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

by Deborah Davitt

  Tyr shrugged his massive shoulders. I was finished with my argument, All-Father. The Nahautl were engaging in human sacrifice. Fenris stopped it. Were he human, his actions would be applauded. Why is it more acceptable for a human to kill a transgressor god, than another god?

  It is not acceptable for a human to slay a god. Orcus’ voice was a cold hiss. Such has been overlooked several times in the recent past because it has seemed . . . accidental. The result of a god’s self-sacrifice. Or because it removed the hazard of other humans attaining the powers of the gods. And yet, I think it hardly a coincidence that one of those who profited by the deaths of other gods sits among you now. The death-god’s head swiveled and his eyes focused on Sigrun.

  Under the table, her fists clenched. All her stubborn pride came to support her in that instant, and she raised her chin, and let her helmet’s eyes appear to return his stare. But she shook inwardly.

  Mercury’s voice now, sly and insinuating. We could easily follow a chain of events here to an inevitable and very logical conclusion. You have permitted your rogue valkyrie, while in Rome’s service, to slay not one, but several other gods—all so that she might steal their powers for you. You awakened Jormangand, and had him boil the seas of the Arctic, flooding coastal regions worldwide. He attacked Britannia, and even the gods of the Gauls. You then loosed Fenris, and he immediately attacked the gods of Nahautl. Mercury’s grin now rivaled Loki’s own, and his voice had become a purr. One might be able to say that the gods of the north have conspired against the rest of the world. Attacked even their allies, and done so with impunity for forty years. If that becomes the tale that is told, all hands will turn against you. Even the Gauls—your vaunted allies—would see room for doubt.

  Sigrun’s stomach clenched. She could see it happening. She could see it, as clearly as if Livorus were in the room with her. He had, so often in the early days, brought her to his study to discuss politics. Shown her how the rows of Qin dominoes would fall. Oh, my old friend. Did all the honor of Rome die with you?

  Tyr looked over at her. You have been accused, daughter, if implicitly. Would you respond?

  Sigrun stood. Concentrated. Tried to hear that wise, dry, tough voice in her mind. Livorus. Tell me what I should say, that they would hear?

  The only response was quiet certainty. Don’t use your mouth to speak. Don’t be mortal now.

  She swallowed, and said, as calmly as she could, I have served Rome and my people with pride for over sixty years. I watched Propraetor Antonius Livorus bargain in good faith with subject nations and individuals for twenty of those years. Everything that was good about the Empire was embodied in this mortal man: Honor. Loyalty. Honesty. Fidelity. And I find it immensely sad that the virtues of the Empire, as embodied by him, are so absent in his gods.

  I will not tolerate an ad hominem attack by a mortal— An ironic statement, that, from Orcus.

  Livorus, a mortal, always used the truth to bargain, in good faith. You twist the truth in the service of lies, and to assert your own power. Nothing more. Livorus, a mortal, lived and died in the service of his people. Your people serve you, not you, them. Livorus, a mortal, gave his honor and his loyalty to the people who served him. You turn now, on those who have been your staunch allies, because it is convenient to you. There is no honor left in Rome’s gods. She put her hands down on the surface of the table, suddenly aware of Nith looming behind her. And I wish, with all my heart, that Livorus had been able to stand with us, when a Judean man, Adam ben Maor, pulled the trigger and killed Tlaloc. When that same man slew Inti, and I slew Supay. When he and Niðhoggr slew Hel, and when Niðhoggr slew Dagon, and when Kanmi Eshmunazar, Adam ben Maor, and the Carthaginian sorcerers tore Baal-Hamon apart. Because then, Antonius Livorus might stand among us now as a god. He would be far worthier of that distinction than you.

  Fists pounded on the table as the gods of Valhalla, unexpectedly, laughed and cheered. Sigrun blinked in surprise. Her knees felt like jelly, but her back was straight as a sword-blade.

  Orcus’ eyes shifted towards Odin. Will you let your little swan in her raven feathers speak for you now?

  Odin leaned forwards, baring his own teeth now. While I am father to my people, all here have a voice. I will let them give you Valhalla’s answer. He turned and gazed over the room. Who here will stand with Fenrir Vánagandr?

  Loki stood, immediately. He is of me. He is mine, flesh of my flesh and spirit of my spirit. I acknowledge him, as I always have. I stand by his actions. Let his fate fall upon me. He crossed and stood beside Fenris.

  Tyr was already standing. Fenris did nothing wrong. He defended our allies. Saved lives. And destroyed those who would profit by the forbidden human sacrifices. I will stand with him, if he will permit it.

  Of course I permit it, old friend. Fenris sounded stunned.

  Sigrun swallowed, and managed to make herself walk across the long hall to Fenris’ side. I helped to free Fenris. I did not place conditions on his release. He was never even subject to the Pax Romana, not being a member of the Aesir at the time that the treaty was signed. He joined Valhalla’s forces as a free soldier, a landsknechten. And while we are responsible for the actions of all those under our command, he did, in truth, nothing wrong.

  Nith slipped over next. If saving lives is wrong, then I shall count myself condemned for it.

  One by one, every god stood. Some with more reluctance than others; Fenris and Eir, for example, did not regard each other with any fondness. Odin turned back to the gods of Rome. Here then, is Valhalla’s answer. We will stand by our own. Cast your falsehoods to the wind, if you dare, and let us see which reaches the ears of gods and men faster—our truth or your lies.

  Fools, Mercury said, grimly. Nahautl and Quecha are both raiding one another for sacrifices, even as we speak. They seek to empower their gods, and they have an ancient history of precisely these kinds of raids. Their altars will run red with blood. Tens of thousands will die; the killing fields will span miles through the jungles. Pyramids will be built of the skulls—Nahautl skulls in this pile. Quechan in that. Mass graves that will require bulldozers to dig and cover. Mercury paused. Would you have tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of innocent lives on your hands, proud Aesir, proud Vanir?

  Odin stared at Mercury. The blood is not on our hands. We do not conduct these sacrifices, nor do we condone them.

  But you will not bow your prideful heads, which would help us stop these atrocities before they begin. Mars was furious.

  Livorus, showing her a chart of the Imperial Senate, flashed through Sigrun’s mind. And here is our Tribune of the Plebs. The position cannot be held by a patrician. He has to be elected from the non-equestrian classes. He derives all his power from the mandate of the masses, and thus, must pander to them, shamelessly. Our current tribune’s father made his fortune in soap manufacturing; his son took that clean background, and went into cinema. Oh, not as an actor. Even the plebs would never elect the mummer who follows a funeral procession wearing a death-mask. But a bankroller, a financier? Someone who pays for a good show, lights, explosions, lots of blood? He ran for aedile after I lost my position; that job can be held by either plebe or patrician. He ran very good Games at the Colosseum. Put on pageants and all that. The plebes loved him, and elected him tribune. And he’s been a pain in my ass ever since, because he doesn’t need any substance at all to sway people. All he needs is to put on a good show.

  Sigrun’s head rose, and Loki’s earlier inferences about the population of Nahautl came back to mind. How their gods might awaken to their own power. It was never about justice at all, she said, her stomach tightening. It was about control. You say your concern is for the innocent lives that may be lost if the Nahautl and Quecha return to the ancient ways, and begin slaughtering each other in sacrifice raids. I say that your concern is this: Fifteen hundred years ago, the gods of Nahautl were young. They had somewhere in excess of five million worshippers, they were gorged on the lives of sacrifices—th
eir own people and those of ethnic backgrounds outside their Empire, captured in war. The Quecha . . . about the same. The gods of Rome were more powerful, because they had more worshippers, and you had the gods of Gaul and Valhalla as allies. And these young gods capitulated after years of war, or after being brought to the bargaining table. She closed her eyes.

  Loki’s voice next, continuing the thread of thought, smoothly. And now, how many worshippers do they have? A hundred million, two hundred million? You sneered at the numbers, Mercury, but while you and I can make numbers lie, they rarely do so of their own accord. These gods are no longer young. Most have now been worshipped for fifteen hundred years, and some, like Quetzalcoatl, have been worshipped for far longer. They have many followers. Believers who will remember their faith, when they see their neighbors being slaughtered in the name of their gods. Blood binds, after all. And in more than one way. Bitter amusement in the trickster god’s voice now. And then, of course, each of these gods will be empowered. One human sacrifice is enough to amplify a minor spirit. What will the deaths of thousands make these no-longer-young gods?

  Thor now: Strong enough to challenge Rome, if Rome stands alone.

  It was never about justice. Tyr’s voice rang with contempt.

  It is about saving the world, you fools! Mercury’s words rang back off the walls. We have mad godlings roaming the earth. We have major pantheons dying at their hands—Nippon had a powerful pantheon, and they were torn apart, creating shockwaves that covered their islands in ash and lava. There are pockets of survivors in the biggest cities, but they are starving to death—if they do not face being hunted down and killed by ghul. Mongolia’s spirits were weaker, and they were annihilated. Korea, the same. Qin and India’s various gods are fighting against the godlings, and slowly losing.

  Mars grounded his pilum on the floor. You loosed the grendels and the ettin and the lindworms, he said, pointing with his other hand at Loki. You created their templates, and your actions ensured their spread, that, as his finger moved towards Sigrun. We have welcomed your refugees, given them shelter and protection, in spite of the destruction you have wreaked. We are beset with your problems . . . even the mad godlings are your fault— he glared at Sigrun, the direct result of your actions. And now, you would add to all of this, the specter of outright war between the gods.

  Orcus smiled, grimly. You face unpalatable choices, in your pride, gods of Valhalla. On the one hand, we have millions of your children in our territory, who have crossed the Alps into Rome, or the Rhein into Gaul. Who live in internment camps that have become squalid neighborhoods in Judea, Carthage, Egypt, Iberia, and Britannia. They could be considered hostages for your good behavior. His smile widened, and his red eyes gleamed.

  Mercury raised a hand to stop Orcus’ words. Would you continue to defy us? Will you break our ancient alliance, when the whole world and so many of your people are at stake? He looked around the room. You all stand so staunchly behind your wolf, and you pride yourselves on never going back on an oath. You see? I understand you. I will give you another option. Give us your valkyrie, instead. The one who has personally profited by the deaths of Tlaloc, Supay, Hel, and Baal-Samem. Give us the one responsible for the creation of the mad godlings, and for the earthquakes and devastation in Tawantinsuyu, for the creation of the ettin and grendels. We will execute her, instead of punishing your wolf. Your oaths remain inviolate. Nahautl both gains vengeance for Tlaloc’s death, and is shown that no god is above the law, and will be . . . encouraged to step back behind the line by the spectacle of public execution. And justice will be served on the behalf of millions. Mercury spread his hands. Every need is served. Is this not a fair bargain?

  Sigrun swallowed. It was all true, to a certain extent. Hers hadn’t been the hands that had slain Tlaloc and Inti, but she’d been there. She’d killed Supay. She’d slain Baal-Samem. And she’d never offer them Adam. Millions of my people in Roman territory. Tens, if not hundreds of thousands of Nahautl and Quecha who might not be subjected to being captured and sacrificed solely based on their ethnicity and religion, if Rome’s gods can get theirs back in line. And all I have to do is die? Adam’s face, lined and creased and tired, flashed across her mind, then him as a young man, laughing in the sunshine. Her own oath to Nith, telling the dragon that he would never be alone again. She swallowed again. If Inti could die for his people . . . if Loki could give up half of what he was, and endure exile and separation for decades, again, for his people . . . who am I do anything less? And then a little whisper at the back of her head added, And it would destroy Sophia’s future. Forever.

  She took a step forwards.

  Freya caught one of her arms, and Tyr the other, and Fenris and Nith both began to growl, dark harmonics making Sigrun’s sternum quiver. We do not bargain with those who threaten our people with violence, Freya said, her voice icy. You seek to have us bow and acknowledge your power, so that others will see our deference, and you may cow them. We are not your goad or your brand. We are not your whip or your chain. Keep the others in line with your own power.

  Loki hissed between his teeth. Stormborn was not responsible for the creation of the ettin or the grendels or anything else. The humans responsible for that are either dead, or are, in Reginleif’s case, expiating their sins, and will likely do so for a hundred years or more. And I say to you now, even having Reginleif in hand? I would not give her over at your demand. Stormborn did not slay Tlaloc. She did not slay Inti. She did not slay Baal-Hamon. All you wish is a scapegoat and a puppet-show to demonstrate your power. Loki’s sneer grew pronounced. Rome’s power has waned. You are a puffed shell of pastry that will collapse the moment a child pushes a finger through the frosting. You are nothing. No. You are nithing.

  Tyr, still holding Sigrun’s arm in his own hands, preventing her from taking so much as one more step, added, evenly, You say to us that in turning over my daughter to you, we would not be oath-breakers. We would preserve the face of honor, but we would lose its very substance. No, I say, and no again. I would rather die with honor than live with its mere appearance to hide the shell we would become without it.

  As you have become. If you did not follow my brothers’ analogies. Thor folded his massive arms over his chest, and quirked at look at Loki and Tyr. It is exceedingly odd to be in agreement with both of you at the same time.

  It seems that you of Rome currently need us, more than we need you, Odin added, grimly. I will not sacrifice one of our own to feed your ascendancy.

  You would break our ancient alliance? Mars said, tightly. You would turn your back on millennia of mutual interests, and for one foolish creature? You would condemn millions of your mortals in our lands, for her sake?

  Alliances involve reciprocity, Odin said, his ravens landing on his shoulders. You have done nothing but attempt to intimidate us, cow us, and blackmail us this day. I have heard enough of the words of Rome. Yes. The alliance is broken. We are no longer a part of the Empire. You may consider us to be in a state of civil war, if you so choose, but I do not think you can afford to fight that war. Consider the damage done during the destruction of Baal to your cities. Consider the war-wariness of your people, and the cost of the Persian conflict. And then consider the fact that I will be speaking with Taranis and the Morrigan as soon as you leave this hall. Odin’s single eye narrowed. I bid you give Jupiter these words: Come against us, and you will regret it. Make peace with us, and the alliance may yet continue. For this world will not stand against the mad gods if we are divided. But we will also not be chastised like children for defending ourselves.

  Freya snorted. Now begone, messengers, and speak our words to your master.

  The gods of Rome were escorted out. Sigrun was trembling slightly. “Why didn’t you let me?” she asked, once the door had closed. “It would have broken the future—”

  Because we need you to live, Naglfar, Loki told her. Everything we have done, since the moment Prometheus forced you to ascend, has changed your sister’s fu
ture. While we can hope that it will be enough? If it is not, you must live. His tone was uncompromising, and the major gods nodded—Thor, Odin, Freya, Sif, Njord, Heimdall, and Tyr. Eir, Nott, Skadi and the others looked confused, but shrugged.

  Go home, Freya told her, gently. But be prepared. We have set in motion what may become a civil war. You may not be able to remain in Judea.

  Sigrun’s head spun for a moment. She’d wanted to break the future, but . . . the guarantee that Judea was the undying land, in her sister’s visions, swam before her. She couldn’t displace Adam from that place of safety. But she could protect him from the consequences of her actions. I’ll need to resign from the Praetorians, she thought. Not that I’ve been on active duty with them in a while, but . . . one less hold on me. A faint sensation of guilt.

  As she stepped out into the entrance hall once more, she found herself halted as Nith’s entire tail wrapped around her, from her heels to her throat. No threat, but also, implacability. We two had a bargain, Sigrun.

  “I know. But if it meant the lives of millions, I’d break that oath, Nith.”

  I understand. But do you truly yearn for death? His voice was agitated.

  . . . No. But if I thought my death would save this world from my sister’s visions of Ragnarok, I’d fall on my spear with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. I have lived too long with her foreknowledge, Niðhoggr. It is a poison that has crept through my veins for decades, and I am weary of it. His tail uncoiled, and she leaned against his massive foreleg for a moment as he resumed his proper size.