They stopped a few miles further in, and the project team bundled into radiation gear, presumably imported from Judea, which had the world’s only nuclear reactors, and then drove further into the area. The center of the anomaly was a patch of bare ground a mile in diameter, which undulated and rippled, visible even to the naked eye. “Volcanic activity?” Trennus asked, staring at it uneasily.
“You’d think so, but it’s not hot. The first team seeded sensors all through the field. The ones that sank . . . well, they lost the signal in a few hours. But the ones that stay more or less on top . . . there’s no magma under there.” The project director gave him a faint shrug. “It looks and acts like a quicksand bog in the middle of a desert. I’m not ordering anyone out there with you.”
“And I’m not going out in that,” Trennus agreed, instantly. “This is close enough. I believe you wanted me to talk you and your team through everything I manage to do, for training purposes?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.” The project manager’s tone was uneasy.
The ley-lines—the cosmic strings that bound reality together—were a tangled mess. The area had evidently been rich with ley-energy before this—the Diné had prohibited construction in the vicinity, calling various areas sacred sites. Now, at least three ley-lines had snapped and recoiled, tangling into each other. Trennus’ stomach roiled again, and he got to work, slowly, patiently finding each line. Where it looped, where it adhered to another. Where its energy was bleeding through reality, and wearing it . . . thin.
Worldwalker? Some of the energy is not of this reality, nor of the Veil. I would call it . . . anti-energy. It is only coming through the thin place in minute quantities, but it is causing explosions. Again, very small ones.
On the sub-atomic scale?
. . . if I understand the words, yes.
Trennus worked faster. So much damage had been done here, and he hadn’t been able to leave the Wood before now. Morrigan is alive after this kind of catastrophe?
She required some time to recover in the Veil. She absorbed as much of the sun-god’s power as she could, but it was not enough. Saraid’s tone was sad. They were almost equals; she was a little more powerful than he was . . . but there are always losses and dispersions, as we know.
Trennus sweated in the sun. Got the other ley-mages working on simple tasks, and was utterly dismayed when he realized that none of them had the strength to do what he needed them to do. He adjusted, divided them into teams, and put them on parts of the problem where they had, effectively, more leverage. “Basically,” Tren told them, out of breath, about two hours later, as the sun began to dip towards the horizon, “we’re reweaving reality. It’s supposed to be difficult. Don’t get dispirited.”
“. . . how did you learn how to do this?” one of them asked, slumping to the ground in the scant shelter of a rock, after checking to make sure there were no snake burrows around it.
“I was the ley-mage at one of the original ley-line disruptions. I took my best shot. There’s no training for this,” Trennus told them all. “I’ll be back tomorrow for another try at it. What we’ve done today is . . . eh, a rough patch. Tomorrow, we’ll reinforce it. But this is definitely enough radiation exposure for all of you.”
It took three days, being far worse of a tear than the first one he’d fixed. He even brought Hecate in to take a look at it; the goddess was unnerved by what she saw. I am a master of doorways, she said, quietly. This is nothing so controlled. But it reaches where none of us should.
Her insight at least helped them patch things more securely. They guided the lines more or less back into the right positions, so that reality wasn’t being drawn to one side, or the other. They untangled them, so that they were once more lines, and not just points in space-time. In the end, they’d done the best they could. The universe would have to do the rest, itself. Hopefully, it won’t take a million years for the ground to stabilize, and for the energy leakage to stop, Trennus thought, and escorted Hecate once more through the Veil. While Olympus did not know, apparently, that Prometheus was alive, and that Hecate was in league with him, the Roman and Hellene gods were still hunting for rebels, and the gods of Nahautl and Quecha were looking for power. And Hecate was vulnerable now, diminished as she was.
Before exiting the Veil through the door in the Wood, the stable portal Trennus Worldwalker had established there, Hecate looked past him, at the Guardian.
Do you recognize him? Worldwalker asked, without much hope.
Her head tipped to the side. Yes. And no. He is a lost possibility. An echo of something that has now never occurred. Which is why you do not remember him. You do not stand entirely outside of time.
Worldwalker grappled with it. There is no time here, he reminded the goddess.
There is no time. But there is also all the time that ever was, or will be. Hecate reached up and patted his shoulder. Do not trouble yourself. He would no more betray you than you would betray your brothers. And with luck, he will remain an unrealized possibility.
Maius 9, 1995 AC
Sigrun awoke to the sound of someone banging on the gate of her keep. This was entirely unprecedented. She willed her armor into place around herself, and flew down the empty shaft of the donjon at the heart of the castle, and emerged into the courtyard, where Nith was already sitting up, staring balefully at the gate. The hrímþursar—the males crystalline as ice, and the females opaque and pale as snow, moved into position, as if to receive an attack . . . and then visibly relaxed. Leaned on their spears, instead of holding them ready. The pazuzu, high atop a battlement, did not relax; his scorpion tail continued to flex and curl in little stabbing gestures. After a moment, Mladena, the russalka, left the gate and came to Sigrun. It is Skadi, along with Freya, Loki, and Tyr, Stormborn. They ask admission to your realm.
Stormborn winced. She’d known this day would come. When they would all come and evaluate her domain, and her mental state. If this was what it was about, anyway. She wouldn’t have expected Skadi to care; the goddess had been a hrímþursar, a lesser spirit of ice and snow, before marrying Njord . . . and before humans of the northlands had put their belief into her. Made her the embodiment of their cruel, capricious, but blindingly beautiful winters. As someone who had been an outsider to the Aesir, originally—just as Freya and Freyr had been Vanir, as Loki and his children had been outsiders, as Eir had been a valkyrie—Skadi could have welcomed Sigrun as a similarly foreign sister. Instead, the frost giantess had always treated her with skepticism and a little hauteur. Eir she tolerated, more or less. Eir had earned her place. But Sigrun didn’t know hers.
As such, Sigrun knew better than to react or reply to any of Skadi’s barbs when sitting in council with the others. Open the gates then, but tell everyone to remain on guard, in case there are those left on the side of Rome, or even Persia, who have skill enough with illusion to mask themselves in the guise of our allies.
As the gods entered, Sigrun concentrated, and allowed the moon to rise, and encouraged the stars in the hearts of the garden’s flowers to glow a little more brightly. What, no racks of swords and spears, valkyrie? Skadi called, as they all approached. No gun emplacements on the walls, or rocket-launchers on the parapets? Is not a castle a place of defense and refuge in time of war? This is the resting place of a poet or a philosopher, not the bastion of a warrior!
Stormborn moved to bow slightly to each of her guests, in turn. The castle alters as my mood does, she said, diffidently. It is cloud-stuff, after all. Mutable and ever-changing. Hel’s great hall was a piece of the past, made of wood and stone and rooted to the earth.
Hel’s hall represented the finality of death, Freya returned, smiling faintly as Sigrun inclined her head to her. You have made a place that is, in its way, as transitory as a human life.
How fitting, given that she is human. Skadi’s brittle laugh slashed at the dark air, and Nith’s low growl shook the leaves from the silver-barked trees. Do you not show your teeth to me, hound of Hel.
You may have found your tongue, but you will know your place.
Sigrun’s head rose, and words hovered on her lips, only to be cut off by Freya, who ignored the comment, and went on, graciously, And yet, for all its quiet and its solitude . . . I feel welcome here. This is a place of peace. A good thing, for one eternally at war.
Sigrun nodded, and forced herself to stop bristling. May I offer my poor hospitality? I cannot provide a feast to rival Valhalla’s finest, but . . . .
A feast while you are under arms? Skadi laughed. You greet your guests armed and accoutered for war. Such manners.
Stormborn didn’t twitch. She’d learned this game at Medea’s knee. If she had greeted them without armor, the criticism would have been different. Perhaps more along the lines of not taking the current crises seriously, and reading poetry in her solitary garden, while others fight and die. As there was no correct response, Stormborn ignored Skadi, and set a hand on Nith’s shoulder as the dragon once again growled, quietly.
Undeterred, Skadi went on, And would you force the hrímþursar to labor, carrying trenchers like servants?
Sigrun finally understood the real problem. Skadi was as bad-tempered as a winter storm on her best day, but that was just part of her nature. But now she surely felt threatened by Sigrun’s overlap of her powers—Nott, the goddess of night, was cool towards Sigrun for the same reasons, but usually remained polite. That was understandable, as was Skadi’s disdain, which stemmed from her desire to protect her status in Valhalla. But today’s anger was fresh, and stemmed from the fact that many of the hrímþursar, her cousins, now called Sigrun their liege, in place of Hel. Instead of Skadi herself.
Damn it, Stormborn thought, distantly. I don’t have time for the politics of the gods . . . . Out loud, she said, as calmly as she could, I do not ask the frost-giants to wait on me. They are here out of respect to Niðhoggr, and out of ancient allegiance to Hel. They protect this realm, and abide here of their own volition. I would not demean them by treating them as servitors.
They serve Stormborn, as they have served me, and those of my line, for centuries, Loki put in, with sharp remonstrance. She and Niðhoggr are heir to Hel’s power, and to some of my own, which makes her as much of my blood, as of Tyr’s. A fox-like grin stole over his face. You are a child of many fathers, Stormborn. I trust that Tyr does not object to my claims of paternity!
Tyr grimaced. A strange thought, but these are strange days. He looked at Skadi. If Loki does not cavil, and your cousins do not object, how can you complain on their behalf, Skadi?
The goddess’ expression remained angry. I object to seeing my kin being demeaned as servants and bodyguards to a valkyrie. And I insist that she free them from their oaths of allegiance, immediately.
Freya raised a hand. That is not why we are here—
Nith snorted, and spoke directly for the first time. Forgive my interruption, queen of the Aesir, he told Freya, but I would have this settled. Call to them, Skadi, winter’s breath. Call to Vafþrúðnir the wise. Call to Thrívaldi of the nine heads, who fought Thor in times past. Call to Fárbauti, whose ancient pact with Loki still makes them allies, and binds them, blood to blood. Name their Names. Suttungr and Gilling, who taught Bragi song. Gunnlodi, with whom Odin has lain, and who helped him take the power of poetry from her brothers. They are all here. They are all here willingly. Nith paused. You do not speak, Skadi? You do not call to them? Perhaps you fear that they will laugh at you, for that you left their company so long ago.
Malice-Striker, peace, Stormborn said, quietly, even as Freya put a hand out, stopping the retort on Skadi’s lips. If there are any here who would prefer to go to Valhalla in Skadi’s service, I free them from their oaths to me. I have no right to touch their oaths to you and your line, however. She shrugged. Let it be between you, Skadi, them, and their hearts. Stormborn turned back to Freya. What brings you to my home?
Home? Loki murmured, and the single word made Sigrun wince
Tyr waved it all away. Skadi has joined us here today because there are indications that the Fimbulvetr is approaching.
The Fimbulwinter was supposed to last for three years without a break before the final battle of Ragnarok. Stormborn shook her head faintly. The world has been warming thanks to the volcanic activity—
And the ash in the atmosphere has been cooling the world, at the same time, Skadi returned, her expression tightening. A tipping point is near. Tell your humans in Judea to lay in a goodly supply of food this autumn. There will be no growing season worth mentioning. I can feel it. Our people in the new world, and those taking refuge in Gaul will suffer greatly.
Sigrun lowered her head. I will pass your warning to those who may make use of it.
See that you do. Skadi turned and left, her heels clicking, somehow, in spite of the soft clouds that were the ground under her feet.
Forgive her, Freya said, quietly. It is her nature to be bitter and cold. Still, for all that, Njord loves her, and she him. I think they enjoy arguing. He loves her tempests, and she, his calm. She looked around. I will partake of your hospitality, Stormborn, if you still offer it.
Very much on pins and needles, Sigrun offered her guests as much of a banquet as she could imagine for them, and served it with her own hands at the long table in the dining hall that she had never used before. Mladena came to help pour the wine, and Sigrun asked the russalka and Gunnlodi the giantess to sing for the entertainment of the guests, if they were so inclined.
Sigrun did not stop shaking inwardly until the guests left, though Loki turned at the gate, and told her, merrily, Your hospitality is just as gracious here, as in your mortal house, Sigrun Stormborn! I congratulate you! Not many people could live as dividedly as you do.
Sigrun put aside any desire to examine his words for barbs, and focused, instead on the problem of the Fimbulwinter. She was going to need to talk to Lassair, Inghean . . . and any of Trennus’ children that she could. Even Saraid’s children could make fields and trees bloom. And some provision will need to be made for the dryads, she thought, her mind racing. They won’t react well to years without changing seasons and diminished light.
A week later, Skadi and Njord were investigating a complex of violent thunderstorms forming over the North Sea. A loverly excursion for the god of the frozen sea and the spirit of winter. Frost formed in their footsteps as they strode over Njord’s waves, becoming small ice floes. The pair actually held hands, like young lovers, and bickered back and forth, the entire way. It’s caused by the excess ash lofted into the atmosphere from the Massif Centrale volcanoes. That ash is sprinkling over the polar ice, darkening it, which is leading to melting again, and rising, warmer seas—
—warmer conditions shouldn’t lead to more winter—
—warmer means more water in the atmosphere, more albedo.
That should cool the world, yes, but wouldn’t that counteract the dark soot on the polar ice—
All I know is that a system that has been stable since the Little Ice Age four hundred years ago is in turmoil. I can feel it like an itch. And I cannot control it, or fix it. There are too many variables. Skadi’s voice was disconsolate. I try. And it slips out of my fingers, as the humans do this, and the mad gods do that, and Rome’s gods do yet something else.
Njord brushed her white hair back from her face. You should work with Stormborn. She has untapped control over weather. You could bind her power to yours.
Stormborn this, Stormborn that. I tire of her Name. She should not be among us. I have said that of Eir for two thousand years, and I maintain it still. There is a natural separation between those of the Veil and those of the mortal realm. It should be maintained.
If her power helps tip the balance, and lets you roll back the winter that threatens the world, out of its natural place in the order of things, what difference does it make? Njord kissed her fingers, and Skadi hesitated.
You might have the right of it, she replied, grudgingly. It matters not where the power comes from, so l
ong as the ends are met.
And at that moment, the water around them roiled into a whirlpool. Njord, master of the waves that he was, reacted instantly, pulling Skadi to him and settling the water again with a wave of his hand . . . but it seethed and fought his power. Skadi, my love . . . you must run. You must flee. Njord’s face contorted as a body breached the surface of the water. For all intents and purposes, the male looked human, though with a waist-length hair and a beard to match, both the green of seaweed, and eyes the same cold, indifferent blue-gray of the sea during a storm. A trident in one hand, and a net in the other, Neptune regarded them both, calmly, and then smiled.
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