Once Masako left, Minori looked at Lassair, and said, mildly, “Tren was a very young and unworldly man when you first remembered that you were passion, wasn’t he? He was overwhelmed by you. He told me a few weeks ago that you’d alter your shape a dozen times an hour. Once you’d found a form he responded to, you’d change clothing to any of a variety of outfits. Partially for the attention, perhaps, but also . . . it kept him off his guard, never knowing what you’d do next.” Min smiled faintly. “There is a joke in the Legion, that Kanmi once told me. They say that men come equipped with both a penis and a brain, but only enough blood to let one of them function at a time. That’s particularly true of young men. Young men respond to novelty and flirtation. Young women often behave this way, because young men respond to it.”
Lassair nodded, looking puzzled. Minori’s almost professorial response was manifestly not what she had expected. I did not think that you would respond to that sort of behavior, but I can certainly—
Minori held up a hand. “Generally speaking, Lassair dear, a human past the age of thirty-five outgrows this behavior. Oh, we might revisit it once in a while with someone we love, or have just become infatuated with. The chemicals in the brain affiliated with a new romance light us up like any number of drugs. But in the main? Our brains eventually start to work again.”
Lassair sank back, almost visibly pouting. You have a point, I expect. The tone was a sigh.
Minori sipped at her tea. “Only that I am not Trennus at the age of twenty-six, Lassair. You were able to control his behavior and his reactions quite nicely, until he was in his late forties, early fifties—longer than expected, because of his physical youth—but then he started to realize, as everyone must, that he had grown up. And you had remained precisely the same. That is approximately when he and Saraid began to grow close, isn’t it?”
Lassair sank in on herself. Why are we talking about this? This is not why I came here.
Minori set her tea down on the table. “Because, my dear, I am still very much in love with my husband. While I do not center my entire existence around him, or his death, one of my long-term projects is attempting to bring him back. Through faith. Through belief. Through love. Through sacrifice. Abstinence is a form of sacrifice—you’ll note that monks and nuns throughout the world give up carnal delight in order to be closer to their gods?” She looked at Lassair, not without sympathy. “And even if it weren’t for that, I still would not wish to be your . . . anodyne. Your temporary relief, a sop to passion while you try to understand who you have become.” Minori gestured towards the cup of tea on the table, which Lassair had not touched. “You know, I think I have almond cookies in the kitchen. Let me get Masako set up with her files, and then I’ll be back with those.”
Then you do not find me fair anymore. Lassair’s tone was sad. Stormborn once thought I was fair, but not because of my body, but because my spirit shone out of me.
“You are very beautiful,” Minori told her, sincerely, in the doorway. “And I am your friend. Never doubt that.”
She found the data crystals for Masako, and began digging in the kitchen for the almond cookies. She was positive she’d looked everywhere, until the tin of them fell towards her from a high shelf, and she caught them, reflexively, on a platter made of rapidly-solidified air. “Kanmi?” she whispered, her eyes wide.
A little breath of wind across her face. “You’re stronger right now, aren’t you?”
Yes. One word, breathed in her ear. Minori closed her eyes on the sudden sting of tears. This was all the validation she needed.
“Because I told her no? Or because you’re angry with her right now?”
The breeze caressed her, but no other words whispered themselves against her ear.
Twenty minutes after Lassair left, and just as Minori was finally beginning to relax—the spirit’s focused attention had been hard to ignore, or at least, seem to ignore—there was another knock. “I’ll get it!” she called, and opened the door to see Reginleif and Sigrun on her doorstep. The two valkyrie were not precisely on good terms, but tonight’s meeting was necessary. “Come inside,” Minori told them both, cordially, once again a little shocked by the aura radiating off of Sigrun. Once they’d reached her study, she regarded Sigrun steadily. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
“I’ve put this off for months, thanks to the war. It’s time. Freya implanted a great deal of information in me, under some form of hypnosis,” Sigrun said, tightly, sitting down. The valkyrie had far more energy at night than Minori did; Min was already struggling to suppress yawns, and it was barely eight postmeridian. “The problem is, I seem to be only able to retrieve the skills when a situation comes up that, for lack of a better word, reminds me of the information I possess. This gives me no chance to practice, so I’m trusting blind luck and power constantly. I can almost feel Kanmi readying himself to throw chalk at me every time I do so.”
Minori laughed out loud, and caught sight, behind Sigrun, of a book slowly opening and riffling through its own pages. “I’m not likely to teach the way Freya did,” she cautioned. “Too many years of Kanmi challenging traditional spell-casting, and too many of my own innovations. In martial arts terms, I don’t teach moves. I teach concepts, and then let the student derive applications from the concepts.”
Reginleif perched on the edge of the desk, lifting her wings up cautiously so she wouldn’t knock anything over. “I mostly use the illusion modes of seiðr,” she cautioned Sigrun. “I taught the fundamentals of all of it at the Odinhall, but I don’t use the elements, heat, force, or gravity.”
“No, but you . . . speak the same language as Freya,” Sigrun told her old teacher, her expression taut. “When I struggle to express what’s in my head, you might understand what I’m groping towards, as I use Freya’s terms to explain my meaning to Minori.” Sigrun grimaced. “I am fully aware I have no business using seiðr. I don’t have anywhere near Kanmi, Min, Trennus, or Erida’s level of intelligence. But so long as I have it, I may as well use it as well as I can.”
Minori pulled back and regarded her friend, startled. Amaterasu gently requested, May I use your lips for a moment, my child?
Of course!
She was gently shunted to the back of her own mind, as Amaterasu came forward in her head. Sigrun, called Stormborn, I have been glad to see that you have accepted your gifts, Amaterasu said, and Minori felt her hands clasp in front of her, but the sensation was as distant as if the limbs had fallen asleep. I had seen the potential in you for some time, but I had thought that I might have to have my child here set you before Yata no Kagami, the Mirror of Truth, before you would acknowledge it.
Sigrun stood, hastily, and inclined her head in respect. “Prometheus is his own mirror,” the valkyrie said, with a certain brittle humor. “He reflects everything he sees, and is as pitiless as any glass.”
So I understand. Now, hear me. The distinction in the West between god-born, sorcerers, summoners, and ley-mages, is a purely artificial and arbitrary one. My child here has often told you that in Nippon, they are all referred to as sennin. The word can mean immortal, transcendent, mage, hermit, or even spirit, though it does not mean the same thing as kami. Amaterasu regarded Sigrun, Minori’s lips quirking up as the goddess smiled. So you see, there is only power, and ways of using it. Everything else is merely a label.
Sigrun’s lips parted to argue, and Minori felt her hands move as Amaterasu raised one to still the words on the valkyrie’s lips. Yes, ‘god-born’ are born to one limited set of powers—some of them great, and some of them small. And ‘sorcerers’ have the ultimate flexibility in choosing their powers, limited only by their understanding of the cosmos, their imagination, and their capacity to channel energy. ‘Ley-mages’ tap into the power of the universe, trading flexibility for power within a limited domain, which remains contingent on their current location in the physical realm. And summoners have only the power of their own will, and their ability to reason with spirits, or wres
tle with them. Different flavors of power. But they are all the same thing, from a certain point of view. A sorcerer can certainly channel and shape electricity. They only use what is already there. A summoner’s bound spirit can create electricity, drawing power from the Veil and moving it here to shape. Of all the beings who have ever wielded power in the mortal realm, only the ancient godslayers stood apart. They were unknown, and unknowable. She paused. You have always created lightning. You did not have to shape it, though it was easier, was it not, if the clouds were already present and charged? You derived your power, ultimately, from the Veil. You shaped it through your will. It is all magic. It is all your . . . seiðr. Intelligence allows you to shape it better, yes, but so does knowledge, accrued through time and scholarship.
Minori found herself shoved back to the front of her own mind, and almost staggered. “Ah . . .” She shook her head rapidly. “What my goddess said is . . . everything I have ever wanted to say on the topic, Sigrun. Please do not denigrate your own intelligence. Your ability to shape energy, and the world around you, relies very strongly in your ability to imagine yourself doing something. In your ability to believe that you can do it.”
Sigrun looked down. “Yes, Min.” She sighed. “So Nith reminds me on almost a daily basis.”
From across the room, a piece of chalk winged itself at Sigrun, who jumped slightly and stared at Minori. “Not me,” Min said, spreading her hands, but she could feel her own smile spreading across her face now. Sigrun’s eyes widened slightly, and she stared around the room, her expression faintly confused.
Reginleif coughed into her hand. “I feel obligated to point out that I never expected any of my pupils who were not god-born of either Loki or Freya to develop these abilities. I told Sigrun, Erikir, Hrokr, and Stigr —god-born of Tyr, Freyr, Thor, and Heimdall, respectively—what I told almost every class of young god-born I taught. That the best I could do was drum into their squirming, reluctant minds ways in which to identify illusion, and ways in which to counter magic . . . or at least recognize when it is in use.” Reginleif hesitated. “I did not think that any of our kind could become other than what we are. Even Eir only became more of what she was. A more powerful healer.”
“This is what I have been saying for decades,” Sigrun replied, her tone morose.
Min caught Sigrun’s glance at Reginleif, and realized suddenly that Sigrun had loved and respected the elder valkyrie. Almost as much as a mother. And given Sigrun’s sorrow for her own mother, and strained relationship with her step-mother . . . there were likely reasons why the younger valkyrie had received the didactic training and never questioned it. Just accepted her role. Just as Regin, herself, had never questioned her own role, until the end. “All right,” Minori said. “Let’s start with the simplest exercises. Lighting a candle, and lifting a feather. The same place almost every apprentice begins.”
Sigrun sighed, and they got down to work. Sigrun was already well past apprentice exercises in many areas, but there were notable gaps. And naturally, she was far more interested in combat applications than in ordinary spell-casting . . . but Min persisted in teaching all of it. “It promotes flexibility,” she insisted.
By eleven antemeridian, however, Minori was yawning so widely her jaws popped, but Sigrun looked annoyingly awake and alert. “I’m sorry,” Sigrun apologized. “I won’t take up more of your time tonight. And I thank you for the lessoning.”
As she stood to take her leave, the book that had been flipping its pages at the back of the room thumped heavily to the floor. Another smile broke over Minori’s face, and she hastened over to pick it up, and looked down at the pages to which it had been opened. A woodcut print, full-page, on the left, caught her eye; a massive creature, with bird-like wings, the mouth of a scorpion, a barbed and segmented tail, and pinchers like a crab. “Pazuzu,” she read, out loud, and looked up. “Oh! Thank you for the reminder, Kanmi-kun.”
Sigrun had stopped in her tracks. “What did you just say?” she asked, sounding stunned. “Kanmi’s . . . Kanmi’s here?” She spun and looked around. “I mean, there was that chalk . . . .”
“The dead do not return,” Regin muttered, sounding shaken.
Sigrun shrugged. “Even in our own legends, did not the first Sigrun reincarnate three times?”
“Yes, and died horribly every time she did so.” Reginleif shuddered. “I loved those sagas as a child.”
“And now?”
“I’ll never read them again.”
Minori concentrated, and spotted the red, amorphous blob bobbing towards Sigrun. “As far as I can tell, yes, it’s Kanmi. Today I’ve had the most proof of his presence ever,” she replied, feeling a smile cover her face, and a warm glow suffuse her. “We were playing twenty questions, earlier.” She lifted the book. “Apparently, he found a different way to communicate.”
Sigrun appeared to defocus her eyes, and then stared, right in front of her. Minori, through Amaterasu’s eyes, could almost see the edges of the amorphous blob becoming slightly more distinct as the valkyrie focused. Held out a hand for the jellyfish-like creature to perch on, if it wished. “It’s in the ocean, Kanmi, and bound. Or are you saying it’s not in the ocean anymore?”
The blob rose. Bobbed over to the chalkboard on which Min had been diagramming for the past few hours, and shakily lifted a piece of chalk. Apparently, throwing it, in a fit of annoyance, took less effort. This took control. Minori stared at it, however, and cursed. “I’m an idiot, Kanmi-kun. I should have brought you in here to begin with—or better yet, to your study, emotional ties, resonances . . . .”
The chalk banged against the board twice. Minori could almost hear words with it: Stop talking. Then the white lump moved, shakily, over the board, the letters wandering almost as if someone had dipped a spider in white ink and let it meander over the board. Tyre. Harbor. Pazuzu.
They all stared at the board for a long moment. “The pazuzu statue is in Tyre’s harbor,” Sigrun finally assessed.
Squeak, squawk. Yes.
“How did it get there?” Minori muttered. “It was dropped into the sea . . . .”
. . . kraken ship . . . Dagon shrine . . . .
“It was aboard a ship that fled from the kraken?” Reginleif offered.
Two sharp bangs with the chalk.
“The destroyer,” Minori said, sharply. “The one that they almost sank. It was towed to Tyre harbor. I remember hearing a report that an ancient statue had been found lodged in its side. People were talking about it as if it were proof of Atlantis.”
. . . Atlantis . . . Thera . . . .
“Yes, ‘Atlantis’ was more than likely the Minoan civilization that the godslayers wiped out with the eruption of Thera,” Sigrun agreed, sparing Kanmi the effort of writing more. She sighed. “Wonderful. Thank you, Kanmi. I’ll . . . find some time to look into it.” She looked up, and Minori was shocked to see a tear trickling down her face, though it froze midway down. “Gods, Esh. You bastard. It’s so damned good to . . . see you again.”
. . . tell all your friends . . . dinner and a show . . . .
“And you’ll be here all week, eh?”
. . . longer . . . .
“Good.” Sigrun turned back and gave Minori a hug and, again, much to Min’s surprise, a kiss on the cheek. “Keep doing whatever you’re doing,” Sigrun told her. “And tell me whatever I can do to help.”
“Keep believing,” Minori told her, smiling. “Tell Trennus to believe, too.”
“I will.”
“I’d tell you to tell Adam to believe—”
“He wouldn’t be allowed. But I’ll tell him what I saw. Maybe his rationalism will count as belief. Who knows?”
Iunius 23, 1992 AC
“You want the Maqlû incantations?” Zaya asked the magus in front of her, her eyebrows rising.
“You probably aren’t aware of their importance, but they’re some of the earliest anti-magic invocations known.” The magus—Ninson Tehro—was portly and gray-haired, a
nd his robe strained over a pot-belly. He wasn’t from a highly-ranked family; she’d definitely never met him before.
Zaya sighed. “The Maqlû, or the ‘burning,’ date from the first millennium before Caesar. They’re written in Akkadian, and comprise several hundred individual spells over eight clay tables, and were linked to a larger ritual tablet used during the invocations.” She straightened up behind the desk in the main lobby of the archives, and met his eyes. “However, the vast majority of the incantations are actually religious, calling on various now-dead gods, such as Anu and Nusku, to strike down a given individual, or to bestow protection on someone after they have conducted various ritual actions. These actions are common to later sympathetic magic, such as destroying small figurines that represent the targets of the Maqlû rite.” Zaya’s tone was precise. She knew this mostly because she’d spent two weeks last year re-translating some of the damned things. “You said that your current project was anti-magic defenses, such as suppressing the magical fields used by spirits to lift ornithopters, and the guidance systems of Persian missiles?”
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