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

by Deborah Davitt

  “And then I’d be deprived of the chance to manhandle you in public,” Solinus told her, shifting around in his metal seat, trying to get comfortable as Inghean laughed under her breath at something Rig said to her, and Maccis helped Zaya up into her seat.

  They were positioned just between the two halves of the dining area; to their left, the jotun, to the right, the fenris. Arm-wrestling contests had broken out at a half-dozen tables; there was conversation in about ten different Gothic dialects, all making for a cheerful kind of cacophony. The fenris section? There was a play area for puppies, with ropes for them to catch in their mouths and play tug-of-war with, but other than their mock-growls and yips, and the crunch of food, silence. The fenris’ conversations were all conducted in mind-speech.

  Solinus opened his vellum menu, and shook his head at the card inside that indicated that due to rationing, several items were not available. Again, the menu was divided in half. “Is everything on the fenris side served raw?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “For health reasons, everything we serve is cold-sanitized or magically sanitized,” their waitress, an enormous jotun female, informed him, materializing behind him. Solinus twitched, and hid his hands under the table until the fire that had surged to them, faded. “My apologies, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you. Most fenris have robust immune systems, but better safe than sorry, particularly when it comes to puppies, is our thinking. You’ll probably prefer something from the jotun side . . . we even have kosher dishes.” A wicked flash of a grin. “If I might recommend the rack of lamb? It will probably feed you and your wife. Possibly one of your companions, as well.” She smiled, and then got a direct look at Maccis, down to the collar, the landsknechten insignia there, the Pictish tattoos and the kilt, and the lupine ears. Her eyes widened for a moment, and she rattled at him for a moment in Gothic, and Maccis replied, sounding surprised and a little wary.

  A few minutes later, various fenris began coming over; their heads were higher than the table that they sat around, and each one courteously greeted the group, before speaking to Maccis more directly. He introduced them all, noting that one of the wolves was named Tofa, and had hunted with Fenris’ own pack. The wolf’s startlingly blue eyes took them all in, and she said, simply, It is an honor to meet you all. Maccis spoke of all of you while we hunted together. It is especially good to meet you, Zaya. She turned back towards Maccis. The venison tartar is excellent here, and they do wonderful umbles. They’re raw, but I think they must spice them. They’re heavenly. Tofa gave them all a lupine grin, and moved away.

  “Umbles?” Zaya asked.

  “Intestines and internal organs,” Maccis said, his voice distant. “I prefer them warm, myself.”

  “You really—” Zaya sounded both intrigued and disquieted at the same time. “I keep thinking you’re joking with me.”

  “Not joking. We ate what we killed. Couldn’t afford a fire most of the time, anyway. Grendels and ettin will follow the smell of smoke for miles.”

  “Besides,” Solinus put in easily, seeing the discomfort in his younger brother’s face, “we were raised to eat everything but the squeak. We’re Picts.” He gave Masako a look. “You’re going to want the fish, aren’t you?”

  “. . . it’s been preserved in lye. I’ll share the rack of lamb with you.”

  Maccis actually did order the venison tartar, Solinus noticed. Rig ordered a sirloin, and declared on seeing it, “Almost big enough. Inghean, did you forget to order something for yourself?”

  Laughter as Inghean gave him a dark look, and began heaping slices of meat from his plate onto her own trencher. And then her head swung up, and she groaned. “Not now. Not here.”

  Solinus felt a warm wash of affection cross over him, and looked up to see his mother sauntering in the front door of the taverna, pausing to converse with the jotun at the front. “Inghean, she’s not that bad, is she?” he asked his sister, chivvyingly.

  “Has she popped into your house when you were . . .” Rig paused, and very obviously edited what he’d been about to say, “. . . in the middle of something?”

  From Inghean’s flush, Solinus had no doubts about what Rig and Inghean had been in the middle of. “No, but she used to give me helpful hints and suggestions during.” Solinus looked up at the ceiling. “There are definitely times when ‘Keep your back straight! Not only is it good posture, but you’ll get a better upwards angle!’ aren’t what I want to hear.”

  Zaya quietly dissolved into helpless laughter, covering her face in embarrassment. Maccis put a hand on her shoulder, and told them all, “As always, I’m grateful for reminders of why I should cherish my mother.”

  Inghean picked up her tankard, and took a sip, sighing. “Sol, you, Latirian, Fyriacus, and even Tasalus, she leaves alone, because you’re off fighting or otherwise dealing with the enemy. That means she’s left with me to pester.” Inghean’s voice was glum. “I’m almost thinking of asking Loki to bind me just to get some peace.”

  What a thing to say, Lassair told them, mildly, moving closer now, and putting one hand on the back of Inghean’s neck. I am not actually here for you children this evening. As you yourself have reminded me, Inghean, while I do not wish to put my current existence and my family to some sort of pyre, I do need to find a new beginning, as well.

  She moved away, and Solinus looked after her. “I wonder what that means?” he said, and returned his attention to his dinner for a moment . . . looking up when he caught sight of a black-winged harpy female and a huge bear-warrior entering now, and his mother giving the harpy a surprisingly restrained embrace in greeting. “Huh. They’re going to be put at our table, aren’t they?” Tavernas often seated groups together, when there wasn’t sufficient space. The table that they were currently sharing was a long trestle-style one, and it would make sense for the jotun to put all the ‘small-folk’ together. For safety, if nothing else.

  Rig squinted past Solinus’ shoulder now. “That’s R . . . Lorelei. Huh. That’s odd.”

  “She works with my mother and Erida on a number of magical projects,” Masako volunteered. “And with your mother, in terms of the refugees, right?”

  “Yes,” Rig agreed, his brows arching quizzically. “It’s just odd seeing her here. And that’s Brandr with them. I’ve met him a few times. He tested me to see if Aunt Sig had trained me well enough.” He paused. “I passed.”

  Lassair, in the distance, had just embraced the big bear-warrior, and had a hand just on his sternum now, and was smiling up at him as she apparently mind-spoke directly to him. Solinus’ eyes narrowed, and then widened. “Inghean, when you told her to move on—”

  “I didn’t tell her any such thing!”

  “—did you tell her she should find herself a new lover?”

  “No!”

  Masako cleared her throat. “You say that as if that wouldn’t be the very first thing she thought of on her own, Sol. Gods know, I walked in on your mother last year as she was trying to seduce mine.”

  Solinus choked on a sip of his mead. Rig set his knife down and rubbed at his eyes, gently. Inghean’s head rose, and a faint expression of horror crossed his twin’s face as Masako went on, relentlessly, “I think my mother must have been a little short with her, because I didn’t see Lassair for a good three months after that.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Solinus managed, after a moment, still staring.

  Masako picked up another lamb bone, and gave him a direct look. “I couldn’t really put that in a letter, Sol. And it’s not like the topic really came up on your last leave.”

  Solinus shook his head rapidly. He knew his mother was fertility. That wasn’t really in question. He’d gone through adolescence in a house in which his father had been effectively married to two different types of fertility spirit. And his mother and father were no longer together. So, the only thing that really should be surprising him was that it had taken Lassair so long to find someone else with whom to experience passion again. Or,
well, several someones.

  He decided that now was probably a good time to distract himself, as his mother, the bear-warrior, and the harpy were all escorted to the other side of the long table. Brandr’s toes touched the ground when he took his seat, but Lorelei’s and Lassair’s dangled freely as they perused the menus. Solinus glanced at his wife. “Saki, if you could oblige us with a little privacy . . . .”

  Oh, you don’t need to do that, Lassair told them, blithely. It’s not as if I won’t hear you, anyway, and these others are deep in many counsels, it would appear.

  “We could pack up all the food and go to our house,” Rig suggested, half-heartedly.

  Brandr wasn’t entirely sure what game Lorelei was playing, but he was certain that something was afoot. There might be even more than one game. She’d asked him to meet here at Mjolnir, and he’d gotten the delighted greetings of the jotun at the door out of the way as quickly as politeness permitted. She’d told him that she wanted to discuss whether or not she should follow any orders that might require Goths and Gauls to leave Jerusalem, and what that order might mean to the rest of the refugee communities. But then she’d brought Lassair over and introduced the spirit, as if she had no idea that they’d met before. Lassair had smoothly stepped in, saying, It’s been so long since I last saw you. I think it was Fennmark, wasn’t it? She’d left her hand on his chest as she’d smiled up at him, radiantly.

  And almost every single piece of instinct and training had said, at that exact moment, Too good to be real. Look for the trap. When you last saw Lassair, she had Trennus Matrugena as her bound servant. His acknowledged queen is Saraid now. So why would Lassair of the Harvest be looking at you as if you were a particularly delicious dessert?

  So at the table, seeing young Rig and his wife Inghean, and all the others who were Lassair’s children, and the children of those who’d fought Hel herself, Brandr’s unease grew. And on hearing the fire-spirit’s blithe words, Brandr stirred in his seat. “T-they asked for p-privacy,” he said, feeling his face tighten. “I’ll re-resp-pect that.” He nodded to Rig, with the courtesy due from one god-born to another, and turned away, holding up his menu in such a way that it was clear he was ignoring the other people at the far end of the table, regardless of privacy spells.

  There were many things that didn’t fit. Lassair, for example, wore a tight red silk vest that left her waist and shoulders bare, and the matching skirt of red silk hugged every curve tightly as it swept to the floor. Her hair was loose, tumbling to her waist. As outfits went, this one shouted look at me. Brandr looked. And then looked away, trying to find what he wasn’t supposed to be noticing.

  The jotun and fenris assembled in the restaurant all seemed fairly ordinary—strange how the extraordinary could become normal. The young people on the other side of the table were uncomfortable enough that they probably weren’t a part of any set-up. That left Lorelei, who’d issued the invitation in the first place.

  Unlike Lassair, Lorelei had taken no apparent pains with her appearance. Her black jeans were old and worn, possibly taken from a donation bin, with a lace-up fly and sides. Like many harpies, she struggled with zippers, thanks to her talons. Her siren’s body necessitated a different style of top than many Gothic women preferred; most bodices would have covered the area where her wings sprouted from her back. And thus, she wore a thin, draped black top that tied at neck and waist, blousing loosely over her torso. Her body was knife-thin—again, possibly attributable to her harpy physiology, though Brandr had seen a few harpies with curves that rivaled Lassair’s. Her hair was bound back today, bringing the scar on her face into clear prominence, and her manner was subdued. So. I’m supposed to be looking over there. I’m not supposed to be looking over here. Why? What’s the trick?

  One look at the menu reinforced his suspicions. “L-lore,” he said; she’d long since told him to shorten her name so that it was easier for him to say. “You c-can’t eat any of th-this.” Almost the entire menu was dedicated to red meat. Lamb, beef, goat, venison. The fenris half was raw, and heavy on the organs, and even included blood sausages. The jotun half leavened the meat with spätzle, fried potato pancakes, or, at most, included root vegetables in thick stews.

  Lorelei shrugged a little, her wings flaring. “There’s pickled herring,” she said.

  “In cr-cream.” Most harpies, after infancy, were profoundly lactose-intolerant. Many of them had digestion like raptors, and could swallow small bones, which provided their calcium requirements. Lorelei’s eating habits were, however, those of an aquatic bird, like a swan, though she was more omnivorous than a genuine waterfowl tended to be. “You eat th-that, and . . . .” he pulled his hands apart, miming an explosion.

  Lorelei snorted ruefully. “I’d thought that I could scrape it off, or try the lutefisk. I haven’t had that in twenty, twenty-five years or so.”

  Well, that confirms that accent or not, she genuinely does come from northern Europa. Most of us Aquilonian Goths won’t touch the stuff. But she slipped . . . perhaps. “H-haven’t h-had it since you were a ch-child?” he said, baiting her slightly. Lorelei was ageless in appearance. She could have been her mid-twenties to her early thirties.

  Lorelei’s red eyes met his. “It has been some time,” she replied, neither confirming nor denying. “Now, I know that the portions here are large, but I’m sure Brandr will eat a jotun’s meal. Asha, you might be better served ordering from the children’s menu.” She looked startled, and then reached down to the poke tied to her belt, and removed the satellite phone there. Brandr thought the poke was another clue as to Lorelei’s actual age. Most younger people seemed to prefer the newfangled pockets that tailors had been sewing directly into clothing for the last twenty years or so. Sigrun used both pokes and pockets, for example. But anyone younger than about fifty had left pokes behind as old-fashioned. Brandr himself didn’t like pockets. Having his coins riding right next to his groin in an inner pocket seemed an invitation to pinching and twisting. “When did I miss a call?” Lorelei said now, her tone exasperated. “Excuse me. I should go check on this.”

  Brandr watched her move off, and returned his gaze to Lassair, who once more smiled at him and propped her chin on her fingers. I find it fascinating when I can’t entirely hear someone’s thoughts, the spirit admitted, raising her eyebrows. And your essence isn’t quite the same as when last we met. There are fracture marks through you, though they appear to be healing.

  He shrugged. Even if words had been easy, he wouldn’t have known what to say to that. After a moment, he reached for his own poke, and came up with a scrap of paper and a fountain pen. Uncapping the pen, he wrote, What’s this all about? and turned the message around for her.

  Lassair’s expression became resigned. Why must everyone write their words? Forgive me, but I do not read these marks. If you concentrate, and shape the words deliberately in your mind, you may be able to use mind-speech. Shadowweaver does, after all. A glance after Lorelei told him that the spirit had just handed him Lorelei’s Name.

  Brandr exhaled through his teeth. The young people had wanted privacy, and Lassair had just breached Lorelei’s, as well. “U-using t-true N-names is d-dangerous,” he told her, as sharply as he could. “Y-you p-put her in j-jeop-pardy.”

  Lassair shook her head, smiling. No, I do not. You would not harm her in such a fashion. You do not have the power to twist her Name, and you would not give her Name to others to use against her. You fight your battles face-to-face. I admire that quality in you, as I admire it in others.

  “W-what is this ab-about?” he asked, crumpling up the paper. Useless gesture that it had been.

  I see that you will not cease to doubt everything you see and hear unless you hear the truth from me. The god-born of Valhalla are such a sadly suspicious lot. Stormborn always looks for the price of the bargain, even when something is a gift. You always search for the lie, the trap, the glamour, the illusion. Lassair tilted her head to the side. Truth, then. Shadowweaver wished for m
e to meet you again. She says that you are as much in need of companionship, as I am. The lack, in both our existences, suggested to her an opportunity. Lassair’s smile suddenly turned sorrowful. She also suggested that if there was insufficient resonance between us, that I should try to find someone with whose spirit you did resonate. She paused. She specified a jotun or a nieten. I believe she thinks that this might help you find a female more in tune with the life of a bear-warrior.

  Ten different sentences caught themselves on Brandr’s teeth, and tangled there. As a result, his only vocalization was a growl. No matter how hard he tried, the words wouldn’t come out. His frustration grew, and Brandr thumped his fist against the table, which was, fortunately, designed with jotun in mind. Nevertheless, every plate and tankard on the table jumped and rattled. “B-b-b . . .” Brandr exhaled. Realized that adrenaline precursors were swimming in his blood, and inhaled again. “Busy-b-body,” he finally managed, almost spitting the word out. “Sh-she’s always . . . b-been a . . . .”

  Always? Lassair’s eyebrows rose, and she suddenly looked completely innocent.