Sigrun said it lightly, but regretted it immediately as she watched him grimace. “Yes. Tell me something I don’t know,” he returned, dryly. “Be safe, Sig.”
She glanced at the hall mirror, her face blank, and studied the reflection there meticulously for about five seconds, and then turned back to him. Smiled. “When am I not?”
Valhalla's physical entrance—which Sigrun now understood to be a stable wormhole, similar to the one Trennus maintained in the Wood, to his own realm—was largely optional for her and Nith. It was for formal occasions and outsiders, a guarded path of access. Nith could transition directly to the hall of the gods in the Veil, and did so now.
In the last year, Sigrun had explored Valhalla itself a little, though the great hall was constantly changing. She’d even found a door that led directly to Hel's domain . . . technically her own domicile now. Freya and Loki had both teased her about expecting an invitation once she'd finished 'cleaning the place up,' though Loki's wicked grin had been accompanied by a faintly regretful glint in his eyes. This is only good manners, is it not? Freya had told her.
"And you're checking in on me as well, I would think." Sigrun had stared straight ahead as she spoke. "Assessing mental condition."
If you were in our position, would you not do the same? Freya had asked, and Sigrun had nodded in assent.
As such, she'd spent one of her rest periods in the Veil re-assessing her keep with fresh eyes. The size was necessary for Nith. She wouldn’t force him to change, just to rest here. She wasn't sure if she needed it to be defensible or not; she'd never seen any other spirits in the vicinity, other than vague shimmers that she and Nith could both barely detect. Incipient, but not present.
In the end, she kept her keep more or less castle-shaped for purposes of defense. The interior rooms . . . she realized that she'd replicated all the framed prints of places she'd been from her home in Judea, and some of the pictures of people. Eir spoke of necessary distance, but Sigrun remained convinced that some connection was important, even vital, to moving with the times, and retaining her identity. In the end, she left the pictures as they were, and, a little uncomfortably, asked Trennus and Saraid to come and help her make her realm better.
She’d wanted to give them time and space to themselves, something they’d so rarely had. So she hadn’t pestered, but their mutual delight at being invited to her . . . well, not home. It couldn’t be a home. But they were delighted to be allowed in, and she regretted not having extended the invitation sooner.
Trennus had shaken his head and told her that if he could have pictured any place that she'd have chosen, this tallied almost exactly. Sigrun had shrugged, and told him, Cool, remote, dark, and requires flying?
Pretty much. I can't tell if you stole the sky from me, I stole it from you, or we both took it from Steelsoul's obsession with the heavens.
It'll only ever be night here. You have day in your realm, as well.
Well . . . you have become something of a night-owl, Stormborn. He’d looked around the courtyard with Saraid, as Nith had perched on a battlement overhead. It’s a little barren, isn’t it—oh, gods. I’m sorry. Wrong word.
She’d shrugged it off. These powers came to the right person, I suppose. Can you help me make it . . . better? Livelier, anyway?
I believe so, Saraid had answered, and had looked around. Vines had rippled up along the cloudwalls, visible only as dark striations against the silvery background at first, and then had burst into bloom. Sigrun’s eyes, now attuned to darkness, allowed her to spot white blossoms: moonflowers. Along the sides of the courtyard, dragon fruit trees sprouted and bloomed, giving way to the red, scaly flesh of their fruits. Anfa lilies unfurled, perfuming the night with their heavenly scent. Scraggly evening primrose bushes appeared, their shy, golden flowers opening, and their smell had joined the mix. Every one of the plants was a night-blooming variety. Sigrun had concentrated, and a tiny glimmer of light had sprung up, a star nestled at the heart of every flower, bathing the entire courtyard in a pale, diffuse glow.
It’s still a lonely place, Saraid had told her, tentatively, putting an arm around her waist, while keeping one looped around Trennus’. But this gives it a little more life, I think.
Anything is an improvement, Sigrun had acknowledged, and then they’d done one thing more. They’d connected the two realms. A door between them, instantly transited, so that the Forest and the Keep were always within easy reach of each other.
That had made Sigrun feel far less alone.
Now, Freya caught her in Valhalla’s entry hall as Sigrun slipped off Nith’s back. Full regalia, Freya advised. We have guests at the feast this evening. And no standing at Tyr’s elbow as if you are his cupbearer, either. We must appear strong, and united.
“Who is here?” Sigrun asked, following Freya, with Nith sliding along in their wake.
Rome’s messengers. Mercury. Mars. Orcus. Freya’s words carried more meaning than just the mere names.
Mercury was the herald of the Roman gods, the messenger sent between the Veil and the mortal realm, and to other gods’ lands. Mars, the god of war, had more dignity than his Hellene counterpart, Ares. The Hellenes depicted Ares as a spoiled child who threw tantrums. Mars was a father of his people who protected them through war, and gave them grain. Orcus was death, or at least, punitive, punishing death. Said to be the one who tormented criminals in the afterlife.
Sigrun had stopped in her tracks. “That’s a very powerful set of ambassadors.”
They mean to chastise us. Freya’s tone was angry. They have abandoned Australia and southern Africa, do you realize? They have left their people in those areas, and pulled back entirely to Europa and the Mediterranean. Their people offer aid to the refugees from Nippon and Siam in Australia, and to the Bantu and the Zulu refugees in southern Africa, but the gods of Rome have abandoned them. They leave us to protect our own realms. And when we work with our allies for mutual defense, they object. Freya turned back to look down at Sigrun. Full regalia, Sigrun Stormborn. Let them see our strength.
Sigrun enveloped herself, without hesitation, in her armor, and let the mask of her helm cover her face and eyes. That, at least, was a comfort. They wouldn’t actually see her. Just the . . . entity. Her spear appeared in her hand, and she raised her head. “I am as ready for review as I will be,” she said, keeping her voice steady.
You will not increase your physical size?
“I am who and what I am. I am not responsible for their misapprehensions that size is the only measure of power or prowess.”
Stubborn, Freya said, with a sigh. Do you wish your words to be heard, or not?
Who says that I will speak at all? Sigrun thought, more loudly than she intended.
Even your actions will carry meaning here. Give them weight.
Nith snorted behind her, spraying her with ice crystals. Sigrun brushed them off her swan-cloak. “If you would show them our strength, let me bring Niðhoggr to the table with me,” she said, simply.
I would not fit, Nith replied, quickly.
If I have to increase in size to satisfy our guests that I am what . . . I am, then you may shrink somewhat. Sigrun cleared her throat. “Niðhoggr is a very worthy adversary, or ally. He might walk quietly, but he has met Jormangand in combat.”
My uncle was too slow-moving to catch me. Nith’s mental tone was the equivalent of a shrug. I claim no victory.
You may bring your ally to the table, Sigrun. The others will be doing the same. Dvalin will be present to record the meeting. Come, we must hurry.
Nith grumbled and shrank himself down to lindworm size, comparable, really, to Fenris’ own avatar in this hall. You fear for your dignity? Sigrun asked, silently.
I have only recently had dignity. There are reasons that I prize it. That was a grumble.
At least the byplay kept her stomach from roiling as she forced her body, reluctantly, to expand. She concentrated, firmly, on Ima’s general size and shape as she did so, and
her armor tightened around her ribs oppressively until she remembered to adjust it, before following, reluctantly, in Freya’s wake. She’d never done this before, and she suspected that the instant she stopped concentrating, her usual self-image would assert itself, and she’d shrink back down again.
Inside the great hall, Sigrun swallowed and took the seat left vacant for her, which she’d never used before, between Tyr and Loki, and Nith slipped in behind her, causing no end of muttering. She’d never seen the room so full—a good fifty dwarves, earth-spirits, were present, all lined up around the walls and armed for battle with metal and fire. Fenris sat on his haunches, alone, at the far end of the hall, and Sigrun spotted Eir along the table’s length, as well. They really did call everyone in for this. She swallowed again, and Tyr leaned over. Courage, daughter.
Loki’s thoughts slipped into her own. You’re looking well, neighbor. If heavily disguised.
The better that they cannot see my hands shaking. Sigrun swallowed again. Hel’s old words kept ringing in her head. Borrowed feathers. And a flash, from further in her past, that she couldn’t entirely fathom. The memory, if memory it was, refused to crystallize. But she was left with the feeling that this had . . . somehow happened before, and she felt like a child caught wearing her mother’s finery. Too big for her, and sure to be punished for it.
Ah, but they will hear the teeth clattering in spite of the armor. Loki returned. Use your mind. Perhaps we can trap Rome in its own outrage. Much will depend on the tack they choose, however.
The door opened once more, and three Roman gods entered. Mercury was first, and rather unassuming; a slim young man, with long hair and eyelashes, he wore the formal toga, and carried not the fasces, but the kerykeion, the winged staff of an ancient messenger. His sky-blue eyes were quick and lively, and Sigrun reminded herself that Mercury was intelligent—a trickster god, in antiquity, he’d been changed by belief into a god of craftsmen, professionals, lawyers, and messengers.
Behind him, Mars wore the dress uniform of a legionnaire in its modern incarnation: a khaki tunic, long-sleeved, with matching pants adorned with a blood-red stripe, and brown boots. The Roman eagle was picked out in red embroidery on one sleeve . . . but Mars still carried a pilum, the ancient throwing spear of the legions, and a gladius. Orcus was another matter entirely. He retained his oldest form, entering the chamber half-man, half-beast, with curling horns on his skull-like visage. His pallid skin was shrunk to his face, and his eyes were burning coals, and nothing more. His burly, fat body belied that skeletal face, but was largely hidden beneath a black cloak.
They couldn’t have been more different than the assembled crowd of the gods of Valhalla. Tyr and the others had no time for business suits or informal attire, in these days. Now, it was only armor . . . but not in the ancient style of steel rings or plates. Tyr’s armor gleamed pure silver, and Thor’s glittered gold, but both seemed to have been melted and then congealed over their forms, rippling with them as they moved. Odin, as the raven-lord, wore black mail of a similar type, and Freya and Loki, both masters of seiðr, wore leathers . . . but the air around each of them crackled with power. All the other gods and goddesses wore similar attire, and the entire atmosphere seethed with tension.
Mercury smiled, and raised his staff. In the name of Jupiter, I greet you, Odin and Freya, chief among the gods of Valhalla. I have come to address the issue of a complaint lodged against one of your own.
Odin raised his head, his single eye gleaming levinbolt-blue in the dim glow of the cavernous hall. I will hear your words, messenger.
Mercury bowed his head respectfully. The complaint lodged is thus: Fenrir Vánagandr, known to be one of your kith, did willfully cross the border between Novo Gaul and Nahautl. He there challenged the gods of that realm, and, having defied them to mortal combat, slew Huitzilopochtli. Now, this was not the chief god of the Nahautl pantheon, but he was the patron of Tenochtitlan, and a sun god. We have it on good authority that Fenrir also slew Metzli, the god of the moon, before the others fled the area. Waves of power have rippled through the land of Nahautl, causing distortions and mutations in their northern populace, and earthquakes have reached into southern Novo Gaul. Immense destruction has already devastated this world from the deaths of other gods. He paused, his expression firming. And even if that were not the case, then there is the small matter of the Pax Romana being violated. Gods must not fight other gods. Gods must not invade the territory of other gods. To do so is to be in violation of the Pax. Mercury paused once more, and looked around the room. I have no doubt that this was the action of a . . . rogue spirit. One that you rightly shackled, long ago, and who has . . . slipped his fetters. No blame will accrue to you . . . if you hand him over for justice.
Thor snorted. Loudly. Roman justice.
Yes. Roman justice. Renown throughout the world. Your people were still using trial by combat when we brought them laws. That came from Mars.
Tyr turned his head to glare at the war god. And what would you call the battles of prisoners in your arenas, but trial by combat?
Mars snickered. I would call it their final appeal.
Odin raised a hand. Who will speak? Fenris, you may do so, but yours will be the last voice heard.
Tyr stood. I will speak for Fenris. He held up his palms. For I still have my hands, though it appears that our wolf has fulfilled an ancient prophecy about him. He did indeed devour the sun and the moon. A sidelong, almost humorous look at Fenris. Tyr turned back towards Mercury. You put all the substance of the question into the complaint by the gods of Nahautl. And yet, their people, at the behest of their priests . . . who were surely commanded by some, if not all of their gods! . . . crossed the border into Novo Gaul. Their people took the Gauls—our allies—captive. They sacrificed those captives on their altars, as they have not done for over a thousand years. All to make their gods stronger. I do not see you calling the gods of Nahautl to account for this, which is a grave transgression under the Pax Romana. He paused. I do not accuse all of their gods. I only accuse those who directly profited by the sacrifices. Huitzilopochtli and Metzli have already paid the price. Xipe Totec and the others should be punished, if we are to be impressed by Roman justice.
Mercury shifted. The gods who accepted the sacrifices will be held to account. Their crime—and the crimes of their people—do not remove culpability from Fenris.
Ah, but they do speak to motive. Fenris did not cross the border or attack the gods of Nahautl for personal gain. He did so in defense of humans who look to gods with whom we are allied. What would you have had him do? Petition Rome to send an intervention force and prevent the sacrifices? Tyr’s voice was glacially calm.
Thor snorted again. We have seen how often Rome has moved to help others, of late. Fenris may as well have left the captives to die.
Odin waved Thor to silence. Sigrun sighed. She’d served Rome faithfully, with the understanding that in so doing, she served her own people. It hurt to see the old allegiances wavering.
Mercury shook his head. I understand his motivations. But the fact remains, that the treaty has been broken. Fenris must be punished.
Loki lifted his head. Or what? Your power to impress the gods of the Nahautl will perish? The trickster’s cold silver eyes glinted. Having forced us to show our bellies in submission, you will use that to overawe the Nahautl? While many of their people may have come to worship the gods of Rome, in part, the Nahautl have slightly over half as many worshippers as we do. Over a hundred and twenty-five million. Loki’s grin appeared like a knife in an assassin’s hand. You will find it hard to intimidate them when they realize their own strength.
Mercury’s eyes flicked back and forth, as rumbles passed through the echoing hall. Jupiter counts a billion worshippers to his name across the entire world, the messenger said, waving a hand. A hundred million, two hundred million . . . that isn’t enough to challenge him.
Loki’s grin widened. Such bravado. And yet, how much is that faith in him
wavering? The more ground you give, the more the flame flickers.
Thor’s head rose. I remember when Rome was bold, he growled. When your generals would have pushed into Persia’s lands and made them suffer for invading your provinces. Why do your mortals hesitate, Mars? Is it because they know you will not aid them? Have you become a coward? Will you next hide in the Veil with Ares and pleasure one another?
Mars took a step forwards, and Sigrun’s skin crawled with the sudden intent focus between the two gods of battle. Hold! Odin commanded, and her head rocked back with the force. They are here as ambassadors.
I assure you, All-Father, that I would not be the one to strike the first blow. But I would be the last. Thor’s grin was vicious, and Loki put his hands together in a sardonic round of applause.
Odin’s expression was weary. Tyr, you were responding to the accusations of the messenger of Rome?
Tyr shrugged his massive shoulders. I was finished with my argument, All-Father. The Nahautl were engaging in human sacrifice. Fenris stopped it. Were he human, his actions would be applauded. Why is it more acceptable for a human to kill a transgressor god, than another god?
The Goddess Embraced Page 46
