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

by Deborah Davitt

  They’d tracked down eighteen of the twenty-four individuals on whom Kanmi and Minori had managed to develop information on in Carthage. They’d found a few before that information had been developed, as well as some of the home-grown Potentia people in Novo Gaul and Nova Germania. That left six more of the original cabals, and whoever in the local population happened to be giving them aid and support.

  Unfortunately, two months later, Sigrun felt the instant that three of the remaining six people deployed their next weapon. She screamed and fell to her knees, death rushing through her. Life rushing through her. Oh, gods, no, she thought, wrapped in a haze of private misery, dimly aware as Adam hobbled towards her, asking, urgently and repeatedly, “Sig! Sig, what is it? Are you all right? What happened?”

  “Someone . . . just murdered . . . my people . . .” she managed to say, opening her eyes, but seeing only blackness. There was screaming in her ears, Thor’s roar of vengeance, and Sif’s weeping for the incalculable loss. There were nine million people in the city that had just been assaulted, or had been. Seven million of them had died all at once.

  And it was Cimbri. Cimbri-on-the-Caestus, where Sigrun had been born and raised.

  Tears streamed down her face, freezing on her cheeks. “Oh, gods, Adam, Thor’s in the air over Cimbri now . . . they used Lake Caestus as the fuel source. There’s nothing left. Not a building standing . . . the girders from the skyscrapers in mid-town are all exposed, like skeletons . . . .”

  Staring down through Thor’s eyes at what had been the Lakefront area. The twisted remains of the train tracks, the way the trains in the yards had been blown completely off, and tumbled over on their sides. Little more than heaps of fractured metal, barely recognizable. Not a single person moving in Thor’s wide angle of vision, not even the ghostly shades and colors of othersight. Her head leaned against the kitchen cabinets, and she shook in place, fighting down the nausea. In its own way, this was worse than seeing a mad godling’s attack. This had been willingly done by human hands. “I will kill them,” she said, tonelessly. “I will kill every last one of them. Anyone even associated with Potentia ad Populum is now mine.”

  She staggered to her feet, and realized, as her vision cleared, that Adam was right there, putting a hand, hesitantly, on her shoulder, his eyes bright and concerned, his expression slightly wary. “Sigrun . . . you can’t kill people just for being associated—”

  “Seven million people!” Sigrun shouted. “Seven million people, Adam! And five million others in Crann Péitseog! How many people lived in Judea before the Goths and the Hellenes came here? Seven, eight million people? If someone came to Jerusalem and did this, there wouldn’t be a Judean people!” There was screaming in her ears. Survivors.

  Survivors on the west side, Sif confirmed. I go! Sigrun, come to us!

  “I’ll be right there,” Sigrun affirmed, looking up, even as Adam leaned his cane against the counter, and put his free hand on her other shoulder. He looked steadily into her eyes, trying to capture her attention, but she was . . . fragmented. It was difficult to pay attention to anything other than the pain of so many. The deaths of a multitude.

  “Sig. Listen to me. You can’t just execute everyone who happens to be associated with the group. There has to be some rule of law. Otherwise, we will lose what’s left of civilization.” Adam’s voice wavered. “You know that. You’ve always been my lodestone. You’re the one I look to, when I’m not sure what the right thing, the ethical thing, is.”

  With an effort, she pulled her attention back from halfway across the world. Met his eyes, which were . . . worried for her. Fearful for her. “Sometimes,” Sigrun said, tightly, “It seems that the law is a luxury, a privilege, that we enjoy in civilized times. It is a web of spider silk, used to restrain a bull. Most of the time, the bull thinks that the web holds him. And right now? He’s gone mad, and it’s going to take a goad and a prod to put him back in his stall. Far better that I do this, than let my people tear apart every sorcerer and ley-mage that they see, eh? Anyone that they suspect of being in league with Potentia? Their gods were barely keeping the Gauls contained after Crann Péitseog. What do you think will happen if someone doesn’t take action? Mortals against sorcerers. Sorcerers aligning with Potentia out of self-defense. So sorcerers against mortals and against god-born. We’ll be so busy fighting ourselves, that we won’t have time to worry about Rome or the godlings.” Sigrun stared at her husband. “So no. I won’t execute the ones who are truly innocent. But I will execute every member of Potentia that I can get my hands on, who’s guilty of something. Until Odin tells me that my efforts are better directed elsewhere.”

  Adam took his hand off her shoulder, looking at her as if he didn’t know her anymore. As if she’d slapped him. Sigrun’s heart hurt, and she still had the screams of the dying and the wounded in her ears. “I told you,” she reminded him, quietly. “I am darkness, death, and vengeance.” And you can’t love what you see in me.

  She turned to leave. Adam’s voice stopped her at the door. “Sig? Don’t . . . don’t lose yourself out there.” His voice was pained.

  I’m already lost.

  Mad godlings sniffed around the edges of the area where the energy storm had been loosed, and were fought back. Minori and Kanmi were called in once more, to assist Freya and Loki in understanding the energy patterns left by the blast, and Kanmi, his eyes tired, was able to determine that this hadn’t been the result of a single, large-carat spell matrix, but rather, of about twenty smaller ones, all placed together in a single location on the western shore of the Caestus. “It’s hard to say, but I think all the stones were in a water-tight box, and when a timer went off, the box opened, and they all went off at the same time. The yield was therefore about the same as if a single large spell-matrix was used, but . . . again, without proper safeguards.” Kanmi’s expression shifted, turning furious. “Each spell-stone was designed, judging from the ones Sig’s retrieved so far, for small yields, and usually fairly tightly contained. Their safeguards couldn’t control an explosion of this magnitude. Not with them concatenating off each other.”

  Lassair went with Sigrun and Nith to track down the cabal who’d left the stones. It only took two days; they’d only made it as far away as Marcomanni. Sigrun once more slipped through the cabal’s door as mist in the middle of the night, but this time, Nith tore the roof off their hotel and breathed down into the Potentia members’ room. You must keep some of them alive for questioning! Lassair protested, landing on a wall in her phoenix form. At least one!

  Nith’s breath had all three of them cowering, trying to get under the beds for shelter, and the sorcerer of the group was incanting, frantically. You’re nowhere near as good as Kanmi or Min, Sigrun thought, and materialized, her spear swinging freely, and sliced off the man’s hands. She diffused once more, as one of the men under the beds tried to get a shot in on her . . . and the bullet passed through her ephemeral form, hitting the sorcerer, who was now screaming in pain and panic, holding up the bloody stubs of his wrists. He’d bleed out, if not tended to, but he could wait. He’s not going to be casting much like this. Not unless he’s got Min’s capacity for concentration. Sigrun’s mist form rushed back towards the men cowering under the beds. They’d used up all their gems on the attack on Cimbri. They had no effective way to attack her, or those in the rooms around her.

  She solidified, kicked the bed out of the way, distantly aware that the wood shattered at the impact of her boot, and the metal frame underneath bent as it and the mattress were flung into a nearby wall. She looked down at the man, who cowered there on his hands and knees, and tried to shield his head. “I do not wish to sully my weapon with your blood,” she said, distantly. “But you do not really deserve anything better.” She slammed a foot into the small of his back, and removed his head with her spear, and then whirled away again, vaguely aware that Lassair had hopped down into the room, and was now attending to the sorcerer’s wrists. Not healing. Cauterizing, to stop the blo
od-loss, and nothing more. As Sigrun was about to kick the second bed out of the way, Nith reached down into the room with one enormous paw, and placed it atop the bed. And leaned there.

  The bed collapsed, and there was a momentary, strangled scream of pain as every bone in the hidden man’s body broke. Every rib shattered. The lungs collapsed. Let this one die, as the victims in the rubble did, Nith said, calmly. In pain. Of suffocation and broken bones.

  Sigrun considered that for a moment. It did seem fitting. And yet . . . End it.

  Merciful of you. I obey. Nith’s claws arced through what remained of the bed, as the dragon clenched his forepaw. And Sigrun could feel the moment of passage, as the Potentia cabal member died.

  She took a step forwards, letting herself drift between mist and solidity between steps. So she moved in little rushes and blurs, but with every stride, her armored boots touched down on the ground with the clang of inevitability. And now, she told the sorcerer, silently, You will tell me the names of everyone who has aided you since your arrival on these shores. Everyone who gave you aid and comfort. Because you have not been staying entirely in hotel rooms, now have you? We tracked the others through gardia efforts, following the use of bank drafts to pay for rooms, motorcars, and food . . . as well as through their guilt-ties to the crimes. You are different. You and your friends here . . . you are blood-bound to a major spirit or a god. I can feel it in you.

  “I won’t say anything. You can’t get anything out of me. I am protected.” The words were terrified, and the man’s face was lit, dimly, through the shattered window by the blue-and-red lights of the gardia vehicles outside. Sigrun had had the opportunity, this time, to set up properly. To evacuate the other people in the hotel.

  Your hypocrisy fascinates me, she said. You are blood-bound to some entity, and yet, you work to destroy gods. You believe, I think, that you are using this god who has bound you, and that you will turn on him or her when you have grown strong enough. Sigrun tipped her head to the side. And this god no doubt believes, slightly more accurately, that when you have served your purpose, you may be safely eliminated. She smiled behind her mask. I wonder who that god could possibly be. Let’s find out, shall we?

  She found the cord that connected the man to his god. Studied it for a moment. It looked faintly familiar. Not Orcus. Orcus is not subtle. Not Pluto. Pluto is a just god, an unbiased judge. Hades. Yes . . . the lord of the underworld does usually resort to bribery with his mortals. I wonder how much wealth you were offered. It will be interesting to investigate your bank accounts. Sigrun tested the cord. It wasn’t a full soul-bond. And it was night-time.

  She snapped it. Felt the recoil hit the man’s mind, with all the latent energies, and, distantly, could sense of howl of outrage, and a certain amount of attention being directed at this room . . . and then Hades retreated. Left his pawn unprotected. Your mind is not shielded now, sorcerer, Sigrun told him, almost kindly. And my friend here listens very, very well.

  Lassair shifted form, shedding the phoenix, and became a human female again, but with fifteen-foot wings of flame, and claws. Like a siren, but far more beautiful than Reginleif had chosen to be. Day to Reginleif’s eternal night. Who helped you on your way through these lands? Lassair said, with a sweet smile. Oh, there are their faces. A ley-mage, passed over for promotion, because of a drinking problem? A sympathizer, a hanger-on at the meetings. Ah, and that one. A hedge-wizard, who was once insulted by a god-born. A rich technomancer, that one, whose company is in bankruptcy, because the local temples gave their contracts for protective wardings and spell-crafting to a rival of his, and he became disaffected. I have their names, Stormborn. And their locations. Some of them did not know what they were doing—

  —we’ll see what they knew, and when they knew it, when I find them. Sigrun’s voice was distant. Right now, every last one of them is accessory to mass murder. She would have greatly preferred to execute this man right here, on the spot. But her people deserved to see justice being done. As Adam had so pointedly reminded her, law was one of the things that kept civilization civilized.

  So she remanded him to the custody of the gardia waiting outside. She’d allow human justice to carry forth with him, while she continued following the trail, wherever it led. And the gardia members—some of whom remembered her from her valkyrie days, her Praetorian days, actually got back to her. Timidly. Saying her Name shame-facedly in their cubicles, thus getting her immediate attention. We’ve found evidence of off-shore transfers of funds from Roman banks. Rome claimed to have frozen all assets in their banks in regards to the rebellious provinces. This is fairly strong evidence that it’s not just the gods of Rome who are backing this splinter group . . . or at least, a few members of it . . . but the government of Rome. A way to hurt us, attack us, without marshalling troops that they no longer really have.

  Sigrun thanked the various detectives, who seemed bemused by the strangeness of it all, and sent the word on to the other gods. We will have to retaliate against Rome at some point, she pointed out, wearily. I’m just not sure how.

  Leave that to me, Odin said, grimly. They doubtless think that this is a right and honorable retaliation for Zeus’ death, and our protection of Mercury. We need to focus now, on protecting our people and defeating the mad godlings. If we have an opportunity, then yes. Rome will pay.

  Sigrun was somewhat surprised when Lassair asked to visit her keep in the Veil. I cannot really feel comfortable in the Woods yet, the spirit admitted. And I am in need of replenishment. The children are excellent conduits. But . . . nothing besides the soul-bond with Flamesower really replaces going there, myself.

  So Sigrun had a guest for an evening, and found . . . well, created . . . fragrant woods and cinnamon bark for Lassair to burn in a firepit in the courtyard, giving the area far more light than the chill moonlight above usually provided. This is a lonely place, Lassair assessed. A place of exile, almost.

  Stormborn shrugged, and leaned back against Nith’s bulk, looking up at the stars. We are drawing more allies here. Shadeslore put me in contact with Mladena. She is more or less the housekeeper now. I made her a fountain, so that she never need be away from water. The pazuzu—

  A very odd choice!

  And never in history has an old enemy become a useful associate. He bears watching, yes. Stormborn shrugged again. Nith has made contact with the hrímþursar. The rime-giants, the spirits of the far north. Skadi was one, once, before she married Njord. She has become more than her kin, and no longer associates much with them. But they were allies of Hel. Sigrun smiled faintly. And the frost-spirits are Loki’s allies, as well. Some of them have found enough likeness of spirit with me and with Niðhoggr, that they have taken up residence here. She looked away, finding where the towering frost-giants occupied the towers and gate-houses of the castle. They could manifest in the mortal world. Most simply hadn’t done so in millennia, as a result of a bargain between them and the gods of Valhalla. They were, in some ways, what the jotun had been patterned after . . . except that they were easily twelve feet tall. The males appeared like clear ice. They were bald, and shone palely in the moonlight as they moved around, watching the perimeter. The females seemed fashioned of white snow, and their hair looked like frozen waterfalls. Where they walked, patches of frost formed in their footsteps. And they sang, strange songs about cold, winter, and hunting rituals long forgotten by the mortal world . . . though Sigrun rather suspected that the Sami people would have known and recognized some of these spirits, had they encountered them. You see? It is not so bad as all that.

  These are subordinates. Not friends. Lassair’s voice was gentle. Their spirits do not resonate with yours.

  Resonance was always an interest of yours. Stormborn’s voice was distant.

  Just because I no longer resonate properly with Flamesower—very well, with Worldwalker—does not mean that I cannot see who around me is in resonance with each other. Lassair burned merrily in the firepit, and ruby eyes formed in the t
ongues of waving flame. And it does not mean that I will not find resonance with others again in the future. A sly note entered her voice. Truthsayer told me that since Cloudwalker did not find resonance with me, but with Shadowweaver, that I should continue to look for opportunities for myself. She suggested that since Malice-Striker is alone, and I am alone, and that I should seek to match my resonance to his.

  Niðhoggr, who had been staring silently up at the stars, swiveled his head down, and stared, almost in consternation, at the fire-spirit. Tell Truthsayer that I will thank her not to continue her interest into such matters. His tone was repressive.

  Oh, I already assured her that your spirit does not resonate with mine. Lassair’s tone remained cheerful. You are darkness, ice, death, and vengeance, the darkest edge of night, and the punisher of the evil-doer. She said that it could be a union of opposites, and that I could easily take a dragon form. Stormborn could hear just a faint edge of teasing coquetry in the voice now. Lassair had scented something of amusement to her, and was in pursuit.