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

by Deborah Davitt

  He tried the door, and it opened, so he shuffled indoors. “No guards?” Adam called.

  I have little need for guards. Saraid appeared in the doorway to the kitchen area.

  “And you’ve learned to drive?”

  No, Eisa and Vorvena are with me. We are moving a few items left in the attics to the northern villa. Saraid’s eyes went distant. They complain that the motorcar does not run as it should.

  “There’s a shortage of parts for Nipponese cars, Mother,” Vorvena said, entering the room. Twenty now, she was hauntingly beautiful, but had a brittle edge to her. She spent most of her time with the harpies and sirens, and Reginleif had apparently taken her under her wing, as it were. But she was defensive and a little abrasive, where she’d been merely reticent when she’d been younger. Adam thought that she was still insecure, under all the brusque manners. “Father should send it to the junkyard for spare parts. It’s not as if he really drives it anymore.”

  Eisa appeared at her elbow, and looked up at her. “I think he keeps it because he likes the idea that he might drive it,” the younger girl told her. “Come on. There are still boxes upstairs.”

  “I’m taking a break.” Vorvena looked back at Adam. “Did you hear the news about Tongeran?”

  “Some,” Adam said, and glanced at Saraid. “Do you happen to know anything more?”

  Tonatiuh crossed the border in the early hours of the morning, and the Morrigan met him in battle. Saraid’s expression tautened. He came, seeking the death of a god, so as to feed on the life-essence of his foe. The warrior-goddess drew him into the lands of the Diné, which are largely empty now, and slew him.

  Adam swallowed. “And the city of Tongeran?”

  An earthquake. Less damaging than the one that followed Baal-Hamon’s death. Many buildings have fallen, and there are deaths, but no transformation. Saraid’s ears drooped.

  “That’s a good thing.” Adam paused. Her demeanor remained sorrowful. “What else happened?”

  There is a tear, Saraid admitted, softly. Where the ley-lines have become damaged by too much energy. It is a wound in space-time, the very thing that drove Jormangand mad, and raised volcanoes under the Arctic. This will only grow worse, until it can be repaired. Worldwalker cannot leave the Veil to make the attempt. The ley-mages of Novo Gaul and Nova Germania have been summoned, but none of them have ever tried to do what Worldwalker has done.

  Adam swallowed. He grasped Newtonian physics. He’d followed Tren, Kanmi, and Min’s discussions of quantum physics well enough over the years, but he always left those conversations feeling as if he’d absorbed nothing. So this was beyond his ken. “Perhaps the ley-mages will be able to keep it from growing until Trennus can get there,” he said uncertainly. “He can’t be the only person in the world capable of repairing ley-lines.”

  He is the only one who ever has, Saraid said, tightly. Hecate can bridge worlds, but she has never meddled with ley. He is also the only person bound to the Wood in the manner that he is. There is no one else who could take over the burden for him. No other human who can be a conduit between the realms. And since he became its conduit, he cannot leave its physical vicinity for long, except to enter the Veil, or he will weaken.

  “I could be the conduit for the Wood,” Vorvena said tightly. “I’m his daughter. And yours.”

  Saraid’s expression gentled, and she laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. At the moment, I think it would tear you apart. Be patient. There is still, in this realm, time to grow.

  Vorvena sighed, and Adam shuffled to one of the kitchen chairs. He’d be damned if he was going to just stand there, aching, in the entryway. “So . . . Sig wasn’t in battle beside the Morrigan?” he asked Saraid.

  The leaf-dappled eyes blinked. Not to my knowledge. Have you not asked her, yourself?

  “I don’t like to call her when I think she might be in combat. Someone shouting her name in her ear might distract her.” Adam sat down, slowly.

  For an instant, Adam thought she was about to ask the same question he’d received from all his friends. Instead, Saraid looked sorrowful, and then nodded, in acceptance. You must do what you think is right, of course. But I do not believe she fights, at the moment. I will call to her for you.

  “Oh, for god’s sake, don’t do that. She’s got a cleaning service and a garden crew for me, and she’s already got Inghean and Masako looking in on me, and Solinus drops by to play chess twice a month.” I am a well-cared-for pet. He stifled the bitterness. He was still useful, damn it.

  Too late. I have already called to her. Saraid’s tone was surprisingly firm. Please, stay here until she arrives. Truthsayer’s daughter will not object, I think. She looked up at the roof, and shrugged. I do not have the gift of making a domicile welcoming, but allow me to provide you hospitality in her absence.

  Adam felt the corners of his lips tug a little. “Well, when you put it like that, Sari . . . thank you. Though now you have me wondering if you’re going to serve up raw meat on leaf plates.”

  Saraid and the two young women laughed, and for a moment, Adam felt better.

  Martius 21, 1995 AC

  Trennus stepped through the portal, and felt his feet touch down on the soil of the mortal realm at last. He’d been chafing for almost the entirety of this stint in the Veil, and now felt released from captivity. He embraced his daughters, exchanged wrist-clasps with his sons, and gave Saraid a fervent kiss, though it wasn’t as if she hadn’t visited him in the Wood. He could smell wood-smoke in the air from bonfires, lit to celebrate the vernal equinox.

  Kanmi and Minori were there to welcome him, too. Trennus still hadn’t gotten over having Kanmi back. It somehow seemed too good to be true, as if some terrible price had yet to be paid. And yet . . . power burned under Kanmi’s skin. He’d absorbed a fair chunk of a sun-god, after all. As Trennus gave him a wrist-clasp, and then pulled the shorter man into a rough bear-hug, instead, clapping him on the shoulders, Kanmi rolled his eyes and tolerated it. “Today’s the anniversary, isn’t it?” Trennus asked Min, over Kanmi’s head.

  “Anniversary of what?” Kanmi asked, muffled and irritated.

  “Yes. Eight years, to the day,” Minori confirmed.

  Kanmi pushed away, looking annoyed. “You’re keeping track of the day on which I died?”

  “It’s easy to remember. It’s the Hellene Day of Transition,” Trennus told him, calmly.

  Kanmi gave them all a dark glance. “Let’s leave the morbidity in the past, eh? As for you . . . you have a job to do, King Trennus.” Around the shores of the lake that shielded the portal to the Veil, Trennus could hear various clan-leaders guffawing at the total lack of respect in Kanmi’s voice. He didn’t mind. When speaking about him, the clan-leaders called him the Matrugena, as was traditional. In direct address to him? It was King Trennus, in almost the same tone Kanmi used.

  “I know. Let me deal with a few issues that were simmering while I was away, and then I can go to Tongeran.” Saraid had kept him informed the entire time he’d been in the Veil, fortunately, and he’d passed orders and recommendations through her, but his people felt better about face-to-face interaction on some things. He thus had meetings scheduled throughout the evening, while most of his people were celebrating the arrival of spring. A meeting with the representatives from Tyre included discussions about the Roman governor of that city, who had rebelled, and then been captured and returned to Rome for trial and execution. He’d been replaced by another patrician, whom Eastern Empire forces had captured in turn, and was now being held in Jerusalem. Trennus did not know what Caesarion would do if the first governor of Tyre was executed; if he’d demonstrate his will by executing his own prisoner, or if he’d demonstrate forbearance and civility by preserving the life of a man who had done nothing more than follow orders. At least he was trained for this sort of thing. I’m relying on negotiations tactics learned from dealing with spirits, and a background in law enforcement.

  At any rate, the current represe
ntative of Tyre was actually Carthaginian, and not a Roman at all. His people had elected him as their governor, and he owned a major shipping company, and thus, he was accustomed to logistics, if not any sort of military leadership. Trennus went over plans for the defense of Tyre with the new governor, JDF representatives, and his own generals. Largely, this involved signing off on plans he’d already seen through Saraid’s eyes, but it made them all feel better. And morale was important.

  That was the most pressing public issue; for the moment, his people were self-sufficient in terms of the food situation—in part, thanks to Lassair and Inghean. Trennus sent Lassair a quick thought—Thank you, fire-heart— and received a light, affectionate caress across his thoughts, in return: Of course, Flamesower. I would not allow your people to starve.

  He checked in on Maccis, who had been given leave from front-line duties by Vidarr and Ima to attend the bonfires with Zaya. Trennus stood at the periphery of the fire’s light for a few moments, watching and listening as Zaya, whether she knew she was doing so or not, held court among her friends from the university—Carthaginians, Gothic nieten, Hellene refugees with a talent for magic, and a few young Chaldeans. Laughing, talking, debating. The pure play of ideas, something that Trennus himself had delighted in, when he’d been a young man at the University of Londonium. And beside her, Maccis sat, silent as a stone, holding her hand, and watching the areas where the shadows met the light, under the trees.

  Trennus had seen that expression in the eyes of many a young soldier before. It took a few days to let the person they were in the field dwindle away, and let them resume their home persona. Trennus walked up on the circle of young people, and drew Maccis away. He wasn’t even sure what to say to his eldest son by Saraid, who was a grown man now. “She doesn’t mean to shut you out,” he finally said, feeling stupid. “Don’t blame her for it.”

  Maccis looked startled. “I know—I mean, I don’t.” He shrugged. “But it’s better to be silent and have people think that you’re an idiot, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.” Another shrug. “It’s good that Zee has friends. And it’s good to see people who . . . get to live their lives.”

  In spite of the words, Trennus could see a gleaming shaft of anger in his son’s spirit. Anger that was perilously close to resentment. Not of Zaya. But of these others, who were permitted to live in the relative peace of Jerusalem, while Maccis and the other soldiers were out fighting to protect this and other lands. “In two to three years, they’ll have graduated,” Trennus reminded his son. “They’re all magic-users. They’ll be out on the front lines.”

  An indifferent glance. “With Governor Caesarion having told Antiochus to stick his offer of military aid up his Persian ass, it’s only a matter of time before we get hit from both sides at once,” he told his father. “In three years . . . there might not even be an Eastern Empire for them to fight for. Just scraps of land that Rome and Persia will squabble over.”

  Trennus closed his eyes. And there was the real truth. His son, almost nineteen years old, had the war-weariness of a veteran twice his age. Because Maccis knew, as so many others did, in their secret souls . . . that there was no hope. Or at least, damned little. “We’re doing the best we can,” he told his son, quietly. “We’ll hold it together.”

  Maccis snorted. “The only hope the Eastern Empire really has, is if someone happens to slip a knife between Julianus’ ribs. It’s a wonder his own Praetorians haven’t, yet.”

  If Rome makes peace with us, whatever human who does so, would have to answer to his or her gods for making peace with . . . those who follow rebellious gods. Trennus grimaced. As above, so below. Hermetic thought. Until there is peace between the gods, there can be none here. Gods help us all. He put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “There’s more hope than just that,” he said, trying to buoy Maccis’ spirit. “There’s the hope that we will all make the right choices, day by day. And that the sheer weight of right choices tips the balance.”

  Maccis looked at him, steadfastly. “Do you really believe that, Father?”

  “I have to, Maccis. It’s what keeps me going.” He nodded, firmly. “Now, I apparently have a damaged ley-line to fix. I’ll be back. Try to enjoy yourself. Relax. Leave the wolf outside.”

  “I try not to let it come in the front door.” A flash of faint humor. “Zaya doesn’t need to see it.”

  Trennus checked in with his other children, including Solinus, who was sitting with Masako and their younglings by another fire. Astegal had his fingers to the wrists in the bonfire, to the exclamations of mingled shock and glee of those around them, and young Hannibal had grown in the two years that the family had cared for him. Hanni clearly glowed every time Solinus praised him, and had bloomed, now that Sol was off the front lines, and thus, home more often. The boy still had wings, fangs, and a tail, of course, and he ran around, playing a kind of half-aerial, half-ground-bound game of tag with Shiori and two harpy children. They, like the Pictish children around them, had adapted with shocking swiftness to the oddity of the Forest, and their lives here.

  Trennus paused to greet his son and grandchildren, and asked Sol who was guarding Caesarion tonight, if not him or Rig. “Latirian and an Egyptian sorcerer got the short straw,” Solinus said, with a smile. “I’ll be back on in the morning, though. No rest for the wicked, and all that.”

  Trennus turned away, shaking his head. It was odd to reflect that in his life, he’d gone from being the lictor, to seeing his son become a lictor, to now, somehow, rating a lictor, himself. Because that was all he could think of the Guardian as, a year after the being had revealed itself in the Veil. He had kept a close eye on the creature every night and throughout the three months of his winter exile. Saraid had, as well. She told him that the Guardian felt familiar, but . . . foreign, at the same time. He hides his Name. Almost as if he is bound to someone, and yet . . . not. He is not native to the Veil, either.

  He’s human.

  He was, I think. Is, perhaps. I do not understand, but . . . I sense no threat from him. Loki has examined him for illusion. It may be safe to trust. Saraid’s tone had been uncertain over the last.

  The fact that Loki had laughed had not been entirely comforting. Not that Loki would explain himself. They’d only gotten a One day, you will understand, but not today. This is not my secret to speak, but I can tell you that this creature means you no harm, currently.

  The word currently kept Trennus up some nights. But in theory, he could worry less about the Wood in the Veil during his absences from it. Having the Guardian there was a help. And all the spirits allied with him who dwelled there, seemed to accept the Guardian without hesitation.

  Now, he stepped back through the portal with Saraid, and they went running through the Veil. He was so accustomed to the oddity of it anymore, that he barely noticed the surreal visions, the loss of identity, the loss of his normal senses. But where Saraid led him, this time, was to a place in the Veil where space seemed to pucker and bend in ways that made even less sense than usual. Coming close to the exit, the light screamed and sound tore through his flesh like a knife. Smells roiled through him like a wave of heat. Reality, Veil and mortal alike, was . . . distorted here. Out of joint. Worldwalker set himself, and pushed through and out into the mortal realm again, landing on solid ground in between steps, and stopped dead, holding himself like a clenched fist.

  His senses, attuned to ley-energy, all began to shriek at him. Nothing here felt right. The ground itched. Trennus lifted his head and looked around; this was a sun-blasted desert, red-tinged khaki dust and clay running for miles in every direction, with dull gray-green thorn-bushes dotting the ground. There were a couple of dilapidated trailers up on bricks nearby, and as he swallowed down his gorge at the sensation of wrongness in the earth, one of the doors banged open. A startled-looking young woman peered out at him. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she warned. “The whole area’s been posted off-limits. Contamination—”

  “It
’s all right. I’m Trennus Matrugena. Someone here should have been expecting me.”

  About twenty minutes later, he and a team of ragged, tired Gallic and Gothic ley-mages were bouncing over the desert pavement in a dust-covered truck, heading for the center of the distortion. “We’ve gone through three full crews,” one of the ley-mages called back to him. “The first group sent stayed too long. Their doctor caught the signs, but it was too late for some of them.”

  “What happened?” Trennus shouted over the roar of the wind coming in through the windows.

  “Their internal organs started disintegrating. Their physician thought they’d caught some virus from Africa when the first people started shitting blood.” Grim faces all around. They lived too close to the same danger. “They moved the observation post back a few miles, and the second crew came in to try to keep the anomaly from growing. They left six weeks ago, and we came in, to continue the work.” A skeptical look. “You’ve really fixed one of these before?”

  “Several ley-lines that snapped and were fed on by a mad godling, yes.” Trennus felt Saraid shift next to him, and then her wolf form dissolved, and she overlapped him. His body changed; a thick, shaggy wolf-pelt grew in—annoyingly hot, in this weather—and antlers sprouted from his head. The ley-mages in the truck around him shifted away, uneasily. They all wore company-logo shirts that suggested that they worked for the local ley-energy drilling and maintenance combine, which meant that they worked with engineers. Not summoners. “Sari here is shielding me from odd energy types,” he said, trying to reassure them. “The last time I fixed a line, the snapped line had collapsed on itself and compactified. For lack of a better term, it knotted, and I had to unknot it in a couple of other dimensions, and then try to connect its ends again. Mostly, I helped it along. The universe tends to balance itself out.” Of course, when it finds an equilibrium point again, it might not be a comfortable one for humans.