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

by Deborah Davitt

  Kanmi blinked, and then laughed, ruefully, rubbing at his jaw, harshened with a full day’s growth of dark stubble. No gray in his hair. Good teeth, too. “You have a point.”

  “On the other hand, that’s the sort of thing that inspires belief,” she added now. “A man who comes back from the dead to continue to be the scourge of his foes? That’s the sort of thing of which legends are made, Kanmi-kun.”

  On the one hand, he wasn’t sure he wanted people believing in him. On the other hand, he was far too pragmatic not to see the advantage of putting fear into an enemy’s mind. “There would be a certain amount of pleasure in fucking with their heads,” Kanmi admitted. “And one extremist group tends to attract others, so long as their goals aren’t diametrically opposed. They tend to want the same goods and services. Or can provide them. Like every criminal sub-society, everywhere . . . it’s a market economy. Finding any one of these little groups could help lead us to Potentia. If they’re really behind this.” He considered it for a moment. “Let’s talk to Prometheus before we commit to going there, Min.” He snorted. “I think I’m ready to brace him on the other topic now, too.”

  “Good,” Min told him, her eyes narrowing. “I look forward to his response.”

  A day or two later, they’d arranged to meet with Erida and her houseguests, and sat in her drawing room, sipping tea and munching on samoom flatbread with honey, dates, and gehmar cream. Erida’s hospitality was unstinting for guests, as always, but even she had to be economizing lately. It didn’t matter to Kanmi. The honey alone made him want to weep for joy, and the tea filled him with warmth. It would have been a very fine thing indeed to sit back, savor the flavors, the conversation, and the smell of Minori’s hair. But they all knew this wasn’t a social call. Erida looked as tired and strained as Kanmi had ever seen her, and Zhi seethed with inner turmoil. What can you tell us, foresighted one? Zhi inquired impatiently of Prometheus, who sat beside Hecate in the formal living room. This is a weapon that can be turned against us. And will be, if it is not recovered.

  “I have a few contacts still left in Persia,” Erida muttered, the lines of her face taut. “The Persian government is apparently trying to make contact with Potentia ad Populum. They’re offering financing in exchange for the spell.”

  Minori shook her head, and looked down. “I wanted a deterrent,” she said, dully. “Something that said, ‘Don’t come here. We’ll use this.’ I wanted something that could be used on ghul and the mad gods, to stop the cycle of destruction. All I did was make it worse.”

  Prometheus glanced up from his review of their evidence, and the titan shook his head. You may have to use it again, in order to demonstrate that you are willing to do so. Your guns are not much more than elaborately tooled sticks, without the will to fire them. The titan paused. The gods of Valhalla and Gaul have found many of the conspirators, all low-ranking members with little information beyond their own personal targets. If they wish to harm the gods of Valhalla and their people, they might be able to hit a refugee camp in Europa, but that is not the kind of statement that they are likely to wish to make. They will want to strike where the gods appear strongest. And sea travel, while dangerous, is not yet impossible.

  “Another city in Novo Gaul or in Nova Germania, as we’ve been saying, then,” Kanmi said. “One that’s around lots of water. We deterred an attack on Arlesus. That leaves Clovis, a major port on the Aeturnus River. Novo Trier. Burgundoi. Duwamish, up on the northwest coast.”

  All possible targets, as is Cimbri-on-the-Caestus. Many know it as the city that was Stormborn’s childhood home. And the great lake there provides a substantial amount of water. There is not enough information yet. Tracking down those who cut the gems, as you have been doing, and convincing them to provide information about their customers is, I think, the correct approach.

  Kanmi’s smile was bright and cynical. “Looks like I woke up just in time. Adam doesn’t like the kind of interrogation methods I’d use.” Min shifted against him, and he looked down at her, in time to see her wince. “And I know you don’t either, love. But unless I’ve got Sigrun in one of my pockets to tell me when someone’s lying . . . .”

  Your othersight will begin to tell you, I believe. If you practice it.

  “Yes, that’s the thing. Don’t want to be learning in the field.”

  “Take Lassair,” Erida suggested, her expression closed. “She can be quite persuasive when she puts her mind to it.”

  “Good thought. It’ll practically be like old times in Alexandria.” Kanmi wiped the sweat off his brow. Entity or not, he loathed the idea of returning to that city. “While we’ve got you here, Prometheus, and on the subject of truth . . . I have a bone to pick with you.” Kanmi grinned as the titan’s head jerked up.

  Whatever do you mean? Prometheus asked, his eyebrows lowering.

  “I’ve had seven years, give or take, of being out of the game. Seven years in which I had nothing better to do than think.” Kanmi tapped a piece of samoom against the honey-pot. “Here we were, going along in lock-step with Sophia Caetia’s prophecies for . . . gods only know how many years of Sigrun’s life. And then you come along, out of the blue, and Sophia didn’t expect you.” Kanmi raised his eyebrows. “Now, everyone else in the world was scrambling along, trying to stay alive. They’re excused for having latched onto this as Hey, something’s different, this means we might win. Sigrun in particular wasn’t going to inspect the teeth of a gift-horse. But you know . . . there I was, dead. Nothing to do but think.” The room had gone silent, and Kanmi met Prometheus’ eyes. “I like to think I’m fairly good at math, Prometheus. Would you like to tell me the odds of your happening to be brought back to life? Of random chance suddenly entering a world that had been cruising along the deterministic path outlined by Apollo of Delphi’s pre-memories and Sophia Caetia’s foresight?” He paused. “You’ll understand why I’m suspicious, when an unknown factor suddenly enters an equation, and everything changes because of it,” Kanmi paused. “The question becomes, are you the cause, or are you the effect?”

  Prometheus looked down, and Kanmi could watch the expressions ripple across his face. Could see the spirit seething inside the avatar, a white-hot flame that constantly surged in one direction or another, reflective of the restless mind he possessed. I do not know which I am. The odds are . . . not good of any of this occurring. I have examined your modern chaos theory, that suggests that the more errors that agglomerate in a system—if they do not occur at set intervals, along a pattern, but increase exponentially, as we are seeing in the world around us today—

  “Yes, the faster the world plummets into Tartarus, the more likely it is that we all have free will.” Kanmi paused, frowning. “I’ve said that before.”

  The recording of your lecture on chaos theory and modern magic was most instructive. Shadeslore provided it to me. Prometheus sounded uneasy. The problem with attributing my presence to chaos is that everything adhered to a set pattern before my arrival. And I do not understand why I . . . arrived. I have always suspected that it was not an accident.

  You arrived because my power, riven from my body by a mad godling, awakened you. Hecate’s voice was soft. The goddess rarely spoke, and usually hid beneath her dark cloak. Kanmi had never actually seen her face, and sometimes wondered if she had ever been more apt to show her countenance. And if Sigrun was taking style tips from the goddess of night, magic, and doors.

  Minori lifted her head. “Kanmi and I have done a little thinking about this topic,” she said, with polite respect. “And we took the liberty of borrowing young Zaya to mask us as we asked Sophia Caetia what she knew about you, Hecate.”

  Erida stirred, and shifted to look at Hecate with keen interest. “I had wondered what that visit was about. Zaya’s getting very good at keeping secrets. Even from me.” A rueful tone, that.

  Hecate’s cloak slipped a little back, showing the line of a porcelain chin. And what did the mad Pythia say about me, Truthsayer?


  “That she saw you remaining neutral. On the day Baal-Hamon died, you moved refugees out of dangerous areas to safe zones, like Athens, and that you’d laugh when Olympus falls . . .” Minori’s voice didn’t waver. “But she says you will first fight a mad godling in 1999 AC. You retain your powers, until the end, when you’ll depart into the Veil, and pass out of her sight.”

  How interesting. Perhaps I was wiser in Apollo’s visions than I truly am. An airy wave.

  Kanmi snorted. Everyone in the room was staring at her now, even Prometheus. “What made you decide to take on a mad godling, on your own?” Kanmi asked.

  She shifted. They were our people. They would have died undefended if I did not take action.

  Erida shook her head. “What changed, Hecate? Something had to have occurred. Did someone come to you and tell you what the future held if you . . .” Her eyes widened. “Did Apollo come to you, or the Norns?”

  Apollo? Hecate laughed, a sound like crystal and tears. I would as soon geld him as share ten minutes’ discourse with him. No. That useless spouter of prophecy did not come to me.

  Prometheus stared at her, his mind clearly churning. Someone did come to you. Someone with knowledge of the future. Someone with a desire to change it. How is that possible? It would require someone who . . . someone who was outside this universe. A Veil spirit? A Nameless creature of the Aether, like the godslayers of old?

  I would never deal with those of the Aether, as you did, Prometheus. They are not of us, nor of this mortal world. Hecate sighed, and lowered her head. But someone did come to me. The plan as presented was that I should bleed out the mad godling over your tomb and awaken you with its power. Thus you would awaken at your full abilities, and I would retain all of mine. The one who came to me was . . . unwilling to intervene directly.

  Kanmi latched onto the arm of the couch with one hand, his knuckles white. “You mean to tell me that there’s some . . . new player, from outside our universe, who’s meddling?” He wasn’t sure if he should be outraged or grateful. “Not that I don’t want to break the damned prophecy, but who do they think they are, anyway?”

  It is not someone from outside the game, Hecate said, smoothing her robe with elaborate care.

  Then with whom have you bargained, opener of ways? Zhi demanded, in exasperation.

  You will understand that I cannot divulge that information. Hecate’s movements were agitated, and her inner core flared briefly with violet light. The agreement was minimal intervention. Revealing the identity of the entity involved would compromise that agreement.

  “But whoever it is, has left you without any recourse, drained of your power and in danger from Rome and Olympus both,” Erida shot back, her topaz eyes gleaming. Kanmi still loved watching his old friend’s mind work. “Who is it, Hecate? The god of Abraham, so renowned for his disengagement from the world?”

  Pale hands rose, and Hecate pulled back her hood. Her golden eyes were visible, wide with incredulity, as was a tangle of dark, lustrous hair. The goddess laughed. The god of Abraham? Oh, certainly not. Why would he intervene now, after two thousand years of silence? She shook her head. My . . . acquaintance . . . must stand apart. I accept this. I am good at silence, myself. Even better with secrets. This is one that is safe with me. And you have my oath, on the Styx, that if it ever becomes important, if my acquaintance seeks to betray us all . . . I will tell you who it is. But it is my hope that it will not become necessary. That the future will have changed enough to . . . drive Apollo of Delphi completely mad, and save the rest of us. She shrugged.

  Why did you not tell me? Prometheus demanded.

  Because with your mind, you would pick at the problem until you had untangled it completely. And I would have to redouble my efforts to distract you. A wicked smile. However enjoyable that sort of diversion might be, it cannot be my only activity.

  Kanmi didn’t bother to hide his smirk. Bet he didn’t see that coming, he told Min, silently.

  Minori chuckled into her hand, struggling for dignity, and then abandoned the pretense, and laughed out loud. It was a pleasant respite from grimness, but the entire conversation weighed on Kanmi’s mind at least as much as it obviously bothered Prometheus. We have an unknown player, presumably with good intentions, involved in all this. Someone who stands far enough outside the system to try to derail the predestined freight train from its route. Hecate knows who it is . . . and isn’t telling. I wonder if I can trick it out of her at some point. Kanmi considered that. He’d have to be damned good. Hecate had been in the business of keeping secrets for longer than Rome had been a civilization. I might not be good enough. But Prometheus . . . well, that’s a thought for another day. He looked at Min. “Apparently, we need to visit Alexandria.”

  “They’re still in the process of building bridges across that new waterway linking the Mediterranean and the Red Sea,” Erida reminded him. “Construction keeps getting disrupted by earthquakes and the occasional mad godling who tries to attack the gods of Egypt . . . those few who remain.”

  Isis is very powerful, Amaterasu interposed, gently. The gods of the Nile are few, but they are ancient, and their followers have only a few gods into which to concentrate their belief for centuries. Do not underestimate them.

  “I do not,” Erida said, inclining her head politely. “And yet, Marduk was the last of the Babylonian gods. He was ancient, but had few adherents. And he died in a mad godling’s attack, leaving most Chaldeans and Medians without any god at all.” She swallowed, as Zhi reached out a smoke-black hand and rubbed his fingers along her forearm. “Fortunately, our people had long since come to believe in the Magi, instead. Much in the way many modern Judeans seem to believe in science more than in their god.” She smirked faintly.

  “I will be sure to tell ben Maor you said so,” Kanmi told her, lightly. “He’ll be fascinated by the parallel.”

  “If he were twenty years younger, he’d even agree to it, and you know it, my old friend. He’s just feeling the weight of his mortality.”

  Min shook her head and brought them back on-topic. “Flights are irregular. A ship might be our best option. There haven’t been any more kraken sighted since Sigrun and I fought the one . . .”

  “Frankly, I was just going to ask Trennus to walk us there through the Veil,” Kanmi said, dryly. “Let’s go, Min. The faster we move, the better our chances of finding these people before they blow up another city.”

  Martius 4, 1994 AC

  Worldwalker ran through the woods, his boots slapping lightly over the ground. Part of his bargain to keep the Woods where they were, in Judea, was that he had to spend three to four months out of every year in the Veil. Balancing the delicate flow of power between the realms. Oh, the Veil had infinite power. That wasn’t the problem. But for stability, the arrangement had to be, in some measure, reciprocal, and sacrifice was required.

  Usually, he monitored the energy currents, as the trees here and the trees there shifted into close and closer alignment. And because the trees here were eternal, he was beginning to suspect that the forest in the mortal realm would be, too. He wasn’t sure why the thought nagged at him. The Wood was always going to find a way to become. As if it were a living, sapient thing. Though of course, in some ways? It was. It had a life of its own. A will of its own. And like any child brought into creation by a parent, it was beginning to go its own way. Though he was shaping it, still. Guiding it. Nurturing it.

  But today—if any moment in the Veil could be considered ‘today’—there was something wrong in the Wood. An interloper had found its way here . . . an interloper that reeked of Rome. There was a rainbow sheeting through the sky over his head, where there should have been none, which suggested that Iris, the messenger of Jupiter, when Mercury wasn’t available, was near. Saraid, he called, immediately.

  I cannot come, she told him, her voice urgent. I am in the middle of a battle with fenris, jotun, and Hellene forces, trying to retake Tyre from the Romans—

  Understood. W
orldwalker reflexively began to call out again. La—. He ducked under a branch, and clamped down on the thought. Lassair, in freeing him, was also free. He couldn’t go calling on her for help all the time. It was unfair, to both of them. It reverted them to old patterns. But gods damn it, I don’t think I can take on Iris by myself. Demigoddess or not, she’s still of Rome.

  He could feel the shifting pressure in the energy currents around him. Could feel the delicate press of a sandaled foot on the earth that was his to nurture. Trennus dropped into a crouch, and let the dark green foliage cover him. Made himself one with the land, as his ancestors had, and slowly pulled his bow off his shoulder. Put an arrow to the string, feeling a light breeze dance across his bare shoulders. The rich smell of leaves and earth surrounded him, as he caught a prism’s glimmer in the air ahead of him. She’s there. She’s trying to reach the gateway . . . no. She’s coming for me, isn’t she? To use me as a hostage.

  Worldwalker squinted. A rainbow was only visible at an angle of forty-two degrees opposite the sun’s location in the mortal realm. At any other angle, the refraction of light would be invisible to the person attempting to perceive it. As such, besides that faint, momentary shimmer, he couldn’t see anything out of place.