rang as she was en route, and as she peered over the edge of the balcony down into foyer, she could see Lassair, who hadn’t visited in some time . . . and who’d never visited alone before. I would speak with the fire-that-consumes, please.

  Ah, fire-that-creates. I wondered when you would come to me. Her father’s tone was ironic as he wafted over the balcony as a cloud, and descended, landing beside the butler, before taking his normal form in the shape of a man of smoke. Do come in. Share a log of well-aged cedar with me? It’s most aromatic.

  Zaya clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her laugh to a squeak. It wasn’t polite to eavesdrop, however, so she hurried on to her room. That being said, the two spirits were loud enough in their conversation that even she could hear them, several rooms away.

  So, you have forgotten how to be fire. Illa’zhi’s voice was mildly sardonic.

  I did not say I had forgotten! I am always fire!

  Yes, of course. But have you ever been the fire-of-the-forge, which is used to craft steel? Have you ever been the fire that burns the forest into ash and consumes all in its path? Have you ever been the fire that purifies?

  I have been the fire that destroys . . . . Lassair was definite about that.

  Yes, but in your last battle, you chose to spend your energies trying to rescue a human child who was past saving. Even then, you were the fire-that-warms, not the fire-that-consumes. There is nothing wrong with this. Go. Warm them. Let them huddle in your glow for comfort.

  . . . I want it back.

&nbs
p; You will have to destroy in order to do so. Are you ready to do so? I will not have any at my side who will hesitate when endings are required. You believe every human spark is important. I do not. If they come against me, if they would match their strength against mine, that is their choice, and because I might die in the contest, I will not weep for them when their sparks are snuffed.

  I want it all back!

  Then you must take it back.

  Zaya winced and turned the music up from the photogram in her room. Not that it did any good.

  Sparring practice the next day was something that unfortunately had an expiration date on it. The Matrugenas were in the process of moving to the villa of the king up in the Pictish city of Tarvodubron. And it was odd how much the Shar’abi street house had changed without Lassair in residence. The grape vines were dying back, and the ivy seemed to be taking over where the grapes had left off. Moreover, all of Lassair’s children seemed to be quieter at the moment, more subdued. Eisa, Zaya’s particular friend, seemed morose. The younger children mostly seemed confused, but were adapting quickly, and seemed to regard having a pedagogue—“just like your family!” as they were quick to tell Zaya—as something novel, and worth bragging about.

  Vorvena was too busy for sparring; she was working with Frittigil Chatti and her father to help locate all of the Pictish towns and people who’d abruptly migrated here. She was conducting a census in each town. People who’d survived the journey. People who were considered missing. People who’d been changed in the passage between the worlds. There were dryads who insisted that some humans had been turned into trees, and claimed that they could communicate with them. Talk about being differently human, Zaya thought. I don’t think there’s anything that could be more different, and still retain consciousness.

  Caranti and Deomiorix, Maccis’ younger full brothers, now shared their room with the other set of twins who’d been born the same year as they had, Iviacus and Petracus. They’d also started hanging out around the landsknechten barracks when Maccis left. “The fenris say they’re used to—” Caranti began, breathlessly, in between rounds at sparring.

  “—having one of us around. We’re their good-luck charms, they say.” Deo finished, grinning around his rubber mouth-guard.

  “You should come and see!” Caranti added, quickly. “Maccis was helping raise baby lindworms before he left, and sometimes Ima lets us play with them.”

  “We’re getting really good at taking their shape—”

  “And even better at flying. Vorvena’s been wasting her time all these years with birds.”

  “Even Maccis gave up on his pterosaur when he saw how well they could fly.” Two solemn nods at Zaya, whose mouth dropped open.

  “And sometimes Nith comes and talks to them, and shrinks himself down to fly with them!”

  “Maccis never told me he was doing any of this,” she said, feeling oddly bereft.

  Deo and Caranti traded looks. “He never told us, either, not till he was getting ready to leave. He wanted to make sure—” Deo now, shrugging.

  “—that someone would still go play with the hatchlings.” Caranti nodded enthusiastically. “Ima and Aunt Sigrun say that maybe the lindworms can grow voices if they’re raised right. I’d like that. I want to ride one of them.”

  “If we can fly just like them, why would we want to ride them?” Deo said, a rare instance of the twins disagreeing.

  “Aunt Sig can fly, but she rides Nith, doesn’t she? A human can walk, but they can also ride horses.” Caranti shrugged. “I think it would be fun. We could be . . . air cavalry.”

  Zaya held up a hand, still trying to process this. “Why would he keep this a secret?” she demanded.

  An exchange of shrugs from two boys who had many, many sisters, most of whom, in their considered opinions, asked dumb questions. “Maybe he thought someone would stop him because they thought the lindworms would bite off his hands,” Deo offered. He was definitely the more pragmatic of the two.

  “And maybe . . .” Caranti hesitated, and knocked a sweaty strand of white hair out of his eyes, “he was tired of having to share everything.” He shrugged. “We all have to share rooms, toys, and books with each other. All our clothes are hand-me-downs, too.”

  “But I don’t mind sharing stuff with you!” Deo objected.

  “We’re twins. Maccis isn’t anyone’s twin.”

  But he didn’t have to share me with anyone. Except maybe the Archives. Maybe the lindworms really were the only thing he didn’t have to share. Except now he’s off fighting with Fenris, instead of taking care of them. Zaya sighed and resolved to find time to visit the barracks. She wasn’t sure if she were angry with Maccis or not right now. It wasn’t fair to be angry at him, she knew. But little twinges of resentment, quickly repented, kept surging up inside of her.

  Caesarius 8, 1992 AC

  Maccis belly-crawled through low, scrubby green underbrush, slowly. Each paw was placed carefully, to avoid making even a hint of noise. He could smell a nest of grouse ahead of him, so he veered around, taking care not to startle them. There were other scents in the air, besides the odor of beech and linden leaves, and the tinge of snow on the cool wind, rushing down from the perpetual glaciers high above on the mountainside. There was sweat and blood, too, and the reek of rotting flesh. His stomach tightened a little at the odor; cold water at this stream or that was all that he’d had to fill his belly in three days. He’d often had what he’d considered to be boring meals as a child, but he’d never known true hunger until going hunting with Fenris.

  Of course, when the great wolf took a break from hunting giants, they hunted deer together, and gods knew, Maccis was usually hungry enough not to care that he was eating raw flesh. Fenris usually took a token mouthful for himself, and then Maccis and the others ate as much as their stomachs could hold after the god-beast had had his fill of whatever they had hunted . . . and they’d take down a half-dozen deer, between them all. Technically, Fenris probably didn’t need to eat. But there was an order to a wolf’s life, and part of that order was that the pack-leader ate first. It taught patience, if nothing else.

  So did the hunt. Step by careful step, around the periphery of a crystal-blue lake, high in the Alps, staying in the cover of the trees. Staying downwind of his quarry and trying not to growl under his breath as their reek grew stronger in his nose. He didn’t even need his eyes for this. The giants’ stench gave him their numbers—a small warband, only forty or so members. Of course, any one of them could pick him up in one hand and beat his brains out against a tree. Which was why wolves hunted in packs. There were half a dozen fenris slinking through the underbrush with him. Fanning out, but he was in the lead, because his coat was brown at the moment. Better for camouflage. Do they have captives? Fenris asked, in everyone’s minds.

  I smell humans, Maccis replied. But mostly, I smell blood and rot. I don’t know if any still live.

  This group of grendel had hit a caravan of refugees fleeing through an alpine pass three days ago, causing an avalanche to halt the motorcars and trucks on the road . . . and then had attacked in force from the side of the road. Twenty guards had been killed and dragged off, and another fifteen people had been taken captive.

  Keep moving in. I will come around from behind them.

  Closer, slinking under a fallen tree, wiggling his shoulders to push through. Closer . . . and a mute swan, at the edge of the lake, burst into the air, and Maccis froze in place, trusting to the haze-brown coloring of his current coat to hide him in the underbrush. His eyes locked onto the grendel camp, no more than forty yards away now, and saw a few of the giants’ heads lift, watching the bird take flight. Nothing more than bad timing; the swan had lifted off on its own.

  Every wolf paused. Settled, muscles tense, ready to retreat if the grendels began to move around. The point of an ambush was surprise, after all. After about five minutes without further reaction from the giants, the wolves began to slink in once more. Hold. Do not break f
rom cover yet. Fenris’ voice was calm. When I howl, attack.

  Maccis set himself. Fenris’ howl was not for the faint of heart. It echoed and rebounded off the mountain ridges, terrifying creatures sometimes miles away. Close up, it never failed to freeze the blood passing through his heart. It didn’t matter that he was an ally. The howl screamed out from the dark outside the campfires, at the very edge of civilization, and called for blood and vengeance.

  As it did now. The giants all bolted to their feet, and half of them ran, pell-mell, away from their camp. The other half managed to reach for weapons and turned to face the massive wolf as Fenris slipped from between one shadow and the next, and simply materialized to the north of the camp, with the mountain at his back. Upwind, but it didn’t matter; he’d been nothing more than an ephemeral shade himself, flicking from one dancing leaf-shadow to the next, with no more substance than the air around him. Now, however, the great wolf darted forwards, snapping with jaws that could have sheared Maccis’ human body in half.