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

by Deborah Davitt

  Reginleif drifted in behind her, shaking traces of snow from her wings. “You hate the memories, and the guilt associated with them,” the siren corrected, her voice carrying shimmering harmonics. “You should let go of that guilt. You were not there. You could not have been there.”

  “Are we taking turns on the subject of guilt?” Sigrun asked Reginleif, arching her brows. If I had admitted what I was sooner, I would not have been a Praetorian anymore . . . though I am not sure if I could have been there, in Rome, in Apollo’s very backyard . . . .

  “I am a subject matter expert on the topic,” the siren murmured, shrugging slightly. Sigrun almost smiled. Brandr had been very good for Reginleif.

  In the small, elegant living room, Reginleif’s eyes widened on seeing the other occupants, and turned towards Sigrun, her eyebrows rising in surprise. “This is out of the ordinary, surely?”

  Sigrun put two fingers to Reginleif’s forehead, and carefully unlocked the memories she routinely helped the siren suppress. She was bound to Loki, and almost as invisible to other gods as Rig and Fritti were, but that didn’t mean that if she were captured, that she couldn’t be tortured for information. Better for her not to remember these meetings, Reginleif had agreed.

  Now she blinked rapidly as the memories came back. “I say that every time,” she murmured, rueful harmonies entwining around her voice. “I really must come up with something new.”

  It is difficult to create something new, if you do not have a past to compare it against, Prometheus admitted, his face downcast.

  Beside him on the sofa was a queenly creature, seven-and-a-half feet tall, lion-faced, and naked to the waist. Sekhmet’s skin was slick with what looked like blood, and Minori had tactfully put towels down on her sofa to prevent the fluid from spreading onto the white cushions. Ah. Our final guests have arrived at last, the Egyptian goddess said, moving restlessly. Sigrun’s eyes flicked to the side table, where a pair of viciously curved swords lay, sheathed for the moment, out of place beside the jade kami figures there.

  Sigrun glanced at Reginleif. Sekhmet’s on edge, she told her old mentor, silently. She trusted Reginleif’s judgment as a supplement to her own. And Reginleif had become a mother-figure for her, as Brandr had become a father-figure. Limits. Guides. Self-chosen ones.

  Regin nodded, minutely, responding, just as silently, I think they may be ready to make their move.

  Sigrun slowly folded herself down to her knees, and then sat on the floor as Minori poured the tea. “That doesn’t smell the same as usual,” she noted.

  “No more oolong,” Minori admitted. “This is ginger root. It was that, or barley water, and I did not think any of you would care to partake of that.”

  Sigrun was about to accept that at face value, then frowned and asked, “Is there any oolong left at all?”

  Min frowned in return. “About a teaspoon’s worth, not enough to make a difference . . . oh.”

  Kanmi snickered. “You’d think she’d never heard from Masako about the cookie jar.”

  “You? Shush.” Sigrun gave Kanmi a look. “Min, give me a moment in the kitchen, and I will fix your tea shortage.”

  “It just seems frivolous, and everyone else is living without life’s little luxuries . . . .” Minori trailed after Sigrun’s longer strides, and then the former valkyrie looked around the Eshmunazar kitchen in some confusion, trying to identify which cupboard held the remains of the tea.

  “You find tea to be an integral part of offering hospitality, even to entities,” Sigrun told her. “And it makes you happy.” She spotted the errant tin after a moment, opened it, peered inside, and then looked away. After a moment, she handed the re-filled container to Minori. “Amaterasu could have done the same, I suspect.”

  I could have, but Truthsayer is punctilious about not asking for favors. Minori slapped a hand over her own mouth, as her in-dweller spoke.

  Sigrun’s lips quirked. “This was not a favor. This was a gift.” She gestured towards the living room. “Shall we?”

  Back with the others, and sipping a slightly less strange-tasting brew, Sigrun’s mood darkened. “I take it by all those who are assembled here, that all my hints and intimations to my sister may finally have borne fruit?” The tea couldn’t hide the bitter taste in her mouth.

  Minori nodded, and Sigrun watched as her old friend’s expression shifted. Minori receded, and Amaterasu came forwards. Jupiter is rapidly running out of messengers to send, Amaterasu said. When Truthsayer visited your sister last week, Apollo of Delphi took over her tongue for a short while, to converse with me, directly. He asked why I was still permitting my avatar to visit Trueseer, and I convinced him that I am quite lenient with my avatars, at least until they’ve passed through the end of one mortal lifetime. She shrugged. No matter. He asked me various questions about my ‘marginalized’ position here in Judea. My people scattered in what’s left of Nippon, what’s left of Korea and Qin, the gods of Qin dead, and all my fellow kami slain. I admitted that I do not particularly enjoy hiding inside my avatar. Creeping about in the land of the god of Abraham, lest I gain his attention. Minori’s lips quirked, under Amaterasu’s control. I took care to sound suitably embittered once Apollo of Delphi had asked me enough questions. He could barely keep his mind together, however. And I could feel how hungry he was for my power. He is a sun god. I am a sun goddess. And how he would like to snatch what I have away . . . .

  “Not going to happen,” Kanmi said, sitting down in a nearby chair, and Sigrun didn’t honestly know if he was addressing Min, or Amaterasu with that remark. “But the upshot is, Sig, that he asked her to bring Sekhmet to meet with him, again using your sister as the intermediary.”

  And they have made arrangements for us to meet with Jupiter directly, to offer our fealty and homage. We are, after all, exiles. We need to do what’s best for our people. Sekhmet’s tone was cynical. Jupiter is running out of gods. And like Cronus, he has eaten too many of his own. He must recruit, or he will be entirely alone against the mad godlings. And he cannot recruit from Valhalla or Gaul, lest he admit to having been wrong.

  “You’re going to need to appear ignorant of all this to Sophia, if it happens to come up—” Kanmi reminded Sigrun.

  “It won’t,” Sigrun said, tiredly. “She can’t remember five minutes ago. Though in a few months, she might remember it.” Dealing with Sophia never got easier. “Where’s the meeting location?”

  “Cyprus,” Minori replied, in control of her body again. The facial expressions were completely different. “We proposed an area somewhat between here and Rome, and ‘relatively safe’ from mad gods. Then we rejected all of Apollo’s suggestions until we got an island, completely surrounded by salt water.” She shrugged, and Sigrun thought, tiredly, She said we. She included herself as part of Amaterasu. She’s slipping away, I think. “They have the impression that they proposed the location, that they are in control. Which is good. They’ll . . . relax.”

  “Hopefully,” Kanmi muttered.

  Probability of success remains steady in the high nineties, though there is always a chance of failure, Prometheus said, his tone quieter than usual. Are we all quite sure that this is the course of action that we wish to pursue?

  Sigrun looked down into her cup, and listened to the voices of the other Valhallan gods, strung through her mind like the gossamer strands of a spider’s web. She wasn’t sure what it would be like, not to hear them anymore. Not to hear Freya’s wise, calm tone, or Thor’s brash good cheer. Not to hear the low, bass rumble of Nith as he asked questions. Loki’s snide comments. Tyr’s incisive replies. It would be a little like dying, she decided. Or at least, having a large portion of herself amputated. What must it have been like, for Amaterasu or Sekhmet, to hear only silence after centuries of chorus? For Mamaquilla, too? A horrifying thought. Sigrun swallowed, and asked Prometheus, “Can you give us any sort of an idea of what will occur if we don’t do this?”

  Prometheus looked out the window for a moment. The
greatest statistical probability is that all gods besides Jupiter and the mad ones will be destroyed. Then the mad ones, being more numerous, will attack him, consume him, and devour whatever life remains on earth. The planet itself might be destroyed as they feed on ley-lines, directly, until there is nothing left but a debris field, and they will fight to consume each other, until there is a single large mad god, sitting in Earth’s orbital position, like a kind of semi-sapient black hole. It might even move out of orbit, and try to consume the sun itself. That would take far more power than any of them currently has. But with the power of all the other gods combined? It might be possible.

  Reginleif cleared her throat. “And if we do go forwards with this?” she asked, carefully. “Will the outcome actually differ?” Her red eyes gleamed in the low light. “In other words, does this get us anything beyond mere vengeance? Is it really necessary?”

  Prometheus stared into the air again, his mind moving in unfathomable, rapid calculations. If Jupiter is no longer pressuring the rest of his pantheon to attack other gods? Then yes. The probability exists that we can hunt the mad ones, instead of always looking over our shoulders for the gods of Rome. There is a fifty-fifty chance on who will take control of the pantheon, if he should die. Pluto, his brother, lord of death, or Juno, his sister-wife. She is imperious, but fair, in the main. Pluto is also legendarily fair . . . though Hades, his double, was hardly fair to Persephone, of course. The outcomes differ, depending on who winds up in control.

  Sigrun lowered her head. “I hate this day,” she said, again, and sighed.

  Sekhmet’s curving teeth bared. Jupiter will not come to such a meeting alone. He is not a fool.

  He is down to fewer than five major gods, not counting their Hellene counterparts, Prometheus noted. Pluto is his brother, and bringing him would be a show of strength. Juno, he will not risk. Venus is a possibility. He would bring her to entice you, to enthrall you and make it difficult to think and bargain clearly.

  Kanmi sighed. “All those years of working with Lassair are really going to come in handy,” he told Minori, who chuckled faintly.

  “A good reason to bring with us the Mirror of Truth,” she told her husband, fondly. “I do not think Amaterasu will be speaking any falsehoods, once we meet with Jupiter. And I don’t believe that Venus’ wiles can hold up against the Mirror’s powers.”

  Kanmi nodded in agreement, though Sigrun could see the strain in his face, and Amaterasu chimed in, No. When we meet, it will be a time of truths.

  “Who else might he bring along?” Reginleif asked, settling back against her chair, and adjusting her wings once more.

  Orcus. Vesta. Of the Hellene gods bound to dead Roman gods? Apollo still exists, as do Artemis, Dionysus, Hades, and Poseidon. The Hellene gods are weak, however, and are the only hope of their Roman counterparts to regenerate. If such is truly possible. Prometheus paused. I would rate Venus as the highest probability, with Pluto second.

  Sigrun glanced to the side, and touched the web of voices in her mind. “And what’s the probability that he’ll bring more than one other god with him?” she asked, softly.

  Prometheus shook his head. I am unable to quantify that likelihood, he replied. We have no spy inside of Olympus, no one who could tell us what his suspicion level is. However, if he brings too many others with him, Olympus will be undefended.

  Sigrun nodded, and then said, staring into space, “Bring Lassair. No, I’m serious. If Jupiter brings Venus with him, Lassair might be able to assist with her. Or at least counter some of the effects of Venus’ powers.” She shook her head. “I don’t like the odds as they currently stand.”

  You doubt my power? Amaterasu said, smiling faintly through Minori’s face.

  “Of course not. You are supreme in your realm. You are a sun goddess, Sekhmet is a goddess of battle, and death, and the burning sun, and Kanmi has . . . quite a bit of Baal-Hamon in him—”

  “Find another way to phrase that, Sig—” Kanmi advised, raising his eyebrows.

  “. . . has acquired a considerable amount of Baal-Hamon’s powers, and he, too, was a sun-god,” Sigrun went on, not missing a beat. “What I’m getting at, however, is that Jupiter is a storm-god.” Like me. “And I can tell you, first-hand, how uncomfortable it was, to have the god-born of a sun-god lash me with fire outside of Ponca, a few decades back. You can use gravity and heat and even plasma whips. I . . . understand all of that.”

  And yet you doubt us, young one? Sekhmet’s voice was much less amused than Amaterasu’s.

  Let us say that I would prefer to take precautions. Particularly when there might be multiple gods present, and all of them powerful. Sigrun raised her head, and met the lioness’ golden eyes.

  I would prefer a clear tactical advantage. Sekhmet leaned back, and Sigrun could see Minori wince, faintly, as the blood-covered arms spread over the couch’s back.

  Sigrun called out, silently, Freya . . . ? Much practice had taught her how to distill the essence of a conversation, and send it to another mind. It saved time otherwise spent repeating herself. What think you? At this point, I do not think we can shield our involvement. And I think most of Valhalla will welcome open and honorable engagement. Though this will surely be an ambush.

  It is more than time that we set such a trap ourselves, Freya agreed, and there was a moment of consideration. Freyr and I will be there. I will call on the Morrigan as well. You and Nith will wait in the Veil, just on the other side of the meeting location, and stand ready to rescue your friends, or provide reinforcements should the need arise.

  Freya, if I may? Bring Thor or Tyr, not Freyr. Freyr is very skilled. But he is a sun-god, as Amaterasu is, and Kanmi, and even Lassair. Jupiter will bring the power of electricity and lightning, and Thor or Tyr can deflect that. Sigrun hesitated. I might be able to redirect some of it, as well—

  You are largely immune to lightning, yes, but I do not believe that you are immune to the amounts that Jupiter will bring down. Therefore . . . there was a pause, as several other voices communed for a moment, tones audible, but not the words. Odin. Loki. Tyr. Thor. Yes. Thor will come with me. But again, you will stay out of the fight until and unless needed.

  Sigrun lowered her head in assent, worry about Minori and Kanmi and Lassair gnawing like a worm in her gut.

  Before leaving the house once more, Sigrun turned and looked at Reginleif. “I apologize for this,” she said, and meant it.

  “I think you say that every time, don’t you?” Reginleif told her, her expression faintly amused. “Though I won’t remember again until you unlock the box once more. You are growing quite proficient with the subtler aspects of seiðr. I would not have credited it, seventy years ago.”

  “I was a very poor student,” Sigrun replied, nodding.

  “Wrong lesson,” Reginleif told her, crisply. “You were a gifted student, but a stubborn one. You saw no point to my lessons, except how to disrupt a sorcerer’s spells, and how to defend yourself from illusion. Now that you see a purpose to seiðr, you are adapting it to your needs quite well.”

  Sigrun hesitated again, and then asked, quietly, “May I ask your advice in something, Reginleif? You have . . . more experience than I do, in this particular realm.”

  Reginleif’s lips quirked, and the scar on her face distorted for a moment. “You may ask.”

  Sigrun shook her head, tiredly. “What do I do about Adam?”

  Her old teacher turned and studied her, and then sighed. Put a hand on her shoulder, lightly. “Ah. Even the gods do not have easy answers for such matters.” Regin’s eyes dimmed. “I never told Joris what I was trying to do for him. I didn’t wish to raise his hopes, only to see them dashed. But it never once occurred to me to think that he would refuse longevity and youth, more years at my side. And with Brandr . . . my only concern is death in battle.” She smiled faintly. “And perhaps not even that, if Loki is to be believed.”

  Sigrun stilled. “And so . . . ?”

  “And so I have fe
w words of advice to offer,” Reginleif replied, her voice plangent with harmonies of sorrow. “I told you once, that you and I were more alike, than different. At the time, I meant that you were fated to the same unhappiness and bitterness as I felt. You have grown, Sigrun.” She looked up, her red swan eyes still distant. “Once, I would have hated you for how much.” She paused. “You could leave him.”

  “It would be wrong to abandon him simply because he carries the burden of old age,” Sigrun said, her voice hollow.

  “A burden that you could raise from him, if he permitted it.” Reginleif flicked her fingers. “That does not change, however, how you feel. You do not think that you could bear the weight of your own self-judgment and guilt if you left, correct?”

  Sigrun nodded, numbly. Regin had always had eyes that could see through deception. It was how she created such convincing illusions. She always saw the underlying reality around her. “Are you happy?” Regin asked, next.

  “. . . I doubt that anyone in the world right now is happy,” Sigrun said, after a moment. “Joy is a luxury, and at the moment, it seems best to give others whatever happiness I can.”